Carla

“Those who sit and watch too long by the ocean should not be surprised when the waters rise to fill their lungs.”

-Proverb from Ir-Hashkrim

245 YT, Late Winter: In Shirahn’s House

Shirahn used two fingers to part the slats of her window's blinds. Outside in the nearby street, the same two women were lounging, sipping from the same two visibly steaming mugs of tea - shawls pulled tight around their shoulders as they braced themselves against the cold breeze. Their backs were to her, so they did not see Shirahn peeking out the window, and would have thought little of it if they had. This was her neighborhood. It was not strange at all that she would want to keep watch. But, if either of the women happened to be someone Shirahn knew - with their backs turned to her and their shawls, neither of which she recognized by pattern, covering the shapes of their bodies, she couldn't tell - they might think to come knock on her door.

That wouldn't be a problem, most likely - anything she wanted to hide was well hidden in the back. However, the less curiosity that she could bring to her doorstep right now, the better. Shirahn already had a few of her most loyal and discrete subordinates in place outside the house - one at the top of the library's tower, one waiting at the stitch-spire with a spyglass in one hand a briefcase in the other that at the press of a button would unfold into a long, scoped rifle.

She had not told them why she suddenly needed the roads into her quarter of the city watched, or the identities of any strangers who entered. Nor had she indicated why she was not taking any visitors at this time and would like for her subordinates to ensure that anyone who tried to approach Shirahn's house from behind should be stopped. The third of her subordinates, lurking behind the house, could not see inside, and was instructed to come around to the front if he needed to talk to Shirahn.

Of course they would gossip among themselves, but they always did that. And then they would return home to their families and spread the gossip. And perhaps the story would spread - Shirahn placing bodyguards near her house, making sure no one entered, hiding something in the back - but if the story went around the city it would be a version of the story changed, embellished for the most dramatic effect. No one would be much inclined to try to force their way in, in any case.

If the one standing on the stitch-spire were to come to any conclusion at all, it was based on the fact that Shirahn had said specifically to be on the lookout for Invictan soldiers. And she had not breathed a word of this to the one waiting in the back. Ir-Hashkrim's headmen and handwomen had no interest in pledging themselves to the Empire. Shirahn had the impression that she was the most vehemently opposed to Invictan presence, but she had to admit - the others were not exactly friendly to the empire either. And after all, most of her really important activities were being done in private. She had no reason to assume the others were not up to anything worthwhile behind everyone else's backs - because vital work done in the open is merely a way of tipping one's own hand, and even in the company of friends this could be a liability without due care.

She ran her hands over the blinds of the window to shut them securely, so that no one could see in from outside even if they came up close to the window and put their face against it close enough that the cold ocean breeze would flow out of their lungs and onto the pane and condense as melt amidst the frost.

In the back room, behind a curtain, with her hands wrapped in wool-woven long gloves and placed tight around a mug of tea, Carla El-Kir sat next to a radio apparatus. A few of her closer confidants surrounded her - honestly, Shirahn still had not bothered to learn their names. Even their faces blurred together, but there were four of them - or perhaps five, maybe the last one was in the other room at the moment - and all wore plain Crescian clothes but with the subtle red-brown tabard of the Risir hanging from the back of their hoods. Even inside, they kept their hoods up - it was not cold inside, although Carla had not set her furnace burning. Her house - particularly the back room, which had no windows - retained the heat well. When Shirahn brushed the curtain aside Carla looked up from her mug of tea and gave a slight, almost curt nod to the handwoman.

"No luck just yet," Carla said, "but we're getting there. There's a limit to how many different combinations of frequencies there could be. Eventually, we're going to reach Mirshal."

Shirahn nodded slowly, set her hands near her face, rubbed her temples to have something to do with her fingers. And to ward off the need to say something. But finally she spoke anyway. "Then what? You just waltz off into the sunset, your mission done?"

"I get a report from them and pass the information on to my contacts."

Shirahn closed the curtain behind her and sat down on the floor, crossing her legs, hunching forward. "I'm sure they already have told their Adma friends everything there is to know."

"And just how competent are the Adma at getting supplies through the Invictan blockade for a city? They are guerilla fighters, they are not logistics experts. I know logistics experts. It wasn't easy smuggling a city's worth of enchanted items out of Kurikuneku, let alone the people with the expertise to use them. I've come up against worse than a little blockade - it's one thing to get past soldiers but do you have any idea how difficult it is to escape a city with your life and the things you need to carry on your mission when everyone - not just soldiers, every single person who lives there - everyone is your enemy and thinks they know your goals? And all of them are sure that you wish them harm?" Carla El-Kir spoke quickly, and with her lips tight together, a single slow exhalation through everything she said. Then she bowed her head and lifted the tea to her lips, and drank deep. "My agents in Corod can handle this. The trip east will be an easy one for them, after everything they have been through these past years, hiding from Invictan assassins and keeping the hope alive."

"I hope that you can get this done soon, though," Shirahn said. "The Invictans are going to be here soon. I'm sure they will want to talk with everyone - hopefully, the others will not put me on the spot and send them here first. If they do..."

"Then I will probably be dead soon," Carla finished without skipping a beat.

"You are being... strangely casual about the possibility."

"I'm already a dead woman," Carla said, again without the tone of her voice changing. After her outburst a moment ago, it seemed she'd forced herself to calm down again - her breathing was steady, despite the weight of what she said. "I died a long time ago, and ever since that day I've been walking around because I still have things to do."

"And you have yet more," Shirahn snapped. "That is life. That is proof that you are yet living. So don't talk that way. You're not the walking dead. You're a living woman, breathing. Sitting here, talking to me. Drinking that horrible tea I made for you." She tried to sound more annoyed than she felt. Really, there was an uncomfortable weight settling in the pit of her stomach, a foreboding.

"I hope it will not come to that, of course," Carla said. "Your operatives - they can delay the Invictans, if they try to come here?"

"They can provide us warning," Shirahn said. "But I will not fight or provoke them. You understand my first obligation is to this city, not to you?"

"I understand, of course, and that is -" Carla began.

At that moment, one of the others beside Carla spoke up. "The signal, it's gone through," he said, and turned around for a moment away from the radio so that Shirahn could see his face. He looked elated - and far too young to be in a situation like this. Carla set down her mug of tea on the floor next to her, and smiled at Shirahn. The young man continued - "the line is encrypted. It's gone straight to the Sower Monastery. And someone already picked up - he says he's in charge of 'defensive coordination' - an Aleks Zelenko."

"Put me on the line with him," Carla said. "Shirahn, if you would?"

The cue was clear enough. Shirahn nodded sharply and opened the curtain, stepped outside, closed it behind her so that she couldn’t see beyond. She walked to the opposite end of the room, folding her hands behind her back.

Something buried in the folds of her scarf chimed, and she reached up, put her hand between the fabric and her neck, and shook her head. When she held out her other palm, the little microphone landed right in it. She raised it to her ear and set it inside. “What is it?”

“It’s Lance. I’m looking at two Invictan soldiers, heavily armored. Probably special forces. They must be an advance party. They’re just walking through town like they own the place.”

“Well, has anyone stopped them? Tried to talk to them?”

“Not yet,” Lance called back through the radio. On the other end, Shirahn could hear the shifting of metal. Her body tensed up and both her hands went into her cloak, to the thick and heavy cloth vest and the dagger-sheaths built in along its front.

“Then give the signal to –“

“Alright.” Lance didn’t wait for Shirahn to finish, didn’t need her to specify. The next move was obvious.

Shirahn flipped the knife in her hand and pulled her front door open a crack. Then she thrust it back into its sheath under the cloak before leaning the rest of the way toward the opening of her door. The thought of a chessboard ran through her mind for a moment. Some moves were forced. The one making the move knew that it was forced, knew that their opponent had rehearsed all of this in their own mind. And to be predictable, in games of deception and flanking such as these, was to be caught.

But.

She stepped out into the street.

The two women sitting on the street, around the corner from where Shirahn stood in front of her house, were the first to react when they heard the gunshots. There were two shots – echoing through the city like thunder. Two shots spaced less than a second apart, disciplined, similar in sound but not identical. It was not Lance’s rifle that had gone off.

The two women were too disoriented by the sudden gunshots, too panicked – unsure if what they had just heard was really what they thought it was – to realize that the direction they were fleeing in was the direction the sounds had come from. They saw Shirahn standing there in front of the door of her house, and Shirahn’s eyes met theirs – quickly scanned between them. She didn’t personally know either of these women, but she’d seen them around from time to time. And they surely recognized her.

One of them, mouth agape, looked rapidly between Shirahn and the general direction of the gate. Shirahn considered drawing her knife and starting to walk toward the source of the sound, but thought better of it. It wouldn’t do to show a threatening face. Shirahn could not afford to die her, not only because of her personal fear of death but because it wouldn’t serve either Carla’s group or the city if she was killed, her house searched, the radio and its operators discovered. If it came to a choice between the city and Carla, then Shirahn would sell Carla out in a heartbeat – but better to avoid having to make that choice in the first place. She walked forward with her hands open, and by the time she’d warned the two women off, saying that if their houses were in the direction of the sound then they should find a different place to hide – but not Shirahn’s house, because the soldiers might come there – Lance’s voice came over the radio again. “The… the questioners. The soldiers just shot them. One of them said something like ‘you’re not who we want to talk to’ and then they just… shot them.”

Hearing Lance’s voice with genuine surprise in it, genuine fear, was disconcerting to Shirahn. But she just pulled her scarf tight around her, adjusted her cloak so that the knife-sheaths were not visible, fastened the front, and hoped that if the soldiers decided to shoot her they would aim for the chest, so her vest might catch their bullet.

She picked up her pace, whispering back to the radio. “Is it just the two of them? Do you have a clear line of fire?”

“Yes,” Lance said. “No one else approaching, and I have the shot. But – you said not to take it…”

“Are the ones they shot still alive?”

There was a pause. “One of them is still moving. The soldiers aren’t paying him any mind. But Robin… she’s dead. They shot her in the head. I… I can’t look at this anymore.”

“Don’t look at her. Follow the soldiers. What are they doing?”

“They’re just… walking. They’ve lowered their guns. No one’s getting in their way, though. I think they were just trying to make a point.”

“I have them in sight.” She didn’t, quite. But she knew she was close and wanted to project confidence in that moment.

“I don’t see you,” Lance said.

“Don’t worry, I’m almost there. You still have a clear shot?”

“Yes.”

Now she did have them in sight. They wore their helmets – dark visors covering their faces. Shirhan imagined the grinning visages underneath those visors. She knew the expression well enough – she’d met enough soldiers. There was a thrill they talked about, even the more mild-mannered among them – the thrill of exercising power, really. Killing, but it wasn’t just about the killing itself. In battle, chaos rules the day, no matter what else may happen. Even a victorious soldier, unless they have completely lost their mind, is likely to be too overcome by fear and the relief of still being alive to celebrate much, inside, after a victory. When they gather around the fire at the end of the day to celebrate their victory, they’re drinking to their own lives continuing, not to the end of their enemies.

At least, that’s what they said to Shirahn.

But there was a thrill in killing someone who wasn’t a threat to you. And it wasn’t just the grins that Shirahn imagined behind those visors – the leers of men who took genuine glee, the closest thing they knew to innocent mirth, in someone else’s pain. They swaggered toward her.

There were people in the street now – watching from near doorways, their eyes always on the feet of the soldiers, not their hands. Only Shirahn walked straight towards them and looked them in the face, or as close to the face as one could with these armor-shelled creatures.

Finally one of them stopped, and his gait changed. He no longer swaggered, although he did not reach for his gun. He took a few steps toward Shirahn, seemed to lean forward – peering perhaps – and then turned to his fellow. The other nodded quickly. They placed their hands on their weapons, but did not raise them or point them at Shirahn.

They stood and waited for her approach.

When she was close enough, the one in front called out to her: “So you are the handwoman Shirahn, is that right?”

“Yes,” Shirahn said. “And you are?”

“Who we are is immaterial.” The voice echoed behind the mask too much for Shirahn to tell much of anything about the person who spoke. No accent was discernable, and the voice’s only real feature was the extreme sternness derived from that inside-helmet echo. “We have questions for you and your colleagues.”

Shirahn nearly breathed a sigh of relief at the and your colleagues, but did not allow herself that risk. “Who you are is not immaterial,” she said, angling her chin up slightly. “You come into my city, a city in which you have no jurisdiction, and you shoot two people? I could have you killed.”

The one behind laughed at Shirahn’s threat. The one in front did not.

“We needed to make a point. Surely you understand.”

Shirahn nodded. “Oh, I know. So I suppose you won’t mind if I take some of your medical supplies, which I know you have, to provide the one you left alive with medical attention?”

“Of course,” said the soldier in front, and undid a clasp on the arm of his armor. He handed a hypo injector over to Shirahn, who stepped past the soldiers, motioned over her shoulder with a wave for them to follow her, and picked up the pace.

As they kept pace with her, the one from behind more hesitantly, with a little more of that overconfident-insecure swagger in his step, Shirahn sniffed loudly. “So ask your questions, then, and I’ll decide what kind of message I will send back home to your commanders. I’ll be happy to handle the message-sending for you, of course, because I have the means and – well – you are so very far from home.”

“We have it on good authority,” the one in front said. “I won’t waste your time, Shirahn. Ir-Hashkrim is harboring the Risir, including the dangerous fugitive from justice Carla El-Kir.”

Shirahn snorted loudly. “I don’t care,” she said, and hoped that she didn’t sound too deliberate in her dismissiveness. “I have no quarrel with the Risir, and you have no business here. She is a fugitive from justice only by the declaration of the Invictan Emperor, and the Emperor has no sway here.”

“For now,” said the soldier behind. “You cannot remain independent forever.”

“And yet your armies have never come here in force.” She allowed herself a smirk. Perhaps there was merit to this strategy – putting them off balance. At least the one in back. The one next to her – now walking almost in front of her, Shirahn saw – seemed to have far less patience for nonsense, or at least wasn’t as obviously affected by it.

“Because of the Adma,” said the one in front. “Are you sure that you do not have any loyalty to them for stopping our advances toward your city?”

“I am glad for their presence, obviously,” Shirahn said.

“They’re dangerous killers,” the resounding voice of the soldier in front said.

Shirahn chuckled. “Yes. And here you are.” She knelt down next to the body of the man, and quickly injected him. He let out a whimper – good, so he was still alive – and then fell unconscious, the drugs working through his system. He would live, then. Shirahn then turned her attention to Robin – her head was a bloody mess against the dirt road. Shirahn stood, and glanced rapidly between Robin’s corpse and the two soldiers. “You are dangerous killers. And surely you must understand that this will not go unanswered. If you intended to come as an envoy, you have done a terrible job.”

“It was him who shot this one in the head,” said the more level-headed soldier, jerking his head toward the other. “I told him before if we had to shoot anyone, to aim to maim, not kill. I apologize for his inexperience.”

“That’s alright,” Shirahn said. Then she held her hand up to her ear. “You heard the man. The inconvenience rests on one dumb boy’s shoulders.” She fixed her gaze on the one who’d shot Robin.

There was the barest impression of movement behind that visor, of eyes previously wrinkled with smiling widening in fear and recognition – hands diving for the stock of the rifle while his comrade stood impassively with his arms crossed nearby.

Lancer’s bullet tore through the young Invictan special forces soldier’s neck, sending a ceramic shard of the helmet sailing off toward the crowd that had gathered to watch. The shot separated the soldier’s head from his neck and sent both body and head spinning away from the spot, blood arcing out. When it was finished gushing, the head was separated from the body by twenty feet of space, and a wide semicircle of blood connected them like a cable. The head came to rest at the feet of a woman in the crowd – she looked up toward Shirahn, her hand covering her mouth. Shirahn gave an apologetic shrug just before the woman vomited and ran away.

“Now that this is over with,” Shirahn said, turning to the other soldier. “Perhaps you can ask your questions. But understand that you will get no information that we do not choose to provide. And there may be a price.”

“You aren’t afraid that I’ll punish your city for killing my comrade?” the soldier asked. He seemed a little amused. “You aren’t worried that I will bring the might of the army down on you?”

“The army that is all in the north, killing peasants and torturing their wayward children? Don’t make me laugh.” Shirahn shook her head. “No. I ask you instead: do you understand why I haven’t killed you yet?”

“Because you would be dead before you gave the order.”

“You’d be just as dead.”

“Perhaps,” the soldier said. “But you care about your life more than I care about mine.”

“Do you understand the true reason, though?”

“You needed to make a point. Surely the Emperor must understand.”

Shirahn nodded vigorously. “After all, what’s just one life next to the might of nations?”

“Then I’ll ask simply. Where is Carla El-Kir?”

“I don’t know,” Shirahn said. “If you want to find out, then why don’t you –“

“I know you’re lying,” the soldier said. “I was well-trained in the art of lie detection. And you are hiding something from me.”

“Why does Carla El-Kir matter?” Shirahn asked, deliberately tripping over the pronunciation of Carla’s first name – unfamiliar to a Crescian tongue, named for someone dead so long ago in the Memory Plague.

“She matters enough that the Empire sent me on this mission with instructions to see El-Kir dead even if it costs my own life.”

Shirahn sighed. “And you are so sure that she is here?”

“I know she is. And by your evasiveness, I know that you are hiding something.” The soldier’s voice grew guarded, dangerous. His hand went for the stock of his rifle.

“Then I suppose you have your answer,” Shirahn said.

She expected the soldier would raise his rifle, to shoot her once in the chest before the sniper’s bullet tore through his neck as well. At least, then, Shirahn would survive the shot. She hoped. The vest itched against her skin. So she tensed up when the rifle’s barrel lifted towards her, expecting the impact – the horrible force pushing her back and knocking her off her feet.

Instead, the soldier raised his rifle toward the sky and fired two shots. At the same moment that he fired, a shot from above tore through his chest and he collapsed to the ground instantly – like all the weight below his knees had disappeared, and he buckled backward, the weapon clattering on top of him, and was still.

Five seconds later, Lance’s body landed on the ground at the foot of the stitch-spire.

After she ordered the street cleared and the bodies all disposed of in the sea, Shirahn rushed back to her house without wasting any more time than the situation demanded. She brushed off questioners who assumed she knew why the Invictans had come – they assumed rightly but she wasn’t ready to tip her hand. She held back a grieving friend who thought that Shirahn hadn’t acted fast enough – held on to the man’s arm while he struggled to land a blow on Shirahn’s face, and waited impassively for his rage to cool a little. When he finally collapsed, sobbing, she knelt down and put a hand on his shoulder, and he did not flinch.

After that, there were no interruptions. No one followed her to the door of her house.

When she got inside, there was already movement behind the curtain. Shirahn’s hand shot to the hilt of her hidden dagger, as the image flashed through her mind in fear of another soldier – or a spy, or an assassin in her house – already attacking Carla and her fellows. A struggle behind the curtain. But when she got close and pulled the curtain aside, there were only the Risir there. Carla startled when she saw the knife, backed toward the wall. Shirahn couldn’t blame her – she’d already made clear that she would rather betray Carla than betray the city. So she lowered her knife.

“I heard gunshots,” Carla said. “What happened?”

“Did you get what you needed?”

“Yes.” Carla nodded and gestured toward the radio apparatus. “We’re done with this. Our contacts in Corod are going to be arranging something. I thought you said that the Invictans weren’t sending anyone here?”

“I thought so too.” Shirahn glanced over her shoulder – the door, blessedly, was still closed. She took a deep breath to stop herself from talking too fast or losing her calm. “They killed two of my people. But they’re dead now as well.”

“Oh, God.” Carla groaned. “They’re going to look for revenge on you, aren’t they?”

“We’re disposing of the bodies,” Shirahn said. “Besides, they attacked us first.”

“No –“ Carla shook her head. “Think about it. They showed up exactly as we contacted Kivv. They must have been monitoring the radio waves, maybe they can’t hear exactly what’s being said but they can tell who is broadcasting and to where. I…” Carla’s breathing was getting shallow and fast, her speech rapid. “I don’t know. It’s been decades, maybe they have new technology that can –“ she shrugged helplessly, looked toward her radio engineer, who shrugged as well.

“It’s possible,” he said. “I don’t know how, exactly, but the technology isn’t outside the realm of what you could logically do.”

“So they had soldiers in the area, waiting – they were probably following us for, I don’t know, months?” Carla threw up her hands. “And then they detected this signal and were ordered into the city.”

“But then…” Shirahn shook her head. “One of them was angered enough by the other one – the one who killed Robin – that he just stood there and let us kill the other one.”

“Cutting the dead weight,” Carla said. She slung her pack over her shoulder, looked around at the rest of the group. Now that Shirahn took a moment to step back and survey the crowd, she saw that everyone was getting ready to run – good. That was one more thing she didn’t need to take care of herself or remind them of.

“Cutting the dead weight?” Shirahn asked aloud.

“Soldiers on missions,” Carla said, kneeling down to check the contents of another pack that she’d stashed under one of Shirahn’s chairs, “often go partnered, a more experienced one with a less experienced one. When the less experienced one messes up badly enough, the veteran is instructed to allow the rookie to die – if they’re judged to have a ‘harmful mindset’.” Carla took the other pack and threw the strap around one shoulder, letting the bag hand down heavy on her hip. “Skills can be trained, stupidity can’t. At least that’s what we’ve observed from the soldiers’ tactics. Every time Risir has a skirmish with these soldiers, as soon as one of them gets too reckless, it’s like the others cut them loose completely. They just allow the rookie to get themselves killed.”

“So, then –“ Shirahn sighed. “You’re saying that the Invictans might have already marked us –“

“You,” Carla said. “They’ve likely marked you for death. Not the whole city, I’m sure. But they probably see this place as a higher priority now. They’ll send spies, scouts, assassins. Someone to get close to you and kill you.”

Shirahn nodded, and drew her other knife. “I’ll watch my back. Where are you going to go?”

“I was going to head south to the Arcologies after this, but I think I’ll need to contact Kivv again. The Arcologies might have answers I need but they don’t make enough contact with the outside world – I’m not sure that they would have radio encryption. There’s always Infranet technology but Kivv doesn’t have anything that advanced to my knowledge, and even the Ordians aren’t going to just hand that over to strangers.” Carla peered through the curtain, at the window on the opposite end of the room. A nervous tic. She placed her hand on her hip, near the holster of her sidearm. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I know how to watch my back,” Shirahn said, flipping the knife in her hand.

“They’ve already killed two of your people,” countered Carla. “And I know that hurts you more than if they’d come after you personally. Besides, you know these are special forces – Invictan soldiers, professional killers. You got lucky today, Shirahn.” Carla reached out suddenly and grabbed Shirahn’s wrist, squeezed tight. Shirahn felt the heavy pressure of a thumb move along the inside of her arm and suddenly her fingers were nerveless, and she dropped her knife to the floor. Her eyes widened and she looked at Carla, trying not to show the fear she felt. She took in a huffed breath, tried to struggle out of Carla’s grip. Carla just held on to her.

Shirahn knew Carla was only doing this to prove a point but the impulse to defend herself still took hold – with the knife in her other hand she stepped in to Carla’s grip and tried to put the point near her attacker’s throat. Not with killing intent – she moved too slowly for that, deliberately slowly, so that Carla could see she didn’t mean harm – but Carla then turned her whole body to the side, pulled Shirahn by the arm and held up her other hand to lock Shirahn’s knife-hand away from her. “Don’t let yourself get confident and forget fear,” Carla hissed, suddenly very close to Shirahn. “You will die if you stay confident, if you stay here.”

“Then… what…”

Carla suddenly let go of Shirahn, and the handwoman stumbled back in surprise, dropping her knife to the floor of her own accord. “Come with me,” Carla said, “and we can protect you. You’ll be on the run but the benefit of that is that the Invictans won’t know where you are.”

“No,” Shirahn said, shaking her head rapidly. “I can’t just abandon Ir-Hashkrim. If what you say is true then the Invictans will come here anyway. And if I’m not here, who else might they try to hurt?”

“You’ll die.” Carla’s teeth were gritted – she hissed between them. “They will kill you.”

“Then…” Shirahn closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. “Then I’ll die. Maybe. We don’t know that, Carla, I’ll be careful, I swear it –“

“Fine.” Carla nodded curtly and made for the door. “Is it safe to leave now?”

“Take the west gate,” Shirahn said. “I’ll… I’ll walk with you.”

“Don’t.” Carla turned back toward Shirahn, her expression unreadable, her voice level. Shirahn felt a horrible coldness from the conversation. “It’s better that you aren’t seen with us just before we leave. Don’t want to attract any more heat to yourself than you need.”

She stopped at the door, with the rest of the Risir gathered around her, and turned back to Shirahn. “And Shirahn?” Carla said. “Thank you. You saved our lives. I hope you manage to save yours too, somehow.”

After they were gone, Shirahn walked through the city, until she came to the storeroom inside the stitch-spire. She could still smell the blood all around, but she ignored it, instead letting her feet carry her to the newly filled lockers.

Inside, armor, weapons, scanning equipment, short-range communications – the best technology that Gaurlante could offer, and some that it couldn’t, all gathered together and given to one person and turned to the purpose of war, turning a human being into a weapon.

And there, also, was Lance’s rifle – the blood, Lance’s blood, still not cleaned off of it.

Shirahn took the armor in a bag back to her house, and sat for a long time in the room behind the curtain, a gore-streaked helmet in her hands, a rifle sitting at her feet, before she finally put it back into the bag, glanced up at the colorful cat-themed metronome clock on her wall, with its tail swinging to and fro and counting the seconds. She stood, and stared at the clock for a long time. Each little barely-audible tick, stuck behind the buzzing left in Shirahn’s ears by the recent memory-echo of gunshots, was another second, counting down the seconds remaining in her life. Her hands felt as though they still held the weight of the rifle, even with the benefit of distance.