02.04.202X - 03.04.202X - Cold Showers, Faded Flowers

 COLD SHOWERS, FADED FLOWERS

Rain.

Rain.

Incessant fucking rain.

During their long march from Fort Redstone, Cho had had time to think about a lot of things.

Like the rain.

It had started as a weak, but insistent, drizzle, and he hadn’t bothered (or had the time) to put on his rainproof parka. A bit later, the skies had opened up, and by that point, he was too wet and miserable to even bother with the fucking parka anymore.

Rookie mistake.

So many rookie mistakes.

The captain was somewhere – no idea where – and whatever Dima was wearing seemed to be more waterproof than what he had. Not to mention how much better it blended into the brush compared to his OCP. Maybe he’d changed into rain gear when he wasn’t looking, or maybe the ”viper hood” he was wearing provided enough protection.

Don’t know, don’t care. I miss Cali.

That was another thing he’d thought about. Thought about way too much, in fact. Sitting on the porch with a beer, enjoying the sun and the view of the Pacific, glimmering despite the pollution. Home, and everything he’d left behind there.

But most of all, he’d been thinking about what Dima had told him about Europe, about Byelorussia, about the push towards Moscow.

Rookie mistake, again. He’d wanted to distract himself from all the shit going on somehow, and chatting had felt like the best way of doing it – and maybe a way to ensure he wouldn’t get shot in the back when taking a piss.

But what he heard hadn’t been… pleasant.

The retreat from Minsk with the entire city going up in flames, for one. The Russians blamed NATO, NATO blamed the Russians, but that was still however many million people left homeless, their city a smoking husk of what it was, ruined by thermobaric warheads and white phosphorus shells.

And war crimes, so many war crimes – mass graves, drunk soldiers forcing all the women in a village to line up and picking out the young and pretty ones, surrendering soldiers mercilessly gunned down as the fighting grew ever more bitter and dirty the closer it got to the Russian heartland.

It wasn’t like the Russian forces were innocent – far from it – the push into Poland, the Nordics and Ukraine had left quite enough proof of that, but Cho knew.

He knew which side had broken the stalemate and started pushing eastward. The same side he was on.

Had been on?

He didn’t know anymore.

The whole thing just made him feel sick.

”Provisional” governments that weren’t. Constant UN peacekeeper presence. Some of the largest gold mines in the world being mysteriously ”acquired” by DeBeers and their ilk. And, naturally, growing resentment and a rise in reactionary, revanchist rhetoric among grass-roots movements.

No matter how many political leaders and investigative journalists mysteriously... “disappeared”.

It was almost painful to hear, but Dima was so calm when recounting it. Cho would have expected the Russian to lash out at him, to throw a punch – anything – but he didn’t.

And that made him feel even worse.

He could probably lie to Tina. Tell her that daddy had been a hero. That there had been a point to all of this, all the missed birthdays and anniversaries.

But he wouldn’t be able to look at himself in the mirror if he did that. Or Lucy.

Sure, he hadn’t done anything. Just stood at his post, far away from the front lines, just followed orders.

He hadn’t done anything, not directly, but he’d been a part of it, all the same. Another cog in that infernal fucking machine. All of that suffering, and for what? He’d been so critical of the Russian government before, ”blood-stained sleeves”, all that.

So just what did the red in the “red, white and blue” stand for, after all of this?

They were nearing Rosewood now. He recognized the ”HELL IS REAL” sign.

”Fitting.” Cho mumbled to himself, sending an angry glare towards the sign.

As for Dima, he was expecting to see his mouth in that familiar, grim line he was so used to seeing now, considering everything the man had been through – which made the muffled chuckle even more surprising to him.

”This sign is... funny.” Akulov struggled with the words a little, smiling. ”Popular joke, right?”

”Well, Hell is a real place.” Cho grinned. ”In Michigan, to be specific.”

”Is not joke?”

”Negative.”

”Once, I saw similar sign. Right next to sign saying ”xxx – live show – glory hole”, and...” Dima briefly fell silent, sharp teeth glinting in a barely-suppressed grin. ”...I thought Americans have good humor-”

”Just crazies, Adik.” Cho spat. ”Look at this fucking place. Corn and rain and wilderness. No wonder people start cults and pay to keep those signs up.”

”You not from here?”

”I'm from the Bay Area. Fairfield.” God, even the name sounded… good. ”Sunny and nice. My wife really liked the wine.”

”...Oh.” Dima suddenly turned his gaze towards Cho, the hood still obsacuring most of his face. His voice was more careful now, his smile gone. ”Did... something happen?”

”...Yeah.” Cho sighed, smiling all the while. ”Brought some Riesling and stuff every time I rotated away from Ramstein. Now she won't drink anything else, says the local stuff is too sweet.”

Dima relaxed and laughed softly, turning his gaze back towards the forest. ”Lucky djevutshka.”

”Lucky?” Cho felt his heart sink, and the vein on his forehead would likely start throbbing any moment now, his white-knuckle grip on the rifle hidden by the Nomex. ”Dimitri, we have a daughter. Please guess how many birthdays I've missed. How many graduations. How many anniversaries.”

Dima didn't answer, but gave Cho a quick glance instead, tensing up slightly. His free hand had stopped wandering and was now resting on his belt. They continued in silence, the rain drumming a steady tattoo for the two soldiers.

”Too many times?” Dima finally gave a hoarse answer. ”Sorry. I did not know.”

”Even one is too many. And I've missed five in total. Maybe six, if I get stuck in fucking Kentucky.” Cho spat, an errant droplet hitting his boot. Fucking fuck- ”I'm the lucky one. Lucy's put up with this shit for so fucking long, not to mention how Tina deserves a father who's there for her. Some fucking father I am.”

”War is war, bratan.” Dima lit another cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke upwards, raindrops piercing the bluish-gray cloud. ”We just pull triggers-”

”Yeah, and never call the shots.” Cho sighed. ”First to fight, first to die, last to know the reason why. You got an extra smoke?”

Dima nodded wordlessly, holding the pack out to Cho. After a few moments of fumbling, he managed to pull out another weird Russian cigarette, and put it in his mouth. Then, lighter – the puch was soaked, and so was the flint in the lighter. Not even a spark.

”Fuck's sa-”

Dima suddenly grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled his hood back slightly, the lit cherry of his cigarette protruding towards Cho's own. He was an inch or two taller, with hollow cheeks, high cheekbones and piercing, bright blue eyes. After a moment's hesitation, Cho leaned in slightly, trying his best to avoid eye contact. The glow on the rounded tip of Dima's cigarette quickly spread to Cho's, and he took a proper pull, Dima's hand having left his shoulder long ago. And then, he pulled away, Dima's hood came down again and they resumed their march, wisps of bluish smoke blowing in the wind, the characteristic scent of Dima's cigs filling the air.

”You always kiss your battle buddies like that?” Cho snickered.

”Shut up, petukh.” Dima sounded – to Cho's surprise – genuinely annoyed. The break from his usual monotone was short-lived, but long-lasting – his next sentence was a curt monotone. ”Light it yourself then, next time. Galuboi.”

”Hey, hey, I'm sorry, okay?” Cho said, suppressing the urge to reply to the last word – whatever it meant – with a right cross.”Izvinitse. I'll let you have first pick when we find some Kodiak or something, okay Dima?”

”What, Kodiak?” He gave a short chuckle. ”Like camera brand?”

”Chewing tobacco, strongest on the market. Doesn't smell, doesn't glow, just makes you spit a lot.” The cigarettes were a liability. Light discipline would become very much pertinent in some ninety minutes, and the smell was both God-awful and strong – he did not want to attract a pack of infectees just because he hadn't made it to the PX in time. ”Just... get a glass jar or something. For spitting. You spit that juice into anything plastic, you'll end up burning a hole through the bottom.”

”Blin, it can burn through plastic and you want to put it in your mouth?” A near-imperceptible shake of the head, then Dima tensed, smoothly shouldering his rifle and whispering ”Kontakt. Treeline. Just one.”

”Do you have a good shot? Clear visual?” Cho crouched down, scanning his sector.

”Tak, tak. Subsonics loaded, just 80 meter.”

”Alright.” Clear. ”Dunno why you're waiting for me, but... fire at will.”

”Dasvidanya.” Dima gently squeezed the trigger, the illuminated reticle of his UH-1 holographic sight resting on the infectee's head until- clack and the figure fell over with a spray of pink mist, Cho whistling his approval. ”Oh, I was going to say, you Americans are crazy.”

”Listen, I know people, and I especially know soldiers, and I haven't met anyone that would decline a pinch of Kodiak Wintergreen.” Cho looked at Dima's rifle, in part from amazement and in part from renewed curiosity. It was capital-Q Quiet. He'd have to ask more about it when they'd get a chance to relax. Hopefully, at least. ”You'll like it. Trust me.”

”Okay, okay, relax.” Dima squinted at the darkening sky, jaw set with grim determination. ”We'll see then. What we do now?”

”Find ourselves a good bivouac and then rest.” He shivered. ”You're suppressed and subsonic. You take point. We might get to enjoy some CQB soon, and my carbine is a dinner bell compared to your... whatever that thing is.”

Dima glanced down. ”She is beautiful, yes? ”Avtomat Spetsialny VAL”. Valeriya, I call her. What is yours?”

Cho grimaced, embarrassed. ”Emily. Like my first girlfriend…” She had seen barely a fraction of the love Dima had likely given his rifle, and the zero on the EoTech had started wandering, to boot, but still. W823550. Almost a part of his body by now. ”Is Valeriya based on someone? Someone hot?”

”Nu blin, you should have seen her, bratan, she had hair like silk and always smelling of Western perfume, and all the guys in the academy wanted to have her, but…” Dima flashed a sly smile. ”It was summer, smell of flowers and weed, and I sit outside her window with my guitar, start playing this song call ”Malchik Moj”, love song you know, and she sings the duetto with me! Start to end.”

”And then what?” It almost sounded like another world. Young men serenading their first loves on threadbare guitars? He had half an urge to snort in amusement.

”I do not kiss and tell, but she gave me much to remember her by. Her hair was like silk, and her lips were like roses, so red, and when I kissed her on that July afternoon I tasted cherries and kompot and liqueur.” Dima stopped, sighing quietly. ”And so beautiful she was in her red silk scarf, I was in parade dress with a little flower in the top button hole, but she was shining like gold…”

”Big whoop, you got a peck on the cheek.” Cho laughed.

”Okay, since you seem to be a bit of debil, I can explain.” Dima cleared his throat. ”We sit on couch, and kiss more, then she is on me and undo my belt…”

”Okay, okay, enough! I believe you, bro.” Dima’s grin grew – if possible – even wider. ”So she was really all that, huh? Still see her?”

”She died. Mefedron, blyad – she never saw the war… thank God for that...” Jesus Christ… Cho had not expected that.

”Anka always said I was a lover, not a fighter, said I would not survive ten minutes of real war…” Dima cast a veiled glance at his rifle. ”Maybe it is still her looking after me, vot tak…”

”Might… might be.” Mephedrone? The hell was that shit? They stood in silence for a while.

”Wait… how old were you?” Dima was still young, but she hadn’t seen the war? ”Like… back when…”

”Sixteen, no-, wait... fifteen. Yes. When we first…” Mephedrone. Fifteen. Tina. ”I asked her when I got my rank if she wanted to come to the dance, but she want to party.”

The melancholy in Dima’s voice was palpable now.

”Hey, hey… You tried. You tried, Dimitri.” Cho shot a careful glance at Dima’s hooded head. ”Was that when…”

”Yes.” His reply was quiet, almost drowned out by the rain and the rustle of underbrush. ”I wrote a letter and said her grandmother to give it to Vali, but… slishkom pazdno.”

”I’m… sorry.” Cho hesitated, then put his hand on Dima’s shoulder. He felt him flinch, briefly, but he didn’t say anything. ”Poor girl.”

Dima nodded silently. They took cover under an overhanging roof, Cho’s jacket steaming ever-so-slightly.

”I came back after… after Minsk. Talk to her grandmother. Trying.” Dima pulled the hood off his head, a distant look in his eyes. ”Nobody lived there anymore.” He sniffled, likely more from the cold than emotion, but… ”...and that is when… I gave the name. I opened her window like… like before, and… took the scarf.”

He tapped the butt of the rifle. Despite the darkness and dirt, Cho could make out a faint floral pattern on the ripped fabric Dima had wrapped around the stock. His voice was hoarse and hollow.

”It does not smell like her anymore.”

Kate sat up in a lotus position, sucking down oxygen. That had been a really good toe curl. She yawned and stretched, contented, and tentatively relaxed. Her legs had given out, once, and… oh.

There was a wet spot right underneath her. She cursed silently, weighing whether she had the energy to go grab the baking powder and wait for it to dry…

No. Fuck that. Laundry day tomorrow. Or something.

She made to stand, and to her satisfaction, her legs were just aching a little, not particularly unsteady, and as she walked to the door, hand closing around the bolt, she carefully pulled her underwear out of her buttcrack.

Every God-damn time.

She had half a mind to leave it as it was, but if Sayori noticed, then…

Her mind flooded with similar images again – now her fist was clenched around the adorably silly little ponytail she had worn in the kitchen. Sayori’s face was flushed and hot, buried between Katie’s thighs, and the picture was so delicious she almost didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the spell.

Alas, sleep was calling.

Sayori seemed to have a sharp, narrow tongue – how dextrous could it be? How did it taste? She looked like a strawberry kind of girl. Strawberry, Xanax and blood. Gently probing her front teeth, her canines, the wound on the inside of her mouth, Katie giggling into Sayori’s lips, letting her mouth fall open.

Soft, oh God so soft…

Katie sighed. She wouldn’t get anywhere like this. Wasn’t that supposed to… get it out of her system?

Pin down her by her bony wrists, wrestle a tongue kiss from her, then two, lift her shirt and nibble your way down the southbound trail. I want to fuck you like an animal, I want to feel you from the inside…

Kate turned the knob, then started for the bathroom.

Cold water. So much cold water.

She ignored the pang of lust flaring up inside of her.



The water had helped… a negligible amount. As she slid under the duvet, Sayori instinctively pressed against her, whining quietly.

Please no.

So why was she so disappointed that Sayori had stopped making those same noises? All she heard now was her steady, relaxed breathing, a jet of warm air caressing her collarbone.

She was always so cute when she was asleep. Like all the tension and anxiety she carried around while awake was gone. Too cute. Way too fucking cute and the heat from before returned in full. She was halfway to kissing the girl on the mouth when she stopped herself.

No. You have to talk to her about this. Another week and I don’t… I… God, never, never, I said I’d never hurt her, and here I am just three beers from tasting her acidity levels. We can’t do this, we can’t – no, I can’t, not anymore,

I don’t want to fucking want this but I want it so much it’s all I can fucking think about right now

please

please

please

please

please let me taste you

all of you

salty sweat and pill residue and morning dew

collecting overnight in-

Kate’s head hit the headboard with a loud bang. The headache was near-instantaneus and almost splitting. Her teeth had nicked her tongue there’s the blood and another bang and this time she groaned in pain from it all, Sayori in a deep, drugged sleep, totally undisturbed.

No more bicep pillow.

At least not tonight.

Just... a bit of space... for now.

Katie carefully untangled her arm again, turned her back and closed her eyes, tasting blood, focusing on the pain. At least she had… cooled down.

For now.

Avoided cerebral damage, even.

Hopefully.

She had a feeling she wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight.

Poor Sayori. Stuck with you, of all people.

Kate kept her eyes squeezed firmly shut.

---

”On three.” Dima nodded, as Cho held his hand out, visibly counting down.

One.

Two.

Three.

Cho pulled the door open, forcing it in place with his boot, the glass panes on the front door clattering from the sudden violence. Dima had taken his first few, quiet, tentative steps into the darkness, and Cho was right behind him.

Lights on, bayonet fastened – there was no reason to ring the dinner bell this late. For a moment, they both paused, silently breathing in the darkness. There wasn’t anything in particular that smelled… off, not like the med bay back at the fort, but something still kept him on edge. Maybe it was his partner. Dima seemed to be ill at ease. Twitchy.

He swept the room with his Surefire, again. One door to the left, closed. Another one next to it, likely leading to the front porch, also closed. A set of stairs, leading up, blocking visibility. A kitchen to the right of the stairs.

Dima tapped him on the shoulder, almost making him flinch. The Russian wordlessly pointed at the door to the left, and so Cho stood up, hoping the carpet muffled his boots enough to not alert whatever could be in there.

Carefully grip the latch – he’d changed gloves for this, and thank God for that – his hands were clammy and sweaty. Then, open, sweep with the light, and… oh. Cleaning supplies. Clear.

He glanced back at Dima, shaking his head, his slight, ironic smile hidden beneath his tube scarf. His voice came out in a hoarse whisper. ”Up?”

Dima nodded. ”You – light, I shoot.”

Made sense. Dima was already at the foot of the stairs, and Cho gave his shoulder a squeeze. Ready.

And so, they moved in unison, one stair at a time, and he cursed his clunky desert boots with every step – Dima’s footsteps were barely audible in comparison.

Upstairs, eerily quiet, again. Maybe that was for the better. Four doors in total, one on the right, three on the left along a hallway terminating in a window, the bathroom door open.

The moon was almost full.

First, the door to the right – it was a children’s room, that much was clear, probably a girl. He didn’t have much time to contemplate it – Dima had ushered him out as soon as they’d swept the place.

That was definitely for the better.

And so, they crept along the hallway, carefully listening with every step, Cho cursing that he hadn’t put his NODs on before entry, until, again, another door. Cho turned the handle, pulled and saw a dark shape fall onto the floor in front of him-

clack

clack

ting

Shell casings on the floor, a mess of gore on the carpet, the corpse was completely stiff now. Dima was already inside, and Cho carefully stepped over the body, quickly sweeping the room with his taclight, his heart pounding. Had it just leaned against the door, waiting for them? Had it heard them coming in?

Or was it all just a coincidence? The stench of copper and rot was more noticeable here, far more noticeable, and it was the only proper bedroom so far, to boot.

The part of him that wasn’t overcome by shock and mounting paranoia was silently envious of Dima’s reflexes. Makes sense. Cho could count the amount of times he’d fired his weapon in anger on one hand, Dima likely couldn’t even remember how many times he had done so anymore.

”Hey. Wake up.” He gave a shaky nod, and followed the Russian out of the bedroom. Last door. Twist, pull, shoulder rifle. Clear again. A smaller bedroom, a single bed in the corner, scattered articles of clothing on the floor and bedspread. Posters. Male? Cho smelled the air. Definitely.

”Place smells like sweat and jerking off.” Cho punctuated his sentence with an universal hand gesture. ”We clear?”

”Not yet. Lock the door, pull down curtains, turn off lights.” He glanced at the stairway and narrowed his eyes. ”I set a tripwire. Just some bells. Be careful when you come up.”

And so he did, carefully stalking down the stairs until his feet were sturdily planted on dirty, 2010’s-white carpet. At least it muffled his footfalls. As he came to the front door, he hazarded a quick peek outside, but there was nothing notable to speak of. Two deck chairs on the porch.

Just silence and emptiness and row after row of near-identical starter homes, the street lit a sickly yellow. The moon hung low in the sky.

Then, lock the door, draw the curtains, secure them in place with duct tape. Easy.

Keep yourself occupied. Don’t think too much.

They’d found a pretty good spot, all things considered. New developments, it seemed like. Their access route had been covered quite nicely by thickets and bushes, and that would likely be their route of egress if things went south.

If.

Setting up an OP in one of the bedrooms would likely be the best way of going about things next, but Cho’s feet ached, he was hungry and wet, and he really didn’t feel like doing extra work now.

He sat down on the couch, unlaced his boots, tied the laces together, and hung them around his neck, on top of his rifle sling. A careful peek upstairs showed that Dima had worked quickly – he had to tread carefully to avoid the spider’s web of paracord and little round metal bells. He wondered if those things would be nearly loud enough to serve as any kind of early-warning device, but… well, maybe not for him, but Dima? Possibly.

The corpse was gone from the hallway, the window to the master bedroom was open. Didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. The air was cool and crisp, fresh even. Dima had stripped down, as well, carefully taping his feet and toes back together. Before Cho could say anything, he nodded towards the nightstand behind him.

”Checked his pockets. Do you recognize anything?” Cho set his boots down by the door, along with his rifle, and moved to rifle through the meager set of belongings left on the black wooden surface. ”Also, your feet okay? Need help?”

”Maybe.” Cho grunted. Wallet, keychain, phone, pocket knife… the usual, pretty much. What you’d expect from someone in Kentucky. Or anywhere, for that matter. ”Hey, by the way…”

”Mm.” Dima was still taping his feet, hunched over on the bed.

”Thanks for pulling me out of that room back then.” He sighed. ”You know, the-”

”I know, I know.” He stayed silent for a moment, then hissed as he poked at a blister on his foot. ”You help me, I help you. Keep focus, Cho. Mission is not over yet.”

”Amen…” He muttered, then set the wallet down. The lock screen on the phone had been of a smiling couple, but there wasn’t time to think about that now. Just file it away, let it be, bottle it up if you have to. Mission is not over yet. ”I’ll check the jerk-off room. Anything you need?”

”Socks are crusty enough already.” Dima wrinkled his nose, but managed a smile. ”No thanks.”

Maybe it was some kind of half-remembered parental discussion, maybe it was instinct, but Cho had a feeling – a very good feeling – about the room. Not the smell of sweat, or the crusty sheets, or the stash of porn mags he’d likely find under the bed – porn mags? Do kids these days even know what those are? - but maybe something in the nightstand, or the dresser, or somewhere.

The catcher’s mitt he spied in the corner only reinforced his suspicions. Sure, Zyns or whatever and vapes and whatnot had become much more popular among youth, as far as he knew, probably thanks to a series of anti-cancer campaigns, but…

This was rural, bum-fuck Kentucky. Not some upscale college campus. And so, as his (gloved, thank God) hands rummaged blindly through the nightstand, and he felt a pair of familiar shapes in there, heard them clattering around, his smile almost reached his earlobes.

Pulling the first one out, his heart sank a little – but only a little – at the sight of a half-empty can of Skoal Peach. The next can proved to be more to his taste, however – Copenhagen, Original, Long Cut. It was even unopened.

He cracked open the window, then walked out, a bit of pep in his – admittedly limping – step.

”Dima?” He limped in through the door.

”Yes?” The Russian seemed to be on the verge of dozing off – not that Cho could blame him.

”You remember what I promised you earlier today?” A shake of the head was all he got in response, and so he held out the cans towards him. Both were still fresh. ”Here. As American as apple pie. Take some.”

”Huh.” Dima, clearly intrigued, cracked upen the can of Skoal, carefully smelling it, observing the long, almost-black strands of tobacco with a mixture of curiosity and distaste. ”You first. Smells like poison.”

”Don’t mind if I do, then.” Cho took off his gloves, then grabbed a hefty pinch of tobacco from the can, pulling out his lower lip with his free hand and placing the morsel against his lower gums. Then, he closed the lid, Wiped his mouth, and tucked any errant strands away with his tongue. ”Good stuff. And doesn’t break light discipline.”

”You look like an idiot.” Dima smiled. ”Fine. Like this?”

“Yeah.” Cho smiled in response, removing his helmet and pulling his tube scarf off. “It’s like riding a bike. Except I puked the first time I tried it.”

“Hah.”

---

Kate had given up on keeping her eyes shut. She laid on her back, her gaze occasionally flitting over and across Sayori’s sleeping form. She was calmer now, much calmer. The guilt had hit home properly now.

She’d never had an easy time sleeping when the full moon approached – a trait she’d apparently inherited from her father. Usually she’d at least felt some kind of unexplainable pride over it all, despite the sleepless nights and empty days, but now…

Guilt. So much guilt.

She idly played with Sayori’s hair, almost ignoring the contented mumbles coming from her, almost treating her as some kind of fidget toy instead of-

SHE. IS. NOT. YOUR. TOY.

Kate groaned, tossed and turned, and soon found herself on her left side, face to face with Sayori, admiring her cheekbones, her collarbone, her bony shoulders…

Admiring, but not enjoying. She felt disgusted at herself. Disgusted and tired. And she’d likely feel that way until three AM, at the earliest, when sleep would finally, maybe, take her.

She closed her eyes, running her fingers through strawberry-blonde hair, and tried her best not to think.

It was just the same old chihuahua barking, anyway.

Corporal Richard Cho had just changed into a fresh tee-shirt and slipped his (now half-dry) combat pants back on, having just enjoyed the luxury of a hot shower and a careful shave. Dima was just about done with his right foot, and Cho was already massaging the life back into his taped-up left foot, silently working away the aches and pains that a full-day forced march entailed. He felt light as a feather, like every single time he’d taken off his plate carrier, and the flameless ration heater was busy at work in his MRE pouch, sputtering away, filling the air with the scent of Menu no. 10, A.K.A. chili and macaroni.

“Done.” Dima mumbled, drowsy and high on nicotine – the chew had clearly hit harder than expected, but the Russian didn’t seem the type to swallow his pride. “Smells good.”

“It’s not too bad. Just…” Cho dug through the accessory pouch with distaste. “Fucking peanut butter. Every single time. Had these for years and I can’t even remember the last time I had jalapeno-cheese spread.”

“Very tragic.” Dima mumbled, and Cho suddenly felt slightly embarrassed at his – outburst wasn’t quite the right word, but… “I think I have buckwheat porridge. Again.”

“Buckwheat porridge?” Dima fished out a green, camouflage-printed package from his pack, tearing it open with familiar movements, before producing a large-ish can of something, marked with cyrillic text. “Oh.”

“Is not bad. Has beef or pork too.” He sighed, looking at the can with mild distaste. “Just… very same-same, is that how you say it? And if I light the stove here, the house will burn.”

Right. An Esbit stove.

“Cold buckwheat porridge is not bad, just very… argh.”

“Why not use the stove downstairs?” Cho nodded towards the door. “Should be quick.”

“Too tired.” Dima mumbled, cracking open the can, before sniffing it, a resigned look on his face. “Just… need fuel. Hungry.”

He seemed to hesitate, spork at the ready, and Cho didn’t know if it was the hot shower or something else, but he carefully got off the bed, picked up the piping-hot MRE pouch, and held it out to Dima.

“Wanna trade? Never tried that stuff before, so…” Dima appraised the steaming pouch for a moment, then looked him in the eyes, as if to make sure he wasn’t joking. “Come on. I don’t mind. You look like you need a change.”

The Russian slowly nodded, carefully handing the can to Cho, before unfolding the pouch, greedily inhaling the – clearly unfamiliar – aroma. “Watch out, it’s hot. There’s some hot sauce on the night stand, if you want it. Just cut the top off and eat.”

Dima nodded, confused, perhaps even on the verge of saying “thank you”, but Cho had already reached the door. “I’ll go heat this up downstairs. Go take a shower afterwards – trust me, it really helps. Okay?”

The only reply he received was the sound of greedy chewing, and so he chuckled quietly to himself, crept downstairs, and set the opened can onto the stove, turning the heat as high as he could. It must have been a newer model – heating the ration up took barely ten minutes, and with that, Cho sat down on the couch in the darkened living room, the can resting on the coffee table as he took a tentative bite.

It was… surprisingly good. Not the best, but… he’d eaten worse. Like an old, legacy “Vomelet” – a vegetarian omelette, universally agreed to be the worst possible item on the older menu. It tasted foreign, yes, but foreign wasn’t bad, not necessarily. Well spiced – not spicy, but spiced, probably containing herbs and the like he’d never even thought about eating. Filling, too, and even the meat tasted good, despite (or maybe because of) the occasional bits of gristle he’d find himself chewing through.

When he returned upstairs, he found Dima curled up in his sleeping bag in a corner of the room, snoring quietly. He shook his head with an absent-minded smile, and sat down on the bed, fishing out a pair of binoculars from a pouch on his plate carrier.

He’d wake Dima up in a couple hours, or so. Right now, it was time to observe, to take notes. Lights dimmed, a chemlight illuminating his waterproof notebook, he stared out of the window, occasionally making the rounds downstairs to make sure they were still undetected.

It was eerily quiet, but he caught glimpses of shambling figures, now and then, occasionally squinting through his night vision monocular when the binoculars and street lights weren’t quite cutting it.

Occasionally he’d stare northwest through his binoculars, through the large window at the end of the second floor hallway, towards the entrance to the town.

Not for very long, though – the squat, square silhouettes of military vehicles and uniform-clad piles of bodies brought to mind far too much – thoughts he knew he had to suppress, for now.

He didn’t use his monocular. It was better not to see too much.

At 03:15, Dima took over wordlessly, and Cho drifted off to a contented sleep, dreaming of beaches and sun and cold beers on hot summer nights and Lucy drunkenly wrapping her legs around his waist, giggling all the while.

They’d continue in the same manner, in three-hour increments.

Until sunrise, and beyond.