The rooftop of building block three stands ten meters above the ground and grants the freedom to roam with an automatic or sniper rifle like KC-918—to pick off enemies nearby or a mile away. I can’t use that spot, however. The enemy has converged on us, and will look to strike down high viewpoints. I climb onto the fifth floor, where I have sight lines from a small hole chiseled through the wooden panels behind the windows. That’s enough for me. They won’t know where the bullets came from, and I can easily switch to other holes if I’m exposed.

From my position, I can observe the ongoing battle near the Eastern gate. It seems like the fort walls over there are wiped out too, and the enemies are looking to seize control of the empty warehouses that are much harder to defend. Their infantry is divided into two separate deployments. Two light-tanks are leading their troop, two more light tanks follow behind them. The first wave have already taken down the crenels where our anti-tank rifles are mounted, and their second formation is covered by the tanks.

I need to hold out for about half an hour before their tactical retreat, but that might be rough. The problem is the first wave is dangerously close—at least twenty of them are only five hundred meters away—enjoying guarded support from the second. They are triple our number, by the looks of it. No grenades exploded during my climb; our units under the trench are not doing their job. If we do nothing, the enemy will approach the gates. Then it’s game over.

My automatic sniper rifle—the Dragunov SVU-A—is already mounted. I climb on the bench rest and adjust the scope. I then glide the rifle, its muzzle swiping across my vision. Three seconds to calculate everything, like you always do. Distance, checked. Angle, checked. Remember the wind speed, Alexei.

I check my estimations against a fluttering bit of fabric tied high up in a tree. We put those up as wind measures a while ago, and so far Pavyluchenko’s forces haven’t shot them down. So far, so good, I think, and get back to finding my target.

The hole is just the right size for me to pinpoint the exact position of all the soldiers. All fifty seven of them. No test shot today.

The soldiers were lining up behind their tanks while they advance forward, clutching their rifles closely as bullets bounced from the iron beast in front of them.

I spot a guy surrounded by his unit, waving his arm towards the far gate. The rest of his squad changes direction following his instruction. Likely the squad leader. Prime target.

I pull the trigger.

He promptly drops dead; his blood pumps out, pooling like spilled ink. Some following him hunker down, their heads poking up frenetically seeking the source of the shot. A few others run to the other side of the tank for shelter. There should also be a sniper to take care of that side.

But most choose to do what I expect them to: detach from the tanks and charge into the open. But most choose to do what I expect them to: detach from the tanks and charge into the open. Being the low-quality clones they are, their movements are wickedly slow and their feet drag against the ground like their boots are made of lead.

This is the chance.

Trench, do your damn thing! Throw grenades, return fire, anything!

No counter. The golden opportunity has passed. The opposition’s blitzkrieg is still as imposing as ever.

I have to create another opportunity then.

I glide the rifle once more. Changing the angle of the Dragunov so abruptly while taking down several targets should be pretty damn strenuous for those rookies.

But not for me.

I pull the trigger. Another person drops dead.

I’m no ordinary human.

Humans die way too easily. Lucky for me, I don’t care enough about the futility of some useless humans I don’t know the names of. In the grand scheme of things, the life of a particular person doesn’t matter. Especially when you can just replace them by producing more.

A walk in the park. Another one down, another one down, another one falls like a pebble down a slope.

I, a sniper, killed only seven in a minute.

Should’ve done better. I’m not keeping up with my standards.

The vanguards cease their advances, trying to find my position. One with a rocket launcher aims at the hole on my tower.

Fuck.

This is the last chance for the trench to do something. What incompetent imbeciles. Do something!

“Position exposed. I’m leaving the post!” I cry onto the walkie-talkie as I pull back. Resounding rifle sounds vibrate, dozens of them at a time, like a choir. They didn’t come from the enemy, but from the trenches.

Just in time, idiots!

The guy carrying the rocket launcher drops to the ground, choking on his pool of blood. Right at that moment, I hear the boom. I turn my head, realizing it came from one of the tanks. It got close enough to fire its shot, and blowed away the Eastern gate. This is getting perilous.

I yell, praying that Petrov picks up my signal. “Lieutenant Commander, you hear? First tank, ten o’clock!”

“Got it!”

He gets it alright. His shot lands precisely at the top of the tank. The bulky vehicle dodders, charcoal-colored smoke emits from its turret. It didn’t go kaboom—they rarely do—but the rolling inertia halts.

We’re gaining momentum. Since Petrov isn’t completely useless, I’ll let him deal with the remaining tanks while fulfilling my part. I can wipe out those insignificant maggots in the second wave.

Kill all of them.

No.

I can’t kill too many. It’s suspicious enough that a single sniper can take out so many people at once. If I keep it up, questions will arise. And they won’t be happy if I reveal my identity.

Running low on bullets, I cry out to my partner, “Out of ammo. Hand me a magazine, Roman.”

No reply disturbs the rifle fire from the field. Smolov’s still screaming into the speaker about ‘Glorious Russia’, but I can’t make out anything else that he’s saying. The voice I wanted to hear remains mystically silent.

“Roman, you fucking idiot! I said, hand me . . .”

It came to me. Right, I forgot.

Roman isn’t here anymore.

My shoulders slump as I change the magazines myself. Roman was never faster than me in changing the magazines, but the guy loved doing it; and for a human, he was pretty good at these little jobs. He would giggle and his voice would go up a pitch as he attempted to strike up some chitter-chatter, and I would snarl at him to shut him up. That ear-tormenting giggle of his was so annoying then. I didn’t know I would miss it this much.

A distinct, rapid ping reverberates from the corner of the wall before echoing through my confined space. A stray bullet. That bullet could’ve gotten through my sighting hole, then through my skull.

Focus, Alexei, focus.

The rest of their infantry are charging. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Snap out of it, Alexei! You’re in the middle of battle. You can’t mourn for him. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t . . .

Memories are often invoked by a fragment—the tangy smell of oil, the maroon color of blood, the sound of stones skipping across a glossy lake. For me, it’s the absence of all of them. It reminds me of how alone I am. Always.

Funny how nobody’s life matters until it’s someone you know personally.

Let’s just get this over with, I tell myself as I fire another round.