4:00 AM
Russian Wilderness, Outside of Novgorod
The morning sky was devoid of light, rendering the snowy Russian landscape below it as black as a dead computer. Gusts of wind roared through the area, turning it into a large canvas, uniform in both sound and sight. The moon trailed in the distance, a tiny sliver that was drowning in the morning black.
A flash of light broke up the dark, followed by a loud rumbling that competed with the storm for attention. Four cones pierced the black, moving forward in unison towards the horizon. At some point, they began to separate. Two of the cones split from the pack, galloping through a winding trail lined with silent, skeletal trees, while the other two cones stayed the course and cut through the wind.
Soon, the lights and the rumbling faded, disappearing into the early morning. Everything seemed peaceful.
Seconds later, however, another rumbling emerged, louder this time. A large machine rose, its grey hull illuminated by the flames that spewed from its thrusters.
This craft flew in the same direction the cones of light had gone in earlier, cutting through the morning sky with the swiftness of a hawk.
Barry dug his mouth deeper into his scarf in a useless attempt to stave off the cold. The wind was a cold-hearted bitch, stabbing through his Kevlar jacket without mercy.
Around him, the land crawled past. A sea of snow, punctuated every now and then with the grey husk of a dead tree or a rock, moved in and out of his sight. It was very peaceful. And really, really fucking boring.
The jeep Barry was sitting in had been traded for from a nearby settlement. And despite expectations, it was actually an okay car. For one thing, the engine worked without coughing and bitching like most Old World engines did nowadays. It also had a working air conditioner and cup holders. Not that they needed either, especially since Central Officer Bradford had expressly forbade everyone (specifically Barry) from bringing any alcohol for the mission.
The only thing Barry had to complain about was the windows. Or the lack of them, to be precise. Instead of clear panes of glass sealing off jeep from the cold, bitter outside world, there were only six empty, square spaces, ringed with jagged glass teeth.
Mutt didn't seem to mind any of it, judging from his behavior. He whooped and slapped the steering wheel with his tanned fingers, pumping his fist through the empty windshield every now and then.
"Wahaa!" he cried. "Revolution's comin', baby!"
Banks groaned from the backseat. "Jesus, man," he said, giving out an exaggerated sigh. "Everyone and their mother can here you,"
"I hope they do!" Mutt said, absolutely ecstatic at that prospect. "They better know the revolution's on!" Then, without warning, he stood and threw his head and shoulders out the side window.
"HEY ADVENT!" he screamed. "THIS IS OUR FUCKIN' WORLD NOW!"
"BLIN!" shouted Petrov. "Can you shut the hell up, Mutt? Bad enough I have to deal with this fucking cold!"
Mutt slapped the roof of the car, before withdrawing to his seat.
"Hey," he said, a smile wedged between his rosy, red cheeks. "Not my fault you decided not to bring a shirt."
Petrov crossed his arms, covering the flaking, pink skin of his abdomen. "You think that Kevlar shit's comfortable? Feels like I'm bathing in acid." Then, he turned towards Barry, his face contorting into a snarl.
"And if you hadn't thrown out my lotion, I wouldn't be like this!"
Barry gave him a look of hurt. "Who, me?" he said. "Why would I ever do somethin' like that?"
Petrov grunted with disgust and leaned away.
"Can you at shut your fucking trap, Mutt? Be a little like the girl?"
In the front, Mutt cackled, while the cat-eared Chinese girl from the Avenger sat to his right. Currently, she was having none of the conversation. Barry saw her staring out the window, eyes trained on the dark sky.
The ride went on in silence for a while, with Mutt shattering the calm in trademark fashion by whooping like a drunken fratboy. Finally, Banks shifted in his seat and leaned towards the center of the car.
"Anyone feeling nervous?" Banks said.
"Nah," Mutt said. He paused to brush his hair off of his forehead. "We got a dream team here. Nothin' here can take us down."
"Still, it's a City Center," Banks replied. "We're going straight into the heart of ADVENT."
Mutt shook his head. "My boys 'ave been in worse. And you two must be made of strong stuff since Claymore likes ya." He turned around fully, just to give everyone a good look. "Ain't nobody dyin' on my watch, hm? I know ya all got what it takes to get us home in one peace, ya?"
Barry nodded. "Yeah, yeah," he breathed, confidence rising in his chest. Mutt was real good at that, making you feel like you were big shot, even if you were dirt. That was why he was the leader.
Banks chuckled. "Sounds good, man. But, disclaimer here, if Pinkie over here bites it, don't say I never told you so."
Petrov's face shifted at breakneck pace at Banks.
"You – You talkin' shit about me?" he said.
Banks shrugged, pursing his lips. "Dunno, man. You're at least 6 feet, you're built like a tanker truck, and you've got skin that's pinker than a doll's dress. Kinda screams 'redshirt' to me."
"You got some nerve," Petrov snarled, shifting and turning his attention to the Canadian. Barry let out a puff of desperate air as he felt the Russian's bulk press him against the door of the jeep. "I oughta throw you out that goddamn door."
Banks cracked a small grin, and in response, Petrov's anger exploded. Blood pumped at breakneck speed throughout his facial nerves, making him look like a severely pissed off cherry.
"I'm just giving some advice," Banks said. "It'll keep you alive longer."
"Did I ask for your fucking help, zadrota?" Petrov said. "Hm? I been living in these wilds for years," he declared, pointing a finger out the window at the passing tundra. "What about you? You're just some shit-talking city cyka!"
A loud clatter interrupted the conversation. Barry, Petrov, and Banks all turned, eyes wide. For Barry, that was mostly because he'd been squashed underneath 200 pounds of Russian muscle for the past couple of minutes; still, the sight in front of him took what breath he had left away.
The Chinese girl was hanging out of the side of the jeep. Her black hair swung in the breeze, barely touching the jagged dirt of the road. Shrill winds battered the inside of the car thanks to the open passenger door, with the girl swinging back and forth, her forehead inches from the grinding rubber of the jeep's wheels.
"Holy shit!" sputtered Banks, his cool demeanor imploding. "What the hell just happened?!"
"Pull her back in, boss!" Barry pleaded, smacking the seat in front of him in desperation.
Mutt turned back, and only laughed. Wild hoots of carefree noise filled the jeep, clashing with the intensity of the moment.
"The fuck's wrong with you, Mutt?!" Petrov shouted. "You gone loopy?"
Mutt wiped a tear from his eye. "Nah. Just," he said, before turning to look at the girl. "That's what you want, right?"
The girl, amazingly, gave a thumbs up from the side of the car.
Mutt nodded, and turned back to the men.
"You're too loud," he said, completely nonchalant. "She wants you to shut it."
Barry leaped forward, arms clasped in prayer. "We'll shut up, boss!" he cried, desperate to prevent a horrible accident from happening. "Just pull her back!"
Mutt smiled, but instead of pulling the girl back in, he cocked his head towards her and clicked his teeth.
The girl whipped back from her precarious position, her spine flying back to the seat like a willow in a gale. The door followed, banging shut against the frame of the jeep. Her cat ears perked up at the new silence.
Banks, Petrov, and Barry clamped their lips together, not letting a wisp of air slip out for fear of seeing the girl try to kill herself again. The enmity that had blazed between them had now been replaced with a united sense of surprise and horror.
Content, the girl let a ditzy smile crop up on her face, as if the last few minutes had been a funny joke to her.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!" she exclaimed, as if she were an actor on a soda commercial, having sipped the sweet synthetic taste of a brand-name drink. "Good!"
Petrov began to sputter, choking on the breath he'd been holding back.
"What," Banks said, his eyebrows furrowed with confusion.
Barry had to agree; this was some weird shit. In a few seconds, the girl had gone from solemn and suicidal to a bubble of childlike glee. It was as if all the happiness in this crap world had been condensed into her tiny frame.
The girl fanned the air in front of her. "So much better here," she said, in that high, bubbly voice of hers. "Don't you think?"
Petrov rubbed his eyes, causing a flurry of dead skin to waft from his face.
"The fuck?!" he said. "Fucking hell, what were you doing?!"
The girl's cat ears twitched in agitation, but her face remained warm and happy. She blinked a few times, chewing on what Petrov had said to her.
"Oh, that?" she said, placing her hands on the passenger door handle. "You want to see it again?"
A large "NO!" escaped from Barry, Banks, and Petrov, as all three of them lunged forward to prevent the Chinese girl from throwing herself out the side of the jeep again. Well, that's what they wanted to do. Instead, they all ended up smacking into each other and colliding with the seats ahead of them. Barry felt the scratched plush of the girl's headrest on one side of his face, and Banks's pudgy cheeks on the other.
Petrov recovered first, extending an arm towards the girl.
"No, please God, NO!" he shouted, his hard, rocky features crumbling into a visage of pure panic. "Don't!"
The girl pursed her lips, and then withdrew her hand from the handle and placed it in her lap.
Barry waved his hand as well. "We don't want to see it again, miss. Just – what was it you were trying to do?"
"To make you quiet!" the girl said. "Wasn't it obvious?"
Petrov growled, but Barry shoved himself in front of the Russian. He put on a pathetic little grin to reassure the girl that his friend wasn't, most certainly wasn't, thinking of grinding her into a cherry colored paste.
"I mean," Barry said, trying to keep his tone even. "You could have – well, you know – asked us?"
The girl's eyes rolled in annoyance, her hazel irises doing a dance of exasperation.
"Too loud," she explained. "I'm too quiet."
Mutt shrugged his shoulders. "Makes sense to me."
"No it doesn't!" Petrov said, butting in on the conversation. "Who the hell throws themselves out of a fucking car to make a fucking point?"
"Everyone does it!" the girl protested.
"Really – fucking really," Petrov said, a sarcastic, tired grin crossing along his cracked face. "Who told you that?"
"The girls! They said if you want to get something done, go extreme!"
"What kind of girls do you talk to? They sound like complete wackjobs!" Banks cried.
The girl pouted. "My family," she replied, throwing her arms over her seat to emphasize the point. "From the club."
"Oh," Banks said, that one word puncturing the air before falling into the embarrassed silence that now filled the room. Petrov's face turned a bright red, and he suddenly took an avid interest at the snow building up on the floor of the jeep.
The discomfort was reasonable. After all, the sex industry within the Advent Megacities was a very… sensitive topic.
Little was known about the shady houses that catered to the deviant tastes of the Megacity's citizens. What information Barry knew wasn't pretty. Despite the legality of Advent's brothels, prostitutes had a shit deal. They were basically living property for the brothel owners, sold and traded like baseball cards. And if Claymore's story was to be believed, then even Advent had some sick interest in these "ladies of the night".
"Did I say something wrong?" the girl said. "Was I not supposed to say that?"
Barry blinked. Was this girl actually worried? Did she not know what she was talking about? Hell, was she thinking that she had scarred them or something?
Even Mutt had nothing to say, no odd reassurance or idiot advice.
"Eh, they're fine," he said, scratching his neck. "Don't worry yourself."
The girl twisted her head at Mutt, and then back at the others. Petrov and Banks merely scooted, avoiding eye contact with the girl.
The girl crept back, sighing and giving a pitiful, "beaten-puppy" look. Barry saw it, and his rotted, dust clogged insides heaved with an unfamiliar feeling. It reached out from his emaciated chest, forcing him to open his mouth.
"Y'know guys," he said, trying to be as smooth as possible while bearing the weight of the strange feeling. "We don't really know our squadmate well, yeah? So... We should, you know, introduce ourselves?"
Barry shot a glance at the girl. Instead of the flash of quiet gratitude that he had expected, the girl's face was a tapestry of confusion. In a comic parody of the raised eyebrow expression, one of the girl's cat ears had risen, as if she was trying to make sure she heard him clearly.
"I – I mean," Barry stammered, trying to keep the conversation ball going. "I'll… I'm going to start.
A pause.
"I'm, uh, I'm Barry. Just Barry. Two r's, uh, no last name. Yeah."
Petrov gave Barry a "what the hell are you doing" look, drilling his eyeballs into his scalp before placing a veiny hand to his own forehead. Mutt, on the other hand, caught on.
"Aight, that's Barry," he said. "Crazy son of a bitch who ran with me and the boys back in the Northern European districts. Real good at grenades, that 'un is. Name's Mutt, by the way." He lifted one hand from the steering wheel and held it out to the girl, not even batting an eye from the road. The girl took it, more out of formality than joy.
"That sourpuss in the back is Petrov," Mutt continued, jabbing a thumb back at the Russian in the backseat. "Good man, bad mouth. You can figure out the rest."
The girl looked at Petrov.
"What?" he snapped. The girl shot back like a frightened dear, her ears drooping against the sides of her head.
Mutt patted the girl on the shoulder. "Dun worry yaself, miss. Petrov may look like a killer grizzly, but he's just a soft teddy bear 'neath all that pink skin."
"Say that again and I'll tear your fucking earrings out," Petrov warned.
Banks snorted. "Jesus Christ!" he chortled. "You're like a fuckin' cartoon!"
The girl giggled at that. "Yeah, he is!" she concurred eagerly.
Barry cringed, waiting for the oncoming storm. But instead, something stranger happened.
Petrov actually cooled down. Barry could see the big Russian's muscles and shoulders sag, as if anger had been the only thing giving them substance. He looked like a parent crumbling after their kid shoots them the puppy dog eyes.
"What, do I look like Winnie the fucking Pooh?" Petrov said, his volume considerably weaker this time.
Banks snapped his fingers. "No!" he said, barely able to control his laughter. "You're Piglet!"
The whole car burst out laughing. Barry laughed the hardest, even though he had no idea what "Winnie the Pooh" was. He just assumed it would be better to play along with the situation.
"Yeah yeah," Petrov said. "Let's move the fuck on."
Mutt nodded, but not before he wiped a tear from his eye. "Yep," he said, through smiling, jittery lips. "We haven't heard anything from the young lady, 'aven't we?"
He smiled at the girl. "Not a worry, miss. We won't bite ya."
The girl placed a hand against her cheek.
"I'm… not sure what to say," she said.
"Name? Ya birthplace? Why ya hate Advent?" Mutt suggested.
The girl scratched her cheek, as if she was deep in thought. Her short, pixie cut hair swayed across her forehead.
"Zip," she said at last.
"Zip?" Banks echoed. "Why're you called that?"
The girl frowned, a bit confused. "I dunno," she said. "People said I was 'fast and loose'. Dunno what it means."
Banks's cheeks went blood red, as if he had ruptured a vein. Barry grinned and shot him a covert thumbs up.
"Um… Anything else?" Mutt said. "In fact, let's skip birthplace. Why do ya hate Advent, Zip?"
Zip blinked. "I dunno," she said, repeating her earlier mantra. "I didn't like their cities."
"Oh?" Mutt said.
Zip nodded, waving her head up and down in an exaggerated mime of Mutt's earlier motion. "Bad people tried to take me, but Miss Stripes came and saved me!"
"Stripes?" Barry asked.
"That's her nickname for Claymore," Banks clarified. "I spoke to her a little before this," he added.
"That's precious," Mutt said. "Whaddya think of calling each of us?"
Zip narrowed her eyes, taking on the look of a judge pondering the fate of several Death Row inmates. It was intelligent, almost frightening for Barry. He felt chills go up his spine as her cold gaze swept over him.
Finally, her serious façade broke, replaced with a look of babylike frustration.
"I dunno," she said. "No one's done anything big. I can't figure anything out."
"Thank God," Petrov muttered under his breath.
Mutt patted Zip again. "Better keep yer eyes open, eh? I'll show you real soon why they call me Firecrotch back in the brush!"
Banks's eyes widened. "You," he coughed, almost choking on a combination of disbelief and laughter. "You do know what you just said, right?"
"Don't bother," Petrov said aloud. "I tried telling him. He keeps shutting me up."
"'Cause it's a great name!" Mutt protested. "All the ladies love it!"
"For all the wrong fuckin' reasons!" Banks replied. "It's supposed to mean –"
"Shut it!" Mutt said. "I'mma invoke my team leader powers, aight?" He waited, listening for any protest. The only sound came from Barry's mouth as he tried to cover it up with one grimy, stiff hand. Whenever Mutt got crazy like that, Barry couldn't help but laugh. It was pure comedic gold.
Mutt pointed a finger at Banks, taking on an air of power and godlike authority. "As punishment, ya gonna refer to me as 'Commander Firecrotch', aight?"
Banks rolled his eyes, and nodded his head only a slight bit. Then, under his breath: "Fucking A."
Zip giggled. "You're all so funny!" she declared.
Claymore wasn't in any condition to do anything productive in the morning, especially at this ungodly hour. Her body was like that of a house cat's – strictly conditioned to lying around and snoring for hours on end. But, unfortunately, Bradford had to remove her from the comfy haven of her bed and plant her in the hellish confines of the command room.
"It's been eight hours," Bradford had said. "I'm sure that's enough time for you to get back to your feet."
Claymore had mumbled an affirmative and given a sloppy salute. After another assurance that she was good and ready for the job, Bradford had left, and Claymore had promptly thrown herself on the command console, snoring in a decidedly unprofessional manner atop the advanced hardware of the Avenger.
It took a bit of time, but Claymore was finally roused from her slumber when she heard the clanging of metal and sparks.
"Hm?" she muttered, her vision a hazy mess of greys and blues. Her eyelids parted, and she frowned, remembering the unpleasant duty she'd been saddled with.
In a corner to her right, a person was working, rummaging through a random compartment. Sparks flew, scattering across the floor of the Avenger like flaming ticks.
"Oh, you're awake?" called the person, in what Claymore assumed to be a sarcastic tone of voice – it sure as hell didn't sound sincere.
Claymore didn't really feel up to providing a snarky rebuttal, so she went with the go-to: "Yeah." Then, she rubbed her eyes and leaned up against the console to get a better look.
Through heavy eyelids, Claymore saw a youthful Chinese woman staring back at her. Dressed in an orange shirt with an XCOM decal, jeans, and a torn up jacket, she was the picture of toughness. Muscles bulged across the expanse of her skin, while dust and oil stains coated her face with a veil of filth. She stared at Claymore with a neutral expression.
"Erm…" Claymore began, tapping a finger against the console. "Who are you?"
The woman's face remained unchanged, but Claymore detected a slight tension, where there had been none before.
"XCOM's Chief Engineer," the woman said. "Lily Shen."
Claymore's eyes snapped open and ricocheted off the sides of her eye sockets.
"Holy shit!" she exclaimed, her mouth an excited O. "You're – you're little Shen, right? Raymond's kid?"
At the mention of that name, Lily's features softened.
"Yeah," she said. "That's me."
Claymore rushed up to her, arm outstretched.
"Jesus Christ, you're a good looking kid!" she said, grabbing and shaking Lily's arm like a limp doll.
"Thanks?" Lily replied, half afraid that this middle-aged stranger was about to rip her arm off. When Claymore finally stopped shaking her hand, Lily placed a finger to her chin.
"You knew my father?"
Claymore glanced up at her, an enormous smile on her face. "Hell yeah!" Her excitement faded a little, however, when she noticed the sensitive gleam in Lily's eyes. The memory of her first conversation with Bradford weighed heavy on her mind, like a mild hangover.
"Shit," she muttered. "I didn't mean –"
"It's fine," Lily blurted, giving Claymore an awkward smile. "I've gotten over it."
"Yeah," Claymore replied, completely unconvinced that Lily was being truthful. "I'll just say, your dad was a good guy, little Shen. And I don't say that about a lot of men."
"Little Shen?" Lily asked.
"Habit of mine," Claymore said. "Get used to it."
Lily shrugged and did as Claymore said."
"So, you knew my dad pretty well?"
Claymore nodded. "Definitely. Guessing you want me to talk about him? Chew the fat a little bit?"
She moved towards the Avenger's consoles and sat in one of the swivel chairs that populated the sidelines. With one arm she motioned for Lily to sit in the one across from her.
"Oh, no thank you," Lily said. "I'm fine standing."
"Relax a bit!" Claymore replied. "We're talking about your father's legacy here, and you've been working for God knows how fucking long. Take a seat, little Shen!"
Lily took a few reluctant steps forward, before gingerly settling in the seat. Despite the seat's comfortable exterior, Lily looked a touch uncomfortable, even annoyed. Her hands fidgeted, tapping against one another with a mania that reminded Claymore of those uncomfortable times that she'd been on withdrawal from elerium.
"Alright, first of all," Claymore began. "I apologize for not realizing you existed. Bradford told me about you, but with all the trips and whatnot –"
"Don't worry," Lily said. "Bradford probably should've told you I don't come out of my workshop often anyways."
"The same could be said about me and my bedroom if I didn't have this damn job to worry about," Claymore replied, eliciting a small chuckle from Lily.
"Anyways," Claymore continued. "Your dad."
"Uh, yeah."
"Just –" Claymore twiddled with her fingers, trying to string the words together in a "polite" manner. "Just really curious about one thing."
"That is?"
"I mean, you are the daughter of your father. Weren't you two, y'know, close?"
"What makes you think that?" Lily asked. Her tone had gotten agitated again.
"Well, Raymond wouldn't, to put it frankly, shut up about you, little Shen."
Claymore saw Lily's eyes widen a bit at that. Her posture had stiffened initially, but now it was moving into a relaxed, almost solemn state.
"I do mean it," she reassured Lily. "I mean, the time I was at XCOM, if he – Raymond – wasn't talking about laser guns or murder boxes on treads, he was always talking about you. His daughter."
"Oh," was all that came out of Lily.
"Yeah, don't get me wrong," Claymore said. "He was absolutely nutters about you. I remember this one time he showed me this tiny robot thing you made –"
"The science fair?!" Lily gasped, horrified.
"Yeah, that one!" Claymore clarified. "That thing was, honestly, fucking amazing. It could dance and spew all these cute little songs in Chinese –"
Lily raised a hand, an embarrassed hue on her face. "Please," she said. "Stop."
"It won first prize!" Claymore said. "Your dad loved the hell out of it!"
"It's not my best work," Lily said. "Plus, I made it during a bit of a… phase, of mine."
"At fifteen years old, that's pretty damn amazing," Claymore retorted.
"Yeah," Lily said, unconvinced at Claymore's sentiment. Then, in a tentative voice: "Did he show you anything else?"
"Just pictures, if I can recall," Claymore said. "Awards, piano recitals… I thought to myself back then that you were the perfect image of the Asian stereotype.
"What?" Claymore said when Lily frowned at her. "Oh, lighten up. I wasn't playing Mozart at local theatres when I was fourteen."
"It sounds like you and dad were pretty close," Lily said.
"Oh yeah, we were," Claymore replied. Then, her eyes bugged out and her cheeks puffed when she realized the implications of her sentence.
"Hooooooly shit," Claymore wheezed. "I – I definitely, I swear to Jesus, did not mean it in that way."
"Uh, okay," Lily said, completely clueless to her companion's attempt to save face.
Claymore nodded. "We talked a lot. Mostly because I was interest in his work. You saying that you didn't know your dad very well?"
Lily glanced downward before talking, her hand wiping a few stray strands of jet-black hair from her forehead.
"I – I struck a vein there, didn't I," Claymore moaned, smacking the palm of her hand against her face.
Lily looked up with a start and shook her head with vigor.
"No, no," she said. "It's not your fault that you don't know. It probably would be better to have someone to talk to about it."
A bit of silence, before she moved on.
"I never really knew my dad after I was born. Back in Taiwan, Mom had run out on him because she never intended for me to happen, whatever that means. That meant he was stuck, cooking for me, caring for me, and working to bring in cash.
"I thought I had it hard then, right? Barely seeing my dad except in the morning and at night. Throughout all this, dad was winning awards, giving lectures, and developing technology that made people's lives better. I didn't know any of that. All I knew was that my dad, the smartest person in the world, was a caring man who'd sing me old songs in Cantonese before I went to bed.
"When he got enough money to move to the United States with me, I thought that would be the end of it. That he'd be free of work, and we'd live and play together. Hilarious, right?"
Lily gave a weak, melancholy smile and leaned against one of the consoles. Claymore only furrowed her eyebrows, overcompensating in her attempt to ensure that she looked as attentive as possible. To Lily, it looked like Claymore had a resting bitch face.
"That's when he left again," Lily breathed. "Only this time for good. Right after my fifteenth birthday, someone from the United Nations visited us. Told us that my dad had to join a special program for the sake of 'global security'. I only had a few minutes to say goodbye, and after that, I never saw him again.
"I later learned from Bradford that my dad had been working for XCOM as its head of engineering. A little like daughter like father, right? He was helping stop an extraterrestrial invasion, trying in vain to fight off this unknown, conquering force. Two months into the fight, the aliens invaded XCOM's old HQ in the US Midwest. My father died in the crossfire."
Lily stopped to sigh for a second, her voice heavy with emotion. "I didn't even think that birthday would be the last time I saw him. I always assumed he'd come back, no matter what happened. Maybe I still think that today."
Claymore's lower lip quivered, and she felt something wet lurch down the side of her face, burrowing a trail until it disappeared in the confines of her jacket. Her nose became congested, but she resisted the urge to break the silence by snorting like a jackass.
"That's why I keep asking people about him," Lily continued. "People like Bradford and you. So I can piece together a picture of my father, maybe get some closure."
Claymore's face caved in, and she let out a heavy gasp.
"Hooooooooly shit," she said, her chest heavier than a block of cement. "Goddamnit!"
Lily chuckled a bit at her reaction. "That's a new one."
Claymore raised a hand. "Just a minute!" she called, placing another hand against her chest in a theatrical manner. She gave several heaving sobs, most of which sounded like a drunk trying to dry heave into a toilet. A few more tears squeezed their way out of her eyes, plopping against the floor like bird droppings.
"I'm – I'm fine, little Shen," she breathed at last. "Fuck that's sad – no, not sad, it's a fucking tragedy."
Lily gave a sad smile. "I appreciate it."
"I still can't believe he's gone," Claymore muttered. "It's like hearing about 9/11 all over again."
"Are you okay?" Lily said. "I hope I didn't accidentally scar you for life about this. As an assistant of his or something like that, I can understand if this is extremely hard for you to take."
Claymore shook her head and placed her hand against her forehead, but in the midst of her tragic monologue, something didn't click.
She said assistant, she realized.
Carefully, Claymore opened up again: "Nah, that's wrong."
Lily's eyebrows rose a few inches on her face. "What's wrong?" she asked.
Claymore pointed a finger at her. "The – the whole assistant thing. That's not true."
"It's not?" Lily's head leaned sideways upon hearing that. "But I assumed, given your interest in his work –"
"It's a bit complicated," Claymore said. "I was – well, I was a prisoner of sorts."
"Prisoner?!" Lily said, almost shouting the word.
"Yeah, yeah," Claymore responded. "I was, uh, part of this group. EXALT. You heard of them?"
Lily's eyes narrowed into predatory slits. "Yes, I do," she said, her voice grating the air.
"Yeah. Bad crowd to tangle with. But, your dad was real nice – helped me turn a new leaf and shit like that. A lifesaver, I'll tell you."
"Mmhm," Lily said. Then, she rose and began to walk out the room.
Claymore bolted upright. "Wait, little Shen, what's wro –"
Lily snapped back towards Claymore, hand raised.
"Just stop," she warned, her voice completely dead pan. "Don't call me that."
Claymore let her arms fall to her sides. "What's wrong?" she continued.
Lily let out an enormous breath, and regarded Claymore from the corner of her eye.
"Really? I thought it was obvious, since my father's killer is standing right here."
Claymore started back in surprise. "Killer?!" she blurted. "The hell are you talking about?!"
"Nevermind," Lily said. "I realize I've wasted my time and emotional reserve talking to you." She began to walk back out to the hallway.
"Little She – Lily! Hold on, hold on, I'm not involved with EXALT anymore! Listen to me, Lily!" Claymore pleaded.
Lily didn't respond. It was as if Claymore were trying to negotiate with a brick wall. She only walked, and walked, until she was out of Claymore's sight.
Claymore was at a complete, total loss. All the energy had been sapped from her body.
Soon, however, her fists began to clench, growing tense with anger and frustration. She grabbed at her jacket pocket with frenzied energy, ripping out another pack of elerium dust from her stash. She didn't even bother with a drink this time – she just chugged the whole boiling load down her throat.
"FUCK!" she screamed, from the burning in her throat and the raw pain and frustration in her chest.
She tossed the bag on the floor and kicked at the hologlobe, her boot colliding against the smooth metal. A jolt of pain ran up her toes, slithering into her waist.
"Good," she muttered with savage breath through a mouthful of crushed elerium. "You fucking deserve it, you goddamn IDIOT!"
With another burning, gasping breath, she collapsed, back against the hologlobe, and curled up into a ball, cursing herself.
Matilda, despite all the contempt she held for the world, couldn't help but be impressed by the spectacle unfolding in the streets in front of her.
When it came to Unification Day, Novgorod had taken its responsibilities quite seriously. The whole city was alive, with every light and digital screen being pushed to full power. Flashes of brightly colored propaganda flickered from every television screen and kiosk, barraging the senses. Decorations hung proudly from every street corner, each one displaying the careful consideration and micromanagement that the Eastern European Administration was known for.
Matilda and her group had already been swallowed by what could only be described as a veritable river of humanity. People jostled and moved past them, their numbers so thick that the ground beneath their feet was swallowed up in a shifting tapestry of skin colors. Children dodged throughout the crowd, giggling and holding flags and banners, while vendors stood to the side, hawking several Advent-approved delicacies to any passerby.
"Ice cream for four credits!"
"Delicious shashlick for sale! Made entirely from CORE – no animal protein used!"
"Drinks, drinks! Come celebrate Unification Day with nonalcoholic delights!"
It went on, filling the morning air with human voices and dialects. If Matilda hadn't already been disillusioned with society, she would've had half a mind to join in on the festivities.
"Come on, Miguel!" came a voice. "I've got enough change!"
Beside Matilda, Miguel gave a sigh and planted his hands further into his leather jacket.
"No means no, Patricia," he groaned.
"Por favooooor!" she pleaded, leaning against her brother's shoulder.
Miguel batted her away, with a look that was two parts endearment, one part extreme annoyance.
"Dios mio, no! Do you want the commander coming down on your nalgas again?"
Patricia pouted and rolled her eyes. "It'll be quick. Plus I can't blow up the statue on an empty –"
"SHHHHH!" Miguel sputtered, planting a glove over his sister's mouth and looking left and right. "Someone might here you!"
"Miguel!" came a shout from behind them. The crowds parted, revealing the bulky figure of Shi.
"What the hell are you doing?" he said, stomping up to the Spanish twins.
"I – I, uh," Miguel stuttered, going pale at the Chinese operative's intense glare. "Well –"
"No time!" Shi interrupted. He grabbed Miguel's hand and shoved it away, causing the Spaniard to bump into a couple across from them.
"Jesus!" one man yelled.
Miguel rose instantly, and put his hands out for reassurance. "Lo siento, señor, I was – "
"Watch where you're going, you fucking refugee!" the man replied, before picking himself up and walking away.
Miguel turned around as the crowd shifted, an offended look on his face.
"Refugee? What the fuck's he talking 'bout?"
Matilda glanced down at everyone's clothes, and realized why they had been attracting so much attention since their arrival.
To conceal the Kevlar vests they had been wearing in preparation for the operation, most of the team had opted for long coats and other obscuring clothes. The trouble was, most of these were in quite crappy condition, and were in the Old World style. That, along with the fact that the Rivera twins had chosen to wear their motorcycle jackets rather than actual combat gear, marked their squad out from the standard grain of Advent citizen.
"My, my," said Mrs. Sycamore, toddling up from behind Shi. "Such crass language. Like a bunch of children, the lot of you."
Shi nodded. "Indeed," he concurred, before looking at the rest of the squad. "We should be focusing on our objective instead of gawking."
"I didn't just mean the squad, Mr. Sún," Mrs. Sycamore said.
Shi ignored her. "Keep moving forward," he ordered. "We have limited time to reach the safehouse and get ready for our operation. Alright?"
Everyone else nodded, making it fully clear that they'd understood what Shi had said. Shi had already established himself as a complete hard ass, so it was important to give a good impression of yourself in his eyes.
Before they could actually get going, however, the crowds parted to reveal an unexpected development.
"Halt!" came a voxified cry.
Matilda jerked her head in the direction of the sound, and nearly choked.
Two Advent troopers were bearing down on the group at full speed, rifles at the ready.
Matilda's heart stopped a beat. If they were compromised this early, operation Gatecrasher was screwed.
6:00 AM
ADVENT Parade Ground, 3rd Security Precinct of Novgorod
The man known as Zeus twitched, scratching at his uniform. The synthetic fabric felt like sandpaper on his tanned skin, making him yearn for the days when uniforms were simpler and softer.
Still, he admitted, the thing kept the cold out. Despite its light, thin texture, the uniform was like a miniature bubble of insulation. A good layer of frost had built over him, a sea of white glazing over his uniform's deep navy blue, and he didn't feel a bit of it.
Around him, the Advent rally ground was barren. Snow, like the agitated masses that would be there later today, crowded around the edges of the black pads marking the grounds, the pads' heated coils beating back the cold with a subtle ferocity.
The only other living things on the grounds were the security squads that had been deployed for the event – around four squadrons' worth. Each trooper stood stock still, covered in a thick layer of frost that made them seem like otherworldly sentinels from some fantasy novel.
Zeus twitched again and reached up, brushing away the flakes of snow that had accumulated on the top of his scalp. He could have worn a beret for the event too, but he had refused. Hilariously, his lack of hair had become something of a trademark for him. Crowds would have a harder time recognizing him if he put on a hat, or, Elder forbid, a wig.
"Sir, are you certain you want to stay out here?"
Zeus turned and saw an Advent Captain behind him, cape fluttering in the wind.
"The lodge is open," the Captain said. "My men and I are taking care of preparations."
"It's alright, Slip," Zeus said. "The lodge is too cramped for me anyway."
Captain "Slip" nodded, before marching off and leaving Zeus to his thoughts once more.
Zeus had a little bit of time to stare at the Novgorod skyline before he heard footsteps crunching behind him.
"Slip, that you?" he called.
The footsteps stopped. "Really," said a smooth, officious voice.
"Ah, Hades," Zeus said. "Didn't realize you were out of the lodge."
"You know I despise Aphrodite," Hades said, as he sidled up to his fellow administrator. The man wore the same uniform as Zeus, although he had also chosen to wear the blue military beret. A pair of sky blue eyes, pulsing with intelligence, stared from the man's scrunched up face.
"Her demeanor and attitude are undignified," Hades continued.
"That's a propaganda administrator for you," Zeus replied. "It's her job to be annoyingly cheerful."
"Indeed," Hades said. He paused, before speaking again. "I see you've taken to using your 'pet names' on the troops again."
Zeus smiled. "I don't see the harm in it."
"It's extremely unprofessional," Hades said. "ADVENT gives these soldiers designations for a reason."
"Well, until ADVENT comes up with something more creative than 'Trooper 11305', I'm sticking with my names."
Hades puffed air through his nostrils in annoyance. "Your voice reeks of dissent," he said.
"Just dissatisfaction, Hades," Zeus said, keeping his tone nonchalant. "These men and women are sacrificing their lives for me. I don't want them to sacrifice their personalities as well."
"This is the military," Hades breathed, his voice growing more indignant. "Not some halmoni's birthday. If you get kids, you can stick your stupid names on them. Not on these soldiers."
"Jesus, Hades," Zeus said, resisting the urge to chuckle at the diminutive Korean's anger. "I thought the weather would cool your temper, not stoke it."
Hades grunted, clearly finished with the conversation. He turned and walked back towards the lodge, his spine appearing as stiff and straight as an alloy rebar.
Zeus sighed as his comrade left him. Almost twenty years of work, and he still couldn't get along with any of his coworkers, human or alien. For them, work and reputation were far more important than establishing any form of relationship with each other. It was a wonder why they hadn't turned and ripped each other apart, like the squabbling governments of old.
That was why Zeus relied on the troopers and the people. The doubt instilled in him by his comrade's petty competition was erased and replaced with a sense of pride, shining like the sun, whenever he was around the citizens. Unlike most Advent administrators, they seriously subscribed to ADVENT's messages of unity and salvation. They gelled with each other, and with others outside their social circles, as easily as ice cubes did with hot water.
Zeus imagined the crowds that would gather today, the throngs of cheering men, women, and children. Each a gleaming product of ADVENT's infallible philosophy. His throat yearned to speak with them once more, to take to the podium and hear their roaring cry as they saw him.
It would be a wonderful day.