Years ago, the city had been known as a wintry retreat, nestled in the continent's mountainous heartland. The peaks erupted skyward into rocky palisades, corralling the lively city. Tourists bustled through the streets and painted the chalet architecture with dancing shadows. No night was ever quiet; the murmurs of happy wanderlust persisting long past dusk. Come wintertime, snow dusted the skyline with a brush of white, frosting the jovial atmosphere. In those days, the city was picturesque, a scene of peace and natural beauty.

Now, the cackle of gunfire was heard above all else. Missile launchers dotted the ridgeline, often illuminating the sky with the fiery tails of rockets. The shingled roofs were blown into piles of rubble by barrages of artillery fire. Little stood resolute; only a few buildings, concrete megaliths crowned with arrays of telecommunications apparatus, whose figures stood out long before the war, towered above the sea of splintered wood and pulverized brick. Nature tried to throw a blanket of white over the carnage wrought, over the blood and oil slicks, but the snow seldom stuck, melted and dispersed by endless fires and tanks forging through. From the cliffs, the city looked dead and gray, a skeleton of a forgotten past.

Skirmishes persisted in the streets. Squads of soldiers hunkered down behind the carcasses of shops and homes, taking shelter from the rain of lead that carved through each alleyway. One group had their backs against the last bricks of what'd once been a street-corner restaurant, only deducible from the scuffed engraving on a sign, dangling from one chain. There were ten of them, all cloaked in identical gray uniforms, though each adorned with mismatched patches and insignia. They were a unit thrown together in the chaos of the assault, a group of stragglers following the first glimpse of authority they'd laid their eyes upon.

The man nearest the corner, their leader, peered down the cobblestone junction, only to jerk back as a bullet flung a rocky shard across his cheek. He shuffled back to the others, stopping in front of a ghastly soldier propped up against the wall. In the cold, the soldier breathed labored wisps that disappeared into the thin mountain air.

"Hey, Raf? Raf?" The leader shook the soldier. His hand was firm, but gentle, pulling the soldier's glazed eyes to his.

"You got nicked, Boss," Raf slurred. He tried to gesture at the leader's face, but his wrist only hovered inches off the ground. The leader still touched his own cheek and felt the wetness that ran red on his glove. He smudged it across his chest, bloodying the embroidered surname Kruger above his chest pocket.

"I'll li - I'll be fine. Smoke?"

"Yeah."

Kruger reached into Raf's chest pocket and retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He pulled the last one from the soggy box and helped the injured man bring it to his lips. Raf could barely pinch the cigarette between his gloved fingers; they went limp as soon as he lodged the stick into the corner of his mouth. In the blizzard, Kruger's shivering hands strained to strike and shield a match until Raf could puff a shaky drag.

"Still with me?" Kruger asked.

"Yeah, I ain't going anywhere." Raf's words were forced, scarcely more than a mumble. Kruger looked him up and down: he was disheveled, hair matted and helmet lost. Raf's pack had been removed, his uniform was damp, grungy from stumbling through slushed craters, and a large blood stain emanated from a hole in the soggy fabric. Kruger eyed the spot before he sighed and gave Raf a pat on the shoulder.

"Good."

Kruger turned to see another soldier sidling up, extending to him the receiver of a satellite phone. He took it and listened, before whistling to call the others to attention. Their heads snapped up and Kruger issued his orders. With only a gesture, he split the group, sending the five soldiers to Raf's right shuffling towards the street corner. Kruger grabbed the soldier nearest Raf and pulled its face close.

"You do not leave his side, got it?" Kruger pointed to Raf, whose eyes now stared far beyond the rubble across the street. As the soldier nodded, a lock of dull blond hair slid from beneath its helmet. Kruger memorized the alphanumeric label inscribed on the soldier's frosted chest patch before tossing the earpiece back to the radio operator and joining the first team.

The weather worsened; the few flurries turned to a dogged and heavy snowfall that formed curtains of slush even before it hit the ground. Kruger glanced back at Raf, his figure rapidly being enveloped by the icy blanket. The other soldiers were statues, not moving even to wipe snow from their weapons. Kruger could barely distinguish the outline of the soldier to whom he'd issued his final command.

With a slight "forward" hand signal from their commander, the squad curled past the corner under the white cloak cascading down around them. Swirling winds drowned out the gunfire.

<<>>

Kruger found Raf's body where he'd left him. An unmistakably human shape buried in six inches of snow, still propped against a crumbled brick wall. Even with the snow brushed aside, the dead man was still pale as the powder that'd entombed him. Eyes and mouth frozen shut, expressionless. The corpsman took him away soon after.

That was the last Kruger ever saw of his friend.

The fighting had relented. Now, the only sounds were sparse, occasional pops of small arms fire far away from the occupied city center. The thunder of artillery and the screams of rockets had since subsided in the night. Amidst the blizzard, battered and worn, the enemy had retreated to the outskirts, some even fleeing into the mountains. Though the dawn brought a welcome silence, it wouldn't last. Maybe a day, maybe two or three, maybe an even week - ultimately, the clash would resume. New orders would come. Nonetheless, all who could welcomed the respite.

Helmet in one hand and a small electronic tablet in the other, Kruger wandered through the bustling action at the old city center. Snow, downed by the wind from the city ruins, frosted his dark brown hair. The storm had not been kind to the wounded, leaving more black bags than bandaged men. Tents and barricades had been erected, along with several watch posts sporting guards armed with heavy machine guns. They stood above the flattened buildings, as if to mock the rubble's decrepitude. Beneath the posts, stood lines of soldiers, held at attention in full combat garb, maintaining an unwavering gaze beyond the horizon. They appeared plasticine, toy-like.

Mimics.

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Though they appeared human enough, their "skin" elastic to the touch, their "blood" red when it ran, Mimics, biomechanical and biocomputational masterpieces grown or fabricated in some method beyond the layman's comprehension, provided the bulk of the military forces. The soldiers who fought this war weren't human at all, save for those who were. Kruger had fought since the Mimics were introduced, eight years prior when the military's numbers had been decimated to a quantity incapable of defense. When the nation's protection was no longer sustainable by human means, it was augmented by the inhuman. Since then, Kruger had fought alongside them, providing a uniquely "human" command for his "men."

Kruger checked his tablet. The manifest indicated that the object of his search was hidden in the lines. He strolled through each row, reading the chest patches of every Mimic until he found the tag he was looking for.

I-L1A.

"I-Model, ID: L1A. Request debrief on previous operation. Operator: Kruger, J. Full user permissions."

The Mimic blinked before its gaze aligned with Kruger's. "Granted."

"Follow me. Need a place to write."

Kruger set off from the formation with the Mimic soldier trailing two steps behind. The Mimic followed with a rigid gait, stiff and graceless, plodding through the slush. "Write, sir?"

"Yeah, a letter," Kruger responded.

"Writing is not one of this unit's duties. Protocol dictates that users do not employ units for tasks they are not approved for." Its words were cold, but soft, like fresh snowfall.

"You're not writing, I am."

"Understood."

The Mimic continued behind Kruger as he ducked into one of the many olive drab tents at the staging ground's core. Inside stood vacant benches and tables, a makeshift mess hall, obtusely built to feed far more mouths than it'd ever have to. Kruger motioned to a bench as he rounded the opposite side of its table. He sat, set down his tablet, and removed a crumpled, paper and a slender ballpoint pen from his jacket. The Mimic also sat, its face still concealed by a black helmet and combat goggles.

"I ordered you not to leave him." Kruger's voice was gravelly and stern, its tone issuing a reprimand before the words of one could be uttered.

"Leave who, sir?"

"Rafferty, the man who got hit in Grid 2B yesterday afternoon."

"A superior ordered this unit be redirected toward more immediate matters, sir."

Kruger massaged his square, stubbled jaw. The days succeeding a hard-fought battle permitted some deviation from the usual sharp presentation. "More immediate matters..." Kruger leaned across the table, placing one hand on top of the blank paper and using the other to prod at his temple. "Did he say anything? Before he went?"

The Mimic waited, as if trying to recall the memory. "He said he was sorry he couldn't keep his promise."

Kruger nodded. "That sounds like him."

"Was this Rafferty important? This unit understands he was not a superior nor a mission specific VIP."

"He was a good friend..." Kruger bit his lip. During his years of combat, he'd seen many things – countless soldiers, human and Mimic, felled, many atrocities committed in the heat of battle, many whom he considered friends obliterated and lost to the flames of war. That was his reality. For nearly all of it, Raf had shared in Kruger's suffering and together they bore the anguish each day brought. Now, tramping through the snowy streets, even with the din of action all around him, Kruger had never felt so alone. "You wouldn't understand that."

Saying nothing, the Mimic stared through Kruger with hidden eyes. For a moment, Kruger wondered if the Mimic could comprehend concepts like friends and companionship, but quickly dismissed the notion. Kruger continued, "In the shit, surrounded by all you hollow bodies, Donny Rafferty was the most human thing I'd see each day."

"The definition of the word 'human' applies to all members of the species Homo sapiens, of which there are several in the immediate vicinity," the Mimic unhesitatingly replied in its dry, unwavering tone. "To refer to this man as 'the most human thing' is hyperbole, sir."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, sir?"

This time, the Mimic slightly cocked its head to side, punctuating its question. The gesture, itself, barely noticeable, wasn't what unnerved Kruger. For the most part, Mimics' showed few signs of emotion or individuality, though it wasn't unheard of for their uniform behavior waver ever so slightly. A small inconsistency. What startled Kruger was the inquisitiveness and audacity of this one, the degree of which he'd never seen before. An anomaly. Such anomalous units were supposed to be detected and reconditioned long before an operator would interface with them.

Kruger rapped his middle and index fingers on his forehead. "You like to talk."

"This unit's purpose is for surveillance and espionage. It is only natural that this unit asks questions appropriate to the situation, sir."

"Only natural, huh?" Kruger's hand stroked his stubble once more. "Take off that helmet. This is no way to have a conversation."

The Mimic unclipped its chinstrap and pushed off its headgear. A mess of muted yellow fell away as the helmet and goggles were set on the table. The Mimic's face was pale and feminine with a sharp chin and green eyes that did not sparkle, but were cold, dark spheres of unpolished jade. Kruger couldn't help but think this Mimic would be considered beautiful if it were mistaken as human.

"All right, let's talk. Do you have a name? And I'm not calling you a bunch of letters – would feel too much like barking orders."

He glanced down at the tag above the Mimic's chest pocket. "Ilia, it's easy enough. You got any problems with that?"

"Even if this unit has objections, by protocol, they are secondary to the operator's commands."

"Fuck protocol, what do you think? Do you have a problem with the name?" Kruger pressed.

Silence settled in the tent. The Mimic moved its mouth, just briefly, before reconsidering. Kruger waited, his chin resting atop steepled hands.

"No. This unit has no problems."

"Good." Kruger bent as far back as he could without falling off the bench. "Ilia, a trolley is barreling down the tracks, out of control. Ahead, three people are tied down on the tracks, unable to move. You are standing next to a lever that can divert the trolley down another route; however, one man is tied down there, as well. What do you do?"

"Divert the trolley." Ilia's response was immediate and as full of confidence as the Mimic's voice could convey.

"Explain."

"Logic dictates that the best solution is the choice that will result in minimal loss of life."

Kruger leaned back to the table, towards Ilia. "You killed a man."

"One is fewer than three."

"True." Kruger nodded, "But you pulled the lever. You diverted the trolley. You interfered and became an active participant in that man's death."

"The outcome is unchanged."

"And what if the trolley doesn't stop and the same dilemma is presented again, one versus three," Kruger pushed on, "Do you still pull the lever?"

"Yes."

"And again?"

"Yes."

"Once more. You've now killed three people. Do you still pull the lever?"

Kruger stood, having slammed his fists on the tabletop. Punctuating the final question, his voice had almost risen to a shout. A lone soldier polishing utensils glanced at them before resuming his work. Kruger took a deep breath, regaining his composure. "Do you still pull the lever?"

Ilia paused, still trying process the question. "This unit doesn't...This unit doesn't..."

"You Mimics have no agency. You're dictated by logic and outcomes, numbers and conditioning. You operate in immediacy and don't understand anything else." Kruger's face softened. He remembered even Raf, the man who so often posited the exact dilemma to any unfortunate rookie who made the mistake of stumbling across his path, the man who was most sincere in his absolute humanity, had neither given nor expressed a straight answer of his own. From one day to the next, the same man who Kruger often found playing with the local kids off base, became a fixture at the head of a charge, barreling through alleyways, his eyes fixed in a predatory glare. Silently, Kruger basked in the incomprehensibility of it all.

"This unit doesn't understand..." Ilia spoke, meek and uncertain. The Mimic's voice quavered as it enunciated each word.

"You don't understand." Kruger chuckled, running a hand through his wires of hair. "That acknowledgment makes you more human than most."