Gallows in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by the snowy wastes and a familiar birch forest, they stood out like a sore thumb. Hastily assembled from scraps and fallen trees, just sturdy enough for the few to meet their end. A quick stop in their endless march, just a little break to take out the trash.

"... Execute order!"

A raspy voice rang out all throughout the valley. The first victim was pushed off stage - the climax of their performance. No applause, no cheers, no roses to be thrown at the hooded performer, just salvos of mocking laughter from the gathered, clad in heavy winter attire. As the carcass wiggled around with the rope tightening around their neck, the mercenaries couldn't help but throw in some cheerful obscenities to seal the deal.

" 'S what ya get, fucker!"

"Wigglin' like a damn worm, look at 'em!"

"Look at yer, ya pathetic pissant!"

The executioner tried calming the crowd down, a wide grin stretching out on his own face, revealing rows after rows of sharp teeth.

"Gentlemen… Gentlemen, c'mon, there's more for the pickin'! Save it for the next one."

More laughter and yelling from the crowd as the showman's assistant scooted behind the second victim, putting a noose around their neck and covering their horned head with a sack.

"On behalf of Her Majesty, the ONLY RIGHTFUL king of us all…"

The crowd went silent right away, saluting the mere idea of Her Excellency.

"... I sentence you, caster, to death by hanging, on account of your piss poor attempt at treason!"

Loud grumblings and yells of approval arose from the gathered, some even pumping their fists in the air, some raising their blades and crossbows.

"Any last words, caster?"

The hooded figure shifted, its head tilting towards the executioner.

"... Can I say anythin' that'll get me off these damn gallows?"

Low chuckles and grumbles stirred from the crowd. The showman spoke up again, muffling a laugh.

"I don't think so. What's done is done, actions speak louder than words, caster."

The culprit nodded.

"Alright."

And after taking a deep breath, their hands shot upwards in a violent motion.

"Ya blood sucking leeches! Y'all dare call yerself sarkaz?! Y'all a disgrace to the rulin' race! Y'all be hangin' by yer necks by the time the regent's army's done with that self righteous bitch! Y'all's cowards! Y'all's the real traitors! Y'all's nothin' but-..."

The showman yawned audibly and pushed the loud troublemaker off stage, cutting their tirade short. Their gasps for air and loud panting were quickly drowned out by a sea of obscenities and ice cold laughter. The mercenaries gathered kept spitting at the hanging caster, one even going as far as to send a bolt from his crossbow into the hooded facade. The carcass stopped kicking immediately.

" 'S what ya git! 'S what ya fuckin' git!"

"Traitor down! Traitor down, no funeral!"

"Disgrace!"

"Annoying cunt!"

The distant yells and booming laughter kept ringing in Andy's ears as a comforting hand rested on his shoulder. Far, far away from the devilish trial, atop a familiar hill stood an innocent soul and his fallen guardian angel, watching over the execution during their patrol.

"... And these are supposed to be the "good guys". Imagine that."

Ricketts' voice was unnaturally cold and devoid of his usual confidence.

Amidst cheerful whistling and obnoxious yelling, the mercenaries gathered their goods and chattels before continuing on with their endless march. Towards glory, towards the fight for their spotless, righteous cause. No one even bothered cleaning up the gallows, leaving the devils' corpses hanging in the middle of these frozen wastes.

…

"Sergeant Ricketts, sir, telegram for you."

They had just arrived back at the outpost and some lowlife was already groveling at the "Lieutenant's" feet, saluting with all their might. The usually calm face turned worried, a red hue forming under his eyes as his slim tail wagged unnaturally fast.

"Telegram…? They managed to fix the wires already?"

"Yes, sir."

He turned to look away from the Private, taking a moment to think.

"... Alright, thank you Private, dismissed."

They ran off. Telegrams… Telegrams… Oh, how Andy could use one of those right now. People must've been dying from worry back home, right? At least some, he thought. His dad seemed genuinely worried for once, when they parted ways. He could swear he felt a whole heap of guilt radiating off his father's halo as they glanced at each other one last time…

Besides! He promised Lem he'd write a lot. No one had taken into consideration that not a single letter would ever come to or leave this little oasis of peace in the middle of nowhere. Not in this weather, nuh uh. Only the most crucial supplies and heaps upon heaps of newspapers were being delivered.

"Uh… Sergeant Ricketts, sir?"

The Sergeant jumped a little at the mention of his name.

"Yeah, Andy?"

"Could I maybe request to, uh… Telegram something back home?"

"Telegram something? Uh, I don't know about that, buddy… We usually just send crucial info over to the other outposts, not inland."

"Oh, but…"

Andy couldn't really put into words just how much he wanted to send that telegram without sounding like some immature brat. He gathered his thoughts and tried once more.

"... I understand, sir. But it's just that, my father's probably worried sick, since I haven't given any signs of life this entire time."

He tried tugging at his heartstrings, but there was undoubtedly a lot of truth in his words. His dad wasn't even aware of just how long this deployment was supposed to last. Of the fact he's still alive, living day by day out in the frozen wastes. Ricketts scratched his messily shaved chin and clicked his tongue.

"... I'll see what I can do, bud. Alright?"

With a forced smile, he gave the kid a pat on the back.

"... Alright. Thank you, sir."

Dismissed. The Sergeant's weary eyes guided Andy all the way back to his hut, where he was welcomed by Droz's smug grin and Isaiah's worried eyes.

"Heeeey, Drewie! Look what we found under your pillow! Such a nice picture, mind telling us who these two hotties are?"

Andy snatched the picture right away and smacked him over the head with it, closing the door behind himself.

…

Ricketts was left wondering.

Telegram, huh…

The Head Lieutenant's one cold son of a bitch, he had to admit. Wasting resources just to make the poor Sergeant feel like shit every time a batch pops out of the machinery. Couldn't say he doesn't deserve it, though.

…

Around the range, by the training fields, just right behind the cafeteria, stood a lone, wooden hut with heaps of smoke shooting from it's chimney.

Ricketts pushed the door aside and stepped in.

The insides were stuffy, filled to the brim with beeping machinery and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. A tiny fireplace in the corner was the only appliance providing this hut with some sort of a homey feel. The old, malnourished telegraph operator sat by his working desk turned to look at the Sergeant and immediately shushed him down. His wrinkled fingers clicked out a few more dots on the machine before letting the apparatus go, removing the headphones from his dark, thinning hair, careful not to tip his light blue halo. He smirked at the young man, taking a puff from a half finished cigarette resting in a nearby ashtray.

"... Your mistress' got a lot to say today, you know."

Ricketts sighed in exasperation and reached out towards the geezer, not wanting to waste even a second longer here than he had to. The old man shuffled some papers around his work desk, making way for a large folder with the tasteless title "LOVEBIRDS" printed on top. He produced a few small pieces of cheap printing paper from inside and handed them over. To the telegraph operator's amusement, they were immediately crumpled up and hastily shoved into the Sergeant's pocket.

"... Not reading today's ramblings, are we?"

A grin adorned his face at the young man's rising frustration.

"Just shut up."

"So, no return message either, I assume? Good, good, less work for me."

"Fuck you."

The geezer let out a snort and put his headphones back on.

"You know, I always get all worked up whenever her ramblings come, but then you walk in all pissed and put on such a good show that it's all worth it."

His fingers wrapped around the machinery, clicking away dots and dashes, as if dismissing Ricketts away. Flicking him off along the ash from his cigarette.

Outside the hut, he hesitantly uncrumpled the telegrams and let his tired gaze take in the robotic writing.

"... no contact… back home…"

"... waiting… set examples…"

His eyes omitted a word or two every few letters, eventually skipping entire paragraphs as the phrase "my mother" came into play. Just what he needed, that old hag's infinite wisdom.

"... miss you…"

"... promised…"

"... I love you."

Wild ringing in his ears. A stinging pain in his chest. Tears welling up in his eyes.

…

A salvo of laughter erupted from squad A1 and A2's hut, breaking the deafening silence. His watery eyes caught a glimpse of the boys' cheerful faces through a window.

Eberly.

Nuffer.

Fessler.

Bryner.

Droz.

Miesch.

Dettwiller.

Reiff.

…

How could any of them look up to such a coward?