Israel-Occupied Sinai, Roanoak Complex

1530 Hours, October 18th, Third Era

The perfect suite, fit for vacation miles away from home, pristine white walls, white sheets, plush pillows, running water. The timid waves of the nearby Red Sea spilling across the coast almost made their temporary vacation feel real. Myslitel could sense the extreme salt in the air, enough to tickle the nose and make her snort every few minutes. Yet another inconvenience in a myriad of other problems. She sat before the satellite phone, having hooked it up to the radio receiver to try and boost the signal. These early civilian prototypes were the equivalent of rocks and sticks in comparison to the matches and lighters of Russia’s finest tech. The traffic between the fleet up north and Moscow was heavy. Word from the other Egyptian elements north of them was that the Americans showed up to play Big Brother for their Israeli allies, hefting their aircraft carriers and warships as a bat to be swung if the Soviets overstepped. Another standoff between Democracy and Communism for a chance at real war.

Myslitel and the rest of Bheka were ready to roll that dice, a real war like the one before this one, a real war that would have them operating behind enemy lines instead of on them. Only few had lived long enough to experience the greatest theater of conflict ever conceived. Meduza, Drel, Khaski and Inga were the oldest heads in Bheka, seeing combat in the second World War. Khaski was famous for his leadership in Molograd, possessing a reputation of sagas that completely preceded him. Myslitel was an avid historian among other things, head down in her books while the rest of her squad was more action oriented. She nerded out on the details of her superiors, stopping just short of asking for interviews, though she had considered it. She found her niche necessary, even if she was referred to as a know-it-all. Better to know and not need it than to need it and not know it, she always reasoned.

Her tweezers carefully bound wires together, adjusting the rubber sleeve as she affixed the antenna to the receiver. With her tools splayed on the balcony overlooking the pool her work was a little less monotonous. The only problem now was the heat. She brought the phone to her ear and extended the antenna, searching for a signal.

“This is Bheka to Fifth Squadron, do you read me?” Myslitel muttered, waiting…

She waited for a minute before a sigh escaped her. “I repeat, this is Bheka to Fifth Squadron, do you read me? We are in need of immediate evac.” Another lack of reply. She slammed the satellite phone down, looking over her rig to see where the folly had been made. Before her blood could get too hot, though, a hand brushed against her shoulder.

She turned, head rising to level with Byk’s monumental figure. “Progress?” The gunner asked.

“No,” Myslitel grumbled, knowing well who sent her, “Tell Meduza I’ll update her when I’m ready to update her, not before.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Byk raised her hands in passive surrender, her tone as unbothered as always.

Myslitel’s uppity attitude died in her throat at that, a measure of guilt creeping on her immediately after. She sighed obviously, putting her tweezers down. Byk remained as she saw her comrade spin around away from her task. Myslitel stared up in silence, the heat from the balcony clutching at the back of her neck like a hot and sweaty hand while the air conditioned cool breeze met her face.

“Something bothering you?” Byk followed up, recognizing the unsettled look in her eye.

“I’m worried about Drel-- The squad, really. I know Baran is family but Drel is, too. We could lose both of them and then where would we be? All this infighting has got me sick to my stomach, I feel like if Baran doesn’t make it-... The Major might do something she regrets…” Myslitel admitted without hesitation, finding it hard to manifest her words in a more cohesive manner.

“Meduza is no threat.” Byk said conclusively.

“How do you know that?”

Byk stepped past Myslitel and to the balcony, careful not to trample her equipment. “The Major will not kill her, she cares too much. And Drel is too useful.”

Skepticism crossed the techie’s features, sending a hand rolling across her forehead and into her braided hair. She followed Byk’s eyes downward to spy Krovo sat at the edge of the pool, running her fingers through the somehow still pristine and cerulean water. “It’s not Meduza you’re worried about, is it?”

A length of silence followed before Byk shook her head. “Krovo comes from a… Harsh background. Before she was recruited by the Committee she fought in the Korean War… We both did. I hardly knew her then but she was different, not like she is now. The Korean War was a war of changing fronts, every month we were falling back or advancing. I saw the streets of Seoul on three separate occasions…”

Byk drew a blue-white packet of Belomorkanal cigarettes from her back pocket, the carton depicting a map of the location in question. It was an ancient brand, smoked heavily by Red troops throughout the Second World War. Belomorkanal was known for its texture and strength, not easily consumed by those with stout lungs. It was no surprise Myslitel saw her smoking it.

She brought the cigarette to her mouth, producing a zippo from the same pocket. Black Bheka never went anywhere without their smokes. A single pull followed, long enough to make her chest expand - the cherry red end glowing bright until she expelled the hard smoke in the open air, watching it swim away with the salty breeze.

“Everytime we saw those streets again I caught her slipping more and more, she stopped cleaning her uniform, stopped washing the blood on her hands, stopped smiling at the things that used to make her smile. I watched her from afar for a real long time, I was… Obsessed… Like a journalist studies a career criminal or a serial killer. I started drawing her in my journal, all the tics and flinches she’d make when she was wound up, her sleepy face under the candlelight when she was reading late at night. She’s unstable.”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Myslitel stood, flanking Byk as she leaned onto the balcony. “Her callsign is Krovo.”

“Yes, but it was never this bad. She told me what she did for the Committee one night recently, the things she sacrificed for our Union. When we met up in Bheka by chance or fate a few years ago I saw everything I knew of her from Korea was gone, or at least I thought it was. In reality it’s just a mask - and I’m realizing more and more I’m the only thing keeping it up.”

Myslitel descended into a mire of deep thought, it was a poorly kept secret Byk and Krovo were seeing each other, at least within Black Bheka - but the possibility of their relationship being out of necessity rather than desire had never crossed her mind. Byk showed little interest in anything beyond duty to her country, so it wasn’t far-fetched. “Do you love her?” She whispered.

Byk smirked at that question. “At first? No. My morbid fascination got me talking with her, we were cordial, and even though she was coming onto me I felt nothing towards her. But I never stopped her advances, I was too intrigued, still studying her like a lab rat.”

“But then?” Myslitel continued, peeling back the layers question by question.

“I saw her smile for the first time in years at something besides a finely sharpened knife or the promise of planting it in some capitalist’s spleen. She smiled at me and in that moment I knew how important I was to her. And that made her important to me.”

The conclusion took Myslitel by surprise, making her eyebrows perk. A sunny conclusion to a dark recollection. But that surprise morphed into confusion. “Why are you telling me this?”

Byk’s hopeful expression died in favor of a more serious one, she drew on her cigarette, exhaling the smoke before she turned to face her comrade. “There’s no one else I can ask but you and Baran, and with Baran’s condition, there’s no telling if he’ll live to see tomorrow… So if I die… And Krovo lives long enough to kill whoever killed me? Shoot her.”

“Wh- What?” Myslitel’s posture straightened suddenly.

“That is my dying wish to you, Merrill.” Her strong palm rested on Myslitel’s shoulder, exchanging foreboding eye contact before she turned without any further explanation.

“Wait- You can’t just put that on me like tha--” Her protest was concluded at the shut of the door behind the Yordle, at which point she turned to glare at Krovo still squatting at the water’s edge. An uneasy sigh left her, thumb’s nail rising to her lip as a reaction to her climbing stress levels. She could’ve done without the added weight of responsibility on her shoulders. This day just kept getting worse.

The spinning of the ceiling fan was the only thing keeping Baran awake, the constant motion allowing him to stave off the increasing desire to sleep. A widening pit of dread had opened in his stomach, leaving him feeling as if he could void his guts any moment. It was the feeling of impending death, the feeling that if he closed his eyes he might never open them again. Meduza sat nearby in the suite past the French doors, the smell of hot food catching his nose. It was almost enough to make him sit up if it weren’t for the dull pain in his chest. Something in the kitchen drew her out of sight, letting his tired eyes return to the revolving ceiling fan.

It was best he didn’t talk to conserve his strength but he couldn’t help but anguish at the silence. His extroversion made the quiet unbearable. It reminded him of worse times on the German border. The Second World War was a war just before his time, though it stretched beyond its conclusion of unstable peace. The newest editions of world history books foretold the end of the war. Germany, on the brink of collapse, threatened nuclear fallout with the world if they dare continue to press their advantage any further past German borders. Their trump card was revealed, a pack of U-Boats prowling off the eastern coast of America armed with nuclear warheads were ready to devastate New York and Washington while Russia received a similar threat from both Japan and Germany. It was believed by all of Affra that the Axis powers were without warheads, but their secret development had progressed under allied noses all the way up until the last year of conflict. Their arsenal would be expended on France, Italy, Britain and all surrounding and opposed states via their brand new, long-range guided ballistic missiles.

The allies, frozen by the idea of nuclear devastation - negotiated peace talks with Tresa Kempka, the reigning Führer who had thrust the civilized world into a fit of chaos to begin with. After verifying these threats weren’t empty all parties convened in Paris to discuss peace and land claims. Germany and Japan made little demands, wishing only to keep their currently held territories, which hardly deviated from their pre-war boundaries. The allies were unsatisfied, but given the nukes currently aimed at their conference little could be done to prevent this. No formal agreements were made but a cease to open and armed conflict was ensured. On paper the war never stopped, beginning what everyone referred to as the Gelid, or the Great Freeze - a freezing of open hostilities. Each superpower’s nuclear stockpile only grew and within hardly a decade Washington, Berlin, London, Moscow and Tokyo had enough ordnance to turn Affra to ash.

Proxy wars in third world countries were the popular medium to kill one’s enemy, Vietnam, Sinai, Korea - all a poorly veiled back and forth between Democracy and Communism as both factions raced to recruit further allies to their respective causes, bolstering their ranks. In the interim the Facist Axis powers had been relatively docile - stirring the pot only on the borders with their misaligned enemies. Nazi Germany and Russia shared a border in still-conquered Poland, the Red advance back in the Second World War falling short of the Vistula River - half of Warsaw belonging to Germany and the other belonging to Russia divided along its cerulean length. He could sparsely recall his arrival at his post on the eastern side of Poniatowski Bridge, eyes naturally falling against the crimson banners and black swastikas when he pulled up. After the conclusion of the war their symbol went through a series of redesigns, its hooks rounding to make the shape more appealing whilst also distinguishing the modern Reich from the old. The Nazis were still as perverse as they ever had been, sometimes Baran was witness to public executions of rebellious citizens attempting to cross into Soviet territory. The way they were flogged until life left their eyes was a sight he could only hope hard liquor would be rid of - and still the strongest Vodka never faded those memories.

But more agonizing than the brutal torture was the silence. The boredom. Poniatowski Bridge was five hundred paces long and his sole job was to watch across it for assaults that never came or prevent civilians from fleeing into land they had no interest in. The Nazi checkpoint’s search lights scanned the Vistula for escapees, the only sound being the metal creak of the fixtures as they swept the cold and desolate waters. The winters were the worst, the attempts became more frequent when the water froze - interspersing automatic gunfire between long stints of nothing when escapees were inevitably gunned down. Some nights he was so bored he’d flip the night guards on the opposite end the bird just to see if he could get a reaction. He rarely did.

How was it that those dull memories found him in his final moments? His final breaths? He hardly noticed his eyes were closed. He’d fallen asleep? A hand pressed to his chest weakly, noticing the crimson forming around his bandages. The wound was opening again. His eyes rose towards the French doors to find them shattered, shafts of light sinking in from a blasted roof. The white carpet was dirty with dust and debris, the fine china was broken, the dinner table cracked at its legs. His bed sat lopsided, his sheets spilling off him to one side. He grunted, ears perking at the nearby but half-muted sound of rifles barking. What happened?

The sound of an anti-tank shell twanging off hard armor was an unmistakable report. The impact of an invalid penetration was noteworthy, but the shell ricocheting off the sloped armor was even more distinct. It had a deathly whistle to it that reminded the crew how close they’d come to death. A single shell in this era often knocked a tank out of action, or worse - liquidated the Yordles inside it. Krovo heard it, hardly flinching at the surprising clang of it all. Her hand, still running in the pretty water surfaced with a generous amount of it captured in her palm. To everyone else it looked like water, but to her it flickered between opaque crimson and clear blue-white liquid. The whole pool, all the lazy Egyptian fodder cooling off in it - all the gorgeous white walls - they all could change in the blink of an eye to become a mire of Korean corpses swimming in their own ichor surrounded by demolished warzone blocks.

She was fascinated with the dead, to see a pair of eyes staring at her with no soul behind them made her happy. She had half a mind to laugh, the beginnings of a smile taking shape at the corners of her lips. But she kept herself from slipping, the numbers kept her from slipping. She repeated them back to herself in a never ending loop, checking herself with an off-kilter wink before she murmured too loudly.

“Два, три, два, три - восемь, восемь, два…”

“Два, три, два, три - восемь, восемь, два…”

The reciting sobered her like a shot of hot caffeine to the heart. She glanced to her left just in time to see a Korean Yordle brandishing a knife flicker into smoke, revealing Meduza hovering over her shoulder instead. Her mouth moved, reciting Korean rather than Mother-tongue until it too flipped.

“암송하다 숫자- 암송하다 숫자-- Krovo?! Take these magazines, make sure Byk is supplied,” She pointed high to a third story balcony where her beloved fired off into the desert, opposing rounds pushing divots into the stonework around her, “Go!”

Krovo blinked and looked down at the backpack full of drum-mags, swiping them. An explosion rocked both parties, leaving Krovo stumbling across the footbridge over the now dirty pool of water. Egyptians took defensive positions looking east past the walls of Roanoak, scattering like cockroaches to an open flame. The heavy metal over her shoulder clanked with the loose belts of ammunition as another tank shell disintegrated an elevated firing position just ahead of her, forcing Krovo to dive into the water as debris rained all around her.

Broken facade splashed around her and Egyptian corpses fell and drowned. She clawed towards the surface, the weight of the ammunition working against the Lieutenant’s upward momentum. She hardly managed to drag the heavy bag out of the water, gasping for breath the moment she emerged. Her waterlogged uniform jacket only served to slow her down, so she stripped it off, falling into the open doorway of the vacation rental just as a third explosion crumpled a building across the way. Krovo gathered herself towards the highest floor, kicking open a closed bedroom door to access the balcony.

She arrived just in time to see one of their T-55s retaliate, sinking a high-explosive anti-tank round straight through the cupola of an Israeli M60 battle tank. Flame bristled around the turret ring and through the commander’s hatch bursting alight like a fire on the eye of a propane stove. It distracted Krovo little as she slammed the bag down and drew the longest ammo-belt she could find from its depth. “Here, ammo- ammo!”

Byk sprung the latch, discarding her depleted drum. Krovo came across with the belt, delicately but hastily feeding the starter tab through before Byk slammed the latch back down and rocked the charging handle, suspending her ladder of ammunition out to one side of her while her cheek rested on the stock and her opposite hand caressed the trigger in even bursts. She finally got a look at their opposition. Several Israeli mechanized platoons made slow gains in their direction, the most zealous of which lay dead around their smoldering support vehicles. Her binoculars came off the hip, pressed to her sockets as she shadowed Byk.

Her own weapon was ineffective at this range so she’d be better served calling targets for Byk. “Four hundred meters, ” She drew her compass out, flipping it open in view of the gunner, “Bearing one-two-zero - three targets left of the shaded dune!”

Byk set her sights accordingly and adjusted. Krovo could see the first volley hit close, pushing heads down. “Up like ten degrees, you’re close!” The second volley was on target, suppressing them thoroughly. “On target, open up!”

Byk hammered on the trigger, sending hate in the form of smoking lead their way. Her shoulder braced hard against the butt-stock, leaning into the recoil and her knees bent to better neutralize the jostling and steady her iron-sight’s picture. Krovo saw the first target felled, several rounds ripping through the Yordle as he tucked close to the nearest rock he could find. The red mist sprinkled across the tan desert stone was sign enough of his death. “Good kill!”

The battle progressed, their tank cohort riding forward to secure the momentum. Egyptian infantry scattered in support of them and Krovo was pulling Byk from her position so they could join the counter-attack. With a fresh drum settled into her weapon and more in her bag they sprinted to catch up with the advance. The resounding boom of T-55s was near deafening at such proximity, but her blood was boiling and the fact she hadn’t slaughtered some Israelis in the last few days was starting to itch at the back of her mind. The appearance of Drel at her flank only added fuel to her bloodlust.

The three soldiers flopped into the sand at the rise of a dune towards the apex of their spearhead, protected by broken shards of stout rock. A good firing position. Drel was getting up with her launcher over her shoulder upon sighting a wounded but still occupied armored transport vehicle. The turret was disabled if its wilting downward angle was any indication and two of four wheels were busted. She readied to fire just as Israeli soldiers spilled out the back upon realizing a counter-attack was upon them. They noticed her immediately and shot up at the Captain - throwing her aim. The rocket went wide, splashing near the transport to send several Israelis stomach-first into the sand.

Krovo peeked and expended half her overstuffed magazine down at the wounded transport and its beleaguered protectors, killing two and wounding a third. Byk generously blanketed their hobbled armored-car in lead, pushing the remaining few Israelis either back inside or on its opposite side. Drel and Krovo committed themselves while they were pinned, sliding down the opposite slope of the dune then launching into a sprint for the combat vehicle. Drel came off the hip with a grenade, swinging left and around its ass while Krovo flanked the opposite side.

Byk’s bursting died as her comrades came into friendly fire range, watching as Krovo peeked around the front of the truck - surprising the two IDF hunkered behind the metal roller. They were light work, dispatched with a swing sweeping mass of seven-point-six-two. Her empty magazine hit the sand and the next was angling into the magazine well of her Kalashnikov.

Drel on the other hand was confident Krovo would handle that issue - and her confidence wasn’t misplaced. Instead she stopped at the back door, prepped her grenade, primed it and pulled aside the door just enough to loop it in before shutting it closed. Her back pressed against the cabin doors and Krovo circled to help her brace. Muffled screams and beating fists were suddenly silenced by a hollow pop. Drel and Krovo glanced at one another, a lasting distasteful glare exchanged - though one with a modicum of mutual acknowledgement at their unnatural cohesion. They turned and pulled the doors open, letting the bloodied and mangled corpses fall from the fighting vehicle as if it’s mouth were being opened to vomit forth its ugly contents. Surely nothing was left inside but they had to be sure.

Meduza’s binoculars descended from her eyes just as she watched half her squad cascade beyond the rise of a dune. The battle was well in hand now but their armored detachment was near half-strength. It was obvious the Israelis were softening for a more cohesive, more thorough assault. This was merely a probing attack. Before she could properly turn away from the now distant combat her radio buzzed with Colonel Khaski’s voice, she barely heard it over the bark of Myslitel’s sniper rifle just beside her.

“Squad leaders: Casualty report?”

Meduza unclipped her radio and started down the vacation rental’s steps. “Black Bheka is green, no casualties to report - negligible injuries sustained.”

“White Behka is orange - got one down with a round through the shoulder, nothing serious but we could use some assistance.” Inga replied.

“I’m sending one of mine to come take a look, standby.” Khaski said, ending the transmission.

Meduza reached the ground floor, eyes rising just in time to see the door close to the reception building, an Egyptian medic racing out with bandages in hand. She squinted, knowing well that’s where the wounded were being kept. She glanced high to the shattered roof she knew Baran was under. There was no hesitation in her next decision. All the able bodied Egyptians were committed to the counter-attack, this was her chance. She sprinted up the steps and to the door, finding the air conditioning still running. The cool air hit her and so too did the smell of dying Egyptians. She recoiled at the stench, eyes glancing along the rows and rows of disabled bodies.

She began sorting over the wounded, looking for blood bags of Baran’s type. The search got her intimately familiar with each grievous wound. Missing arms, legs, eyes. The worst case she saw was a Yordle with a chunk of her face blown aside. How she managed to survive was beyond Meduza. The Yordle moaned as the Major made her way past, wrist over her nose to lessen the stink. The last bag she encountered was of the correct type. She checked about herself, kneeling down to the half-dead soldier, unbinding the nearly full bag from his arm. The weak Egyptian made an attempt to stop her but was too exhausted from his constant bleeding to be anything more than a nuisance.

Meduza made for the exit, springing the glass door open, down the steps and back towards Baran. Just as she was entering the apartment a voice called out to her, spinning Meduza on her heels. The medic she’d slipped past earlier complained towards her, pointing to the bag of blood. She couldn’t understand him, nor did she care to.

“Hey, fuck off,” Meduza shooed him away like a pest.

He complained louder, taking a step forward, forcing Meduza to challenge him with a step in his direction immediately after. “I said fuck off!”

His complaints evolved into threats. She didn’t need to know Egyptian to decipher his cursing insults. She took a deep breath in and turned away, choosing to ignore the soldier instead. But the soldier wouldn’t be ignored, sprinting up behind her to grasp at the blood bag. Her instinct took over, sharpened reflexes from two decades of fighting and ruthless training activating in the time it took her heart to beat. She drew her gun from her shoulder-strung holster, pointing the Tokarev at the man’s skull. She didn’t even think about the consequences of pulling the trigger. She just pulled it. Her dull eyes watched the hole open up in his forehead, body collapsing just outside the doorway with an ugly thud.

Her head peeked out, looking left and right before she gripped his twitching ankles and pulled him into the crumbling building to stow him under the nearest bed until she could dispose of him properly. Her poker face wasn’t even close to breaking, she pitied her victim little, taking that life was like crushing an ant under foot. She felt nothing. A part of that realization scared her, but the other - overriding half told her it was the right thing to do. Her family was more important than a single soldier in a proxy war. He wouldn’t be missed by anyone. After hovering over the hidden corpse for what felt like an eternity she pulled herself away and upstairs.

“Baran?” The door creaked open, her eyes greeted by the blinding shafts of light from the sundered ceiling. She coughed at the settling dust, stepping over broken furniture to reach the lopsided bed.

She knelt beside the Yordle, hoping his eyes were closed because he was sleeping and not because he was dead. “Baran,” Meduza whispered, tapping his face then brushing his shoulder, “Baran - I-I got you some blood, just in time, yeah?…”

She peeled aside the covers to reveal the fully crimson bandages across his chest, her head turning and eyes closing shut at seeing she’d left him to bleed. Her hand persisted against his shoulder, trying to shake the dead Lieutenant back to life. “Enzov- Wake up… Enzov please…”

Her forehead came to rest against his bloody torso. “Enzov, wake up!” She growled, the anguish of losing one of her six devolving into anger.

“Enzov, wake up!!” Meduza lamented violently, tears forming around her eyelids.

Her anger sunk even lower into rage, fist pounding against his still chest, teary eyes flaring open - her voice broken from the aching sadness.

“That’s an order!!!”