20.6.202X - 21.6.202X - Her Revolution

 Her Revolution

 

The shovel split the sandy earth – quiet, metallic noises bouncing off birches and evergreens. Despite stripping out of her usual armor she could still feel sweat pouring down her back, gluing her shirt to her protesting muscles, stinging in her eyes, burning in her scars and scabs, the warmth of a Kentucky summer night suffusing her, like a blanket draped on top of the world. Her mouth felt like it was too dry to even spit with – courtesy of Rufus' old berry wine – and she silently cursed herself for not bringing a water bottle along.

Could have been worse. Sahara, New Mexico, Gobi, Kalahari. Might as well be happy. It's the little things. Still... six feet? Two meters? The ground was sandy, far too sandy, there hadn't been much rain, every single shovelful of sand removed seemed instantly replaced, running in from the sides of the hole every time she as much as shifted position. She had to be making progress, right?

It would have been easier with the two of them. Physically, at least. Psychologically, maybe not. She'd let slip far too much. Carve my fucking tongue out, stop talking for once. Snitches get stitches. Did Mishka know? Had she figured it out? Dunno. Maybe she had. Maybe she was just willfully blind to it, refusing to believe it, truth turning into fiction, up becoming down.

What she wouldn't have given for a peek into Mishka's journal, a little spot of telepathy, something, anything that wasn't the fucking poker face the Russian seemed to wear sometimes. Or, no, maybe that wasn't it, not the full truth. She was just hard to read sometimes, right? Maybe people in general were hard to read. Normal people. But Mishka wasn't... normal. Not exactly.

And she did feel like Mishka might have been opening up a bit again. Maybe she just didn't know how to do it. Not that I know any better. Sorry, sister. Better luck next time. You'll figure it out at some point. Can't really help you there. Can't – or won't? Dunno. What's the difference? Six fucking feet under, two fucking meters down, Christ. Feels like I've been here forever, looks like I've barely started. 

 

Guess the truth was somewhere in the middle. It always was.

 

A frustrated, heavy sigh. Sayori had half a mind to just toss the shovel into the bush and waltz back home. The corpses would start rotting soon, buried or not. Soon there would be little more than skeletons left, bleached bones, silent witnesses. That would take a while. Good thing she wasn't in a hurry. She had all day, all week, all month, all year. All decade, even. All bets were off.

Come one, come all! Whoever guesses how long the bitch will trudge on before finally spraying her frontal lobe all over the bathroom walls gets the prize of a lifetime. How long, indeed. I'll take two months for $500. No, that wasn't the way they did it. She'd remembered the punchline but forgotten the joke, it seemed. Not like there were any ways of checking it anymore.

Maybe this would be the only thing left from how everything used to be. Half-remembered TV programs, an elementary knowledge of mathematics, false memories filling in the gaps. And I thought the world was fucked before. No, no, there wouldn't be any civilizations blooming from these ashes. It was just her and Mish. Her and Mish. Her and Mish. Me and my Mishie, my dear Mishie, my wonderful Mishie that I can't even look in the fucking eye.

Focus, stop thinking, just for once. What the fuck are you on about? Dunno. She had finally recognized something familiar in her mental state, and that was tension. Like a tortured spring, wound up until it breaks and releases all the pent-up fury and day-to-day frustration she'd been sucking in. God, she was tense. Thoughts all over the place, whirring past, Mach fucking 10 down the highway in her brain. At least she hadn't gotten too drunk earlier. Mishka had to be carried.

Maybe she should take a break. Unsure. She wasn't really tired, not as such, although her arms were exhausted and her legs stung and her lower back was so achy she'd probably look like a penguin while walking home. She smiled at the wording and paused for a moment. How would a penguin walk if it had been fucked in the ass?

See, it's not that bad. Are you sure? You can still do that. What, smile? It'll pass. As will everything.

Our presence here is all vain glory, this false world is but transitory.
Our flesh is brittle, the Fiend runs free...

“Timor mortis conturbat me.” The shovel bit again. A whisper, or a hiss.

There wasn't anyone around to raise an eyebrow at her butchered pronunciation. Maybe it was for the better. She shone her flashlight on the corpses – first Smiles, the massive, deep gash on his face showing bone and brain matter, insects scurrying along on ashen skin. Vera wasn't recognizable. Her face was more like bug-infested mincemeat than anything else. Ah well. At least she still had her fingers, despite looking like shredded steak.

She'd expected a pang of guilt, or something. Maybe some tears. Breaking down in the middle of the forest, blubbering half-finished apologies to the “honored dead”. Spewing out a stream of half-digested catfish, wine and bile into the nearest bush. Some kind of uncontrollable emotional reaction at what she'd done. Instead... analytical wasn't the right way of putting it. It was more like she refused to believe what had happened and was unable to process it somehow.

Like she was blocking off everything that would allow her to cope properly. She'd think about it, think about how she'd done it. She'd get as far as “they're dead” before reverting back to square one.

They're dead.  

Yeah, I know.  

You killed them. 

Yeah, I did. 

Moving on.

Did she have a concept of death? Maybe not, she'd always thought she did, but... it felt like she couldn't quite understand it. Like she'd undergone a lifetime of Pavlovian conditioning that made her amygdala fire up in a theatrical, anguished scream at the proper, socially agreed-upon times, but this? What was she supposed to do? “Just bury them” seemed like an appropriate response, although it did feel kind of... pointless. They don't mind anymore.

Apparently the brain released massive amounts of dimethyltryptamine upon death. Well, it did the same when sleeping, but... maybe it released more when dying? She'd gotten curious and looked up the effects of DMT upon finding out, and the main one that stuck with her was time dilation.

What if that was what the 'afterlife', whatever you wanted to call it, was like? Stuck living your final moments for an eternity, having all the time in the world to dissect and appreciate the excruciating pain of your head splitting open with what was left of your rational mind?

Hmm.

 

Strike the earth.

The hole had gotten bigger, hadn't it?

Most likely.

That was the only correct explanation.

It felt bigger.

Dig a hole into Mother Earth so we can rape and abuse her.

It'll be beautiful.

You'll have all the power you ever wanted, and power is what you want, isn't it?

Possibly.

Most likely.

That's what people wanted, wasn't it?

Violence and power,

day in and day out,

until you're the only one left with the means to hurt yourself.

And oh, how you will. Every mistake, every failure, every slight, every horror you've committed. You'll burn yourself alive in a blaze of spite and hatred, and tell yourself it's so you can keep everyone else warm. In reality, you just want the attention. The glory. Who doesn't want to be a beautiful tragedy? You do, God you do, and you'll kill and maim and hurt if that's what you have to do to keep your narrative intact, to keep the spotlight on you, to always be the protagonist. You could just have pointed to yourself when Mishka asked that question.

There's the nausea. Not from the torture, not from the murder, not because you're upset at how much Mishka has to suffer, not because you know the world is fucked and there's no way back. There's a chink in your armor. Better cover it or you'll end up hurting once again. Don't let anyone see, don't let anyone know, kill the bastard that tries to find out what you really are, to see the foul, diseased rot that hides behind your exterior. Wouldn't be the first time for you, would it?

Swallow your crocodile tears. They don't work on me. Chin up, push through, don't get left behind, or you're nothing. Show them what you want to be, show me what I want to be. The more you sweat the less you'll bleed. I don't think he knew that. Maybe he didn't care, why would he? Why wouldn't he? Everyone deserves to know. Nobody wants to know. What a story, what a story indeed. Pick up the fucking shovel, you're not done. You're done when I tell you you're done.

The flesh obeys.

“Lake Placid.” Sayori hummed. “Where was that from?”

“I... have never heard of it.” A pause. “Is it close?”

“I dunno. I think it was in a book, or maybe a game.” She carefully glanced around the darkened forest, as if she'd maybe find another lake, one that had evaded her attention all this time.

“Maybe it's out here as well.” Sayori pointed towards a lonely tree, standing between them and the forest proper. "Behind that birch, or something.”

Mishka snorted and turned to follow, carefully scanning the lonely tree with narrowed eyes and a smile on her lips.

“Well, you never know.”

“You never do.”

A pause in the proceedings. Another log into the fire, a gutted catfish nailed to a plank next to the blaze, the air heavy with the buzz of insects and the perfume-like smell of thousands of flowers in bloom. This was a very nice place. Mishka had jumped on the idea – once again – the moment she carefully floated it. Apparently she'd lived next to a lake in her childhood, she'd grown up there, before the academy and the war and the rest of the sordid business.

Talking felt... difficult. The silence felt fairly amicable, but she still couldn't help shaking the feeling that they were both guarding something, both slowly dancing around the other like two duelists, rapiers poised to strike. As for her, she knew more than well what she was hiding, but Mish...

Oh, what a brief spark of telepathy wouldn't do. Just a bit of privacy invasion and she'd be on her way.

“How many depressed attention whores does it take to change a light bulb?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.” Maybe the idiom wasn't familiar? Even then, it was a stupid question.

“No, really, I did not understand.” Mishka furrowed her brow. “Attention whore?”

“You know, someone that just lives off of attention.” Sayori contemplated spitting into the fire. “Someone that... can't imagine life without everyone fawning over her every move. You know.”

She stretched, unsure of how to continue. That was it, right? It wasn't like she carried a dictionary in her back pocket, and even then she doubted Merriam-Webster would have an entry for that particular word.

“Well, I think maybe we are all 'attention whores' sometimes.”

Mishka spoke slowly, every letter slotting neatly into place. Well, she was definitely right – perhaps too right – although Sayori had a hard time imagining her friend being described as such. It felt like quite the opposite, in fact.

“Yeah, maybe you're right.” She leaned forwards and dusted her hands off into the blaze, unsure of how to continue. “...It was a dumb question, anyway.”

“There are no stupid questions, only stupid answers. That is what they say, right?”

“Hm.” Sayori gave a short chuckle and flashed a crooked smile. “So, what's your answer?”

Mishka sighed quietly, leaning back, letting the question linger in the air for a moment.

“One.”

“Oh, why's that?”

“She wants the credit for herself.”

“And then?”

Mishka shrugged, her tone equal parts agitated and amused, her bangs trailing behind every movement.

“She gets the credit and starts a company that specializes in changing light bulbs. I do not know – do you want a bedtime story or something?”

“Just wondering.”

“You keep saying that – why?”

“Because I am.”

“Jesus, Mary and the Holy Cross, you are impossible sometimes.” She gave a short chuckle. “Fine, I can play your game as well.”

“Game? What's that supposed to mean?”

A sly smile in the twilight.

“It means what it means.”

Silence. The fire crackled and popped, sending tiny sparks skyward. Sayori leaned back, stretching her arms, groaning contentedly while Mishka watched her with a curious expression on her face.

“You are not as innocent as you try to appear.”

The statement was off-hand – casual, even, but still enough to cause a sudden spike in her heartbeat. She watched, heat and anger flushing her cheeks, as Mishka turned her attention back towards the wooden block in her lap, carefully whittling off tiny flakes of birch wood, a nonchalant smile playing on her lips. What the hell was she on about?

“Oh?” She wasn't sure if Mishka noticed the chill in her voice. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean what I mean.” The smile stayed. Don't you fucking dare. Not now.

Sayori stayed silent. She was almost ready to explode, she'd been winding herself up for the entirety of this hellish week, coiled like a snake, ready to strike, but...

Mishka.

Why?

 

Why were the pilots such a big deal now?

They were just government goons. One moment they'd be dropping pamphlets, the next they'd be dropping nerve gas, the next they'd be firing grenades in through their windows, saying “orders are orders” or some equally unfathomable bullshit as if that was a defense, spouting canned lines to wash their hands with.

Besides, she did it for Mishka, right? It was for her. Sayori knew the Russian hated the sound of helicopters, that her dearest friend couldn't stand the noise after being strafed so many times, and when she almost seemed like she was getting better, they took her away again.

It was for the best, wasn't it? Besides, even if the pilot was honest, even if they were actually just dropping pamphlets, even if there was some kind of rift between the Army and the Air Force, there was still no guarantee they wouldn't turn heel one day and come for them with Predator drones and Hellfire missiles.

No, this was a much better way of doing it. She had to. Even if going with the pilots would have meant evacuation and safety, what would have happened to Mishka? Would she have been shot for desertion? Imprisoned? Press-ganged back into service? There wasn't any point in finding out – all the outcomes she could imagine were terrible at best.

Besides, they had to have seen their base. If she hadn't gone out to intercept them, they'd have knocked on the door, rifles in hand, demanding to be let inside, eating their way through their hard-earned supplies, demanding and domineering just because they wore the “right” insignia.

And then, what would have happened after that? Everybody would know where their home was, how low their numbers were, where they slept, what they ate, how much ammunition they had, how much medicine they'd stocked up on...

Sending in a team to purge the compound and “nationalize” THEIR property would have been a logical followup.

No, she had to do it. For Mish. For both of them. For their survival. It was a terrible thing to do, but there were no ivory towers without dead elephants.

“All for a radio?” Mishka shook her head, that fucking smile still plastered on her face. “I never thought you would stoop so low.”

She had to do it. There were no other options. Nothing viable, nothing realistic. There were too many variables in play.

“Not just a radio.” Her voice was cold, calculated, steely, every consonant clicking into place like the cogs of a carefully oiled machine. “There was a lot more at stake.”

She did it for her. She had to. They killed Izzy. They shot Mishka. Why couldn't she see that her revenge was more than justified?

There was no other way.

“A lot more at stake?” Mishka stretched theatrically, slotting her knife back into it's scabbard. “How much did you wager?”

Everything she had. Everything she loved. Wasn't that good enough?

“...A lot. But...” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I had to do it. I had to keep us safe.”

“I understand.” The smile felt more... gracious, now. Mishka seemed almost peaceful, leaning in conspiratorially, the flickering fire casting shadows on her ghostly pale face. “And I suppose I can forgive you.”

She understood. Finally.

It wasn't her fault.

She had to do it.

They could have hurt Mishka.

Sayori couldn't help the relieved grin breaking out on her face, much less the sudden urge to get up and hug Mishka, her Mishka, to pull her into a bone-crushing hug, to show her how wonderful it was to have her back – someone who was there for her, someone who understood, someone who cared.

“You... I...” She wiped her eyes, as furtively as possible. “You... can't believe how h-happy I am to hear that...”

She didn't expect Mishka to burst into laughter.

But there she was, covering her face with one hand, trying her best to stifle her laughter, eyes watering.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Mishka shook her head, still giggling like a schoolgirl. “My dear japonski, I do not know what to do with you sometimes. You would be a good actor. Are you thinking of switching careers, maybe?”

An actor? What did she...

“An... actor?” Maybe she was supposed to laugh as well? But what was the joke?

“Wait, wait, did you think I was serious?” Yes, I... I did. “Come on, Sayori, I don't mind if you borrow my car now and then, especially not if I'm unconscious. Use it whenever you like.”

Mishka's expression gradually softened. They sat there for a while, wrapped in silence, Sayori still trying to wrap her head around the abrupt change in topic, Mishka quietly thinking to herself. What was there to say? She almost wanted to cry. No, Mishka didn't know. She didn't understand. It was all just a joke she wasn't in on.

Like always.

“You have done so much for me.” Mishka broke the silence, her gaze lost in the crackling fire between them, the flames reflected in her mahogany eyes. “It is the least I can do. For the friendship, for the help, for...”

She chuckled and shook her head, briefly looking up towards Sayori.

“Well, everything.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I am not good at the sentimental things.”

Fuck the pilots, fuck them to Hell and back. Why'd they have to crash right there, just then?

“...Yeah, but... you're opening up now, right?” Hollow reassurances, saving face. There's a chink in your armor. “That's a good thing, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

Mishka gave a few brief moments of nervous eye contact, before turning her focus back to her lap. Maybe it was the piece of wood – Sayori couldn't quite muster up the energy to care.

“But it feels – difficult. I am not used to saying these kinds of things.”

Maybe this was what it felt like to die on the inside. Heart slowly sinking, skin turning cold, hopes completely dashed.

Figures.

Why would it be any different now?

The world hadn't changed, not at all.

There were just less people around to ruin her life.

“You... just have to keep at it.” The words felt almost automatic, like an involuntary reaction to specific stimuli. “You'll get there eventually, right?”

Now smile.

She did.

Her false enthusiasm – while surely welcome – wasn't particularly contagious.

A deep inhale.

Maybe I can at least pretend.

She needs this.

 

Mishka absentmindedly poked the fire with her knife, sparks flying with every little stab. “If we get out of here, no, when we get out of here, I would like to travel. See the world. Something that is not just another barracks in another identical city. Something real.”

“...Yeah. Any place you're thinking of?”

“Well, they say Japan is beautiful in the spring.” A conspiratorial wink. Just smile. It's for Mishka. You have to. “Maybe we could go there? I do not know the language, and I would be curious to see what it is like.”

Wait.

There was a certain something to her she couldn't quite place. She was happy, yes, but there was more to it than that.

Hope? 

She hadn't felt that since...

It felt like it had been forever since she left Japan, since Katie got on the evac helo and soared away, since Izzy died, since everybody started disappearing.

Since Mishka went away.

But she was back now.

Maybe she could keep a little hope, as well, blow on the sparks in her foolish heart again?

Maybe they could go to Japan once everything was over.

Maybe Russia as well, or somewhere in Europe?

“I... think I could do with a year off, to be honest.” Sayori cleared her throat, and her mind whirred back to life. Back on track, for just a little longer. “I've... I haven't really... traveled much before. This... was my first time.”

“Well, it seems like you planned a terrible itinerary. Still...” Mishka cocked her head to the side and smiled, and the pilots didn't seem as pressing anymore. “I am very happy you did that.”

“Hm.” The chuckle wasn't as joyless as she'd expected, and there might even have been a hint of a smile present.

“What I mean is...” Mishka glanced towards her backpack, apparently contemplating something. “Well, I am very happy to have met you, despite the circumstances.”

“Likewise.”

Mishka rummaged in her pack with a smile, fishing out a green glass bottle after a moment. “So, a toast to friendship?”

Might as well.

It's for Mishka, after all.

And for me.

 

Maybe it was six feet deep now? She sure as hell didn't want to test it out. It looked deep enough. It was a better burial than the rotters would have given them, that was for sure. She sighed and stuck her shovel into the ground, wiping sweat from her brow.

Maybe she should have abstained completely – would Mishka have been offended? Not like she would have cared anymore, the young woman was dead drunk, lying in the recovery position on her bed. She'd gotten really talkative after the first few glasses. 

 

War stories, mostly – the fearful excitement infecting the entire company when the words Zapadnyy voyennyy okrug, desantno-shturmovaya and razvedyvatel'nyy batalyon appeared on their paperwork, an attempted desertion by a platoon member and the sound of the firing squad at dawn, legs and asses going numb as their Ural trucks roared towards Kaliningrad on bumpy byroads, then Mishka's squad packing themselves into a 'stakan' that looked older than the Federation itself.

Turbulence, a clean insertion somewhere north of Bydgoszcz, the fear and anxiety and endless rain, how beautiful the Vistula was, taking her first shot almost on instinct, the guilt pushed aside by panic as mortar rounds scythed through the air, some splintering trees, others set to airburst, her fingernails splitting as she tried to scratch herself just a little deeper into the soil, the deafening roar of the barrage chewing up the earth itself, then finally a pause.

For Mishka, as well – her story had been quite detailed, full of names and locations Sayori couldn't quite recall, although the excited look in her eyes had at some point grown far more tired, and Sayori couldn't help but notice that she hadn't mentioned any casualties, and so she let the sleeping dog lie and filled up her glass instead.

And now, it was time. The night was all but gone, a faint bluish light illuminating the loam, glinting off a pair of dog-tags. SSGT. Conley Maximilian, a little smiley engraved into the blemished steel, and SRA O'Neill Vera surrounded by the outline of a painstakingly-carved cross, the metal almost polished. She didn't need the flashlight anymore, not at this time, and she'd rather not look too closely either way, and after some wrenching and shoving 'Smiles' tumbled into the hole. Vera was far lighter, yet no less stiff, her face a pulped mass of infested meat and the occasional tooth, and Sayori retched as she let go of the corpse, her brown skin so incredibly pale, the matted remains of her ponytail draped across her partner's face, almost like a sleeping couple-

The catfish came up in mushy chunks, the berry wine coloring her vomit a reddish orange as the girl heaved into the bushes. Now she got it. There it was. Square one was long gone now, her thoughts accelerating more and more with each passing second, and she almost fell over after tentatively straightening her back, forcing out the occasional heave, dripping drool onto the grass and the stinking mess she had spewed forth.

A phrase, repeating in her mind, accelerating and accelerating, until it was closer to a frenzied, hopeless mantra than anything else. A concept she had never fully realized until now, a gravity she had never sensed, a taboo that she had never known before.

They're dead.

oh god i know i know i know but why do i have to feel it its not right i dont want

You killed them.

i did i did it was me i cut off his fingers and shot the girl but i had to do it i had to

Why did you kill them?

i did it for mishie i did it for her they took her away again and now shes back

Was it worth it?

shes safe shes back with me together she is they would have hurt her the scum

What a noble act it was.

shut up shut the fuck up dont mock me dont you fucking dare not after this

I won't.

Enjoy the blaze, savor it, you have to keep everyone warm, after all. Every sacrifice and every horror you commit, all of them in the name of something greater. Because you're never wrong. You're just a defenseless victim, a slave to your circumstances. It's the world that is to blame, not you. It was all for Mishka, even the fingers, even the betrayal, even the lies, all for her own good, because you know better than she does. And you'll kill and maim as much as you have to, all for her. All for Mishka.

Truly, you are your brother's keeper.