"We're back, Boss."

Raf stared out over the mountain crest. From their perch upon the steep ridge, Kruger and Raf peered down in the dusk, at the remains of the city below. It had been pulverized, smashed, blown into chips of wood and brick. The rubble that had been crushed beneath the treads of tank battalions and swept into the air as dust by whirling rotors of attack helicopters, now lay in dark, oblong heaps. Kruger saw the outline of the massive communications tower standing firm above the detritus. Its dish was strewn with holes and appeared off-kilt; the structure itself had chunks of its walls hacked away by a blunt cleaver wielded by a tremorous hand. Despite its state, the battered dish still showed signs of functionality. Not a single snowflake stuck to it; the warmth of the transmitter's pulsing radiowaves defrosted the bulk of the structure. Only near the bottom, did icicles accumulate as the melt ran down the gray walls to the chilly streets. Through their thermal optics, neither man could see a single enemy; the streets were quiet without even the glow of a dying fire eking out over the distance.

Kruger spoke, "Took longer than I would've liked." His gaze at the skeleton city didn't waver.

Three times had the small alpine city changed hands in the seesaw of the war. If all went according to plan in the ensuing assault, it'd change again, for a fourth. Kruger hoped this time would be absolute. But for now, all he could do was wait. The enemy force lay hidden, prepared to mount a furious insurrection against the army that had gathered on the cliffs above. As their commanders schemed, Kruger, Raf, and the legions of Mimics stood by, gazing out at the exposed bones of valley city.

"It's really gone to hell down there," Kruger continued.

"No kidding."

For all he had forgotten, for all that he had lost to the haze, there was one memory that wouldn't fade. The day had long since passed, but Kruger could recall it to perfection. Its nuclear shadow lay before him. Stripped bare and charred black. The once idle serenity of the frosted chalet roofs, the once unnatural regality of the centerpiece skyscraper, even in its current state, Kruger had little difficulty coloring what once was. Eight years was not long enough.

Kruger remembered the people. The men and women who glared icy daggers at them as their convoy barreled through the streets. Even now, Kruger had to remind himself that he didn't just leave them; they were running, too.

On that day, from the same perch, the two had watched as a transport helicopter took off from the sprawl of buildings. Its dark figure rose up, thundered overhead, and crested the mountaintop, the thumping of its rotor blades and the stench of combustion lingered in the air long after the craft was out of sight.

In the distance, a burnt orange, heartbeat-like glow emanated a corona atop the mountain range. The haze of smoke and exhaust of an advancing enemy clouded the twilight sky. The calm of dusk stood in stark contrast to the action of the day. It had been a day of motion, in trucks, in helicopters, on foot, all in an attempt to outpace the surging intruders. They had managed to do so, it seemed, but not without sacrifice.

Out beyond the horizon, three battalions fought to stymie the surging enemy force. Victory had been but a fantasy for them. In truth, all they hoped to accomplish was a delay, to slow the advance just enough for support to mobilize from the interior. They struggled, beaten back through border towns and across the countryside under a maelstrom of artillery shells and half-ton bombs. With their backs to the mountains that guarded the heartland of their country, they pushed against the screaming rush of carnage. Three thousand soldiers traded their lives for time. Kruger and Raf could've been among them, but instead, they had the misfortune of being ordered to cheat death and retreat. While their comrades fought, they ran, closing the gap between the encroaching front and the safety of reinforcements. Soon they found themselves summiting the mountains that had once been so far in the distance. Though they had come so far and were mere miles from their objective, the journey had left a bitter taste in the mouths of all who had made it.

One last image, imprinted as Kruger's unit lifted off from the cliffs: in the distance, the pulsing incandescence flared, casting the megalith tower as a soft sundial shadow on the mountainface.

Tonight was different. The last slivers of dusk turned to darkness. The flames of war didn't blaze in the distance. The cloudless night permitted a calm silence and, in the absence of artificial light, the stars shone bright above.

"We don't have any right to be seeing this, Boss."

Kruger let his binoculars hang around his neck. He looked skyward. "No. No we don't."

Raf rummaged through his jacket, withdrawing a crisp pack of cigarettes. "How close are we - you think - to the end of this shit?"

"Can't tell. Never can tell.

"Okay. Say we wade through this fight without taking a bullet; they tell us we're done, we can go home next week. Then what?" Raf popped out a cigarette and brought it to his lips.

"We go home."

"You okay with that?" Raf's words were muffled as he lifted a match to his face behind a cupped hand.

"Is that even a question, Raf?"

"Yeah, it's a question." The soldier puffed a cloud of smoke indistinguishable in the night. "Let me ask you this: how long have you been fighting?"

"You know the answer to that, too."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"Eight years. You and me." Raf stood with his back to the dead city. The soft burning tip of his cigarette broke the darkness. "All those years following orders, leading these things into battle. Do we even know anything else? After all this time? Eight years and we haven't even taken a single step from where we started."

Kruger didn't say a word.

"Are we any better than them?"

Raf took another drag before he continued. "Sometimes I wonder what you'd do if I died. If you'd even give a shit."

"Of course I'd give a shit."

"Yeah, forget it. I'm a bastard for even thinking that."

An alarm blared from the center of the encampment. Kruger turned toward the sound. Dark figures shuffled in sudden commotion.

"I guess it's time, Boss."

"Yeah."

Raf moved to retrieve his weapon. Their rifles stood against a nearby rock. They slung them over their shoulders and joined the clamor.

<<>>

A push was made into the final bastion, the last dissenting concrete monolith, the highest of them all. As mortar fire rained down in the darkness, decisive battles were held on each floor of the structure. The Mimic force surged forward while the resistance buckled in retreat, climbing higher and higher, growing thinner and thinner. From the ground to the roof, the tower squealed with the last gasps of a cornered and nearly extinguished foe. Still, combat raged throughout the night, the darkness disturbed by the occasional fiery plume flaring through a shattered window. It would all end tonight.

Kruger fought his way skyward, spearheading a squad of six through the dimly lit building. His actions were quick, mechanical, determined. He knew any mistake in the close confines of the building's corridors could be fatal. His Mimics followed close, Ilia supplanting his shadow. Near the top, the cackling laughter of gunfire dwindled, the defiant enemy on its last legs. Nevertheless, Kruger was cautious; the first assault had been brash. Little care had been taken by the ascending vanguard to confirm the security of each floor. The six patrolled the halls, weapon-mounted flashlights trained ahead.

One pop.

Then, two, three, more and more until the entire space became engulfed in a thunderous roar. Splinters flew, the walls disintegrating, as fiberboard ceiling panels dropped and fractured, shredded in the metal tempest. Kruger ducked for cover, spinning around a corner and slamming himself into a wall. He angled his weapon back down the hall, blindly firing in the direction of the shots. Three of his Mimics followed suit, neglecting to identify a target before they pulled the triggers on their weapons. Only at the muted click of his dry firearm did Kruger glimpse the glimmering sparks and shattered glass and slivers of wood. A lightbulb above him exploded, the blast drowned in the percussive sea. He felt the shards raining down, some bouncing off his helmet and down his back. The hall was now solely illuminated by their lights and muzzle-flashes.

Chaos swallowed them. A Mimic stepped into the hallway cross, blasting a quick burst from its rifle before being hit. It tumbled backward onto the floor, absorbing another shot as it fell. Trapped in the hailstorm of lead, the wounded Mimic struggled drag itself across the ragged carpet, only to be hit again and thrown onto its back. No fewer than ten shots pierced its body before it lay still.

In the discordant bright and dim, a single thought permeated Kruger's mind. Ilia. Where's Ilia? He strained in the dark, searching for her figure. The hot, sulfurous haze of gunpowder singed his nostrils and clouded his vision. Kruger stepped away from the corner and found her, just across the hall at the junction. Ilia's hand was outstretched; frozen, reaching out to the Mimic whose body had now become but an obstruction in the hallway. As the flashes pulsed, she slid her goggles up, eyes ablaze underneath, fixated on the fallen Mimic's riddled corpse.

She melted. Ilia's arm fell, then her legs gave out. She dropped to her knees, her torso only propped up by the wall at her side. Amidst the chaos, Ilia curled herself away from the firing line and pressed against the wall. Clamping her weapon tight between her legs, she guarded herself. Kruger drew closer, placing his hand on the jagged corner of the intersection.

"Ilia."

Shaking, Ilia ripped off her helmet and threw it aside. The headgear skittered across the debris covered floor and vanished into the dark. Kruger stepped forward, into the hallway.

"Ilia."

She thrust her back into the wall and began rocking back and forth, the rifle still clenched in both hands. Ilia cried out, eyes sealed shut, but her screams were lost in the fury.

"Ilia!"

She turned to him, green orbs flashing alight, wide, glossy and clear. Ilia stared at Kruger, her mouth agape and her face pale, the color of snow. A mass of dull blonde hair slid in front of it.

As if time stood still, that fleeting moment deadened the chaos. A calm washed over Kruger. Those eyes, even with the world disintegrating, even with the frenzied panic they betrayed, were alive. They danced and sparkled like no others Kruger had seen before. There were so very human.

A sharp pain in his chest.

A sudden twinge in his leg.

Kruger crumpled, hitting the floor concurrent with a deafening detonation down the hallway. Silence settled in, muddled by boots crunching the remnants of the walls and ceiling. No more gunshots, no more explosions. It was over.

"No!" Ilia scrambled into the intersection. She reached Kruger, on his side as he hacked up a glob of bloody mucous.

"Ilia." Kruger moved a lock of hair dangling in front of her shimmering eyes. "Do you understand now?"

"Get up." She labored to speak those two words, refusing to answer the question. "You made a promise."

Kruger propped himself up on his wrist. "Help me," he grunted. Ilia grabbed ahold, pulling him up by his armpits. Kruger braced himself against her, one arm over her shoulder. "I want to go outside."

The surviving Mimics stood at attention, waiting for a command that would go unsaid. They lined the hallway as Ilia led Kruger, shuffling through the splinters and fragments and shattered glass.

"Up. To the roof."

"Please do not leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere."

They climbed the stairs, bursting out onto the tower's flat roof. The silhouettes of bomber jets passed low overhead; their whining engines pierced the silence with a droning requiem before they vanished behind the mountain range. As imposing as the tower stood, it was dwarfed by the magnificent surrounding cliffs. In the early morning, not yet dawn, the crag was but another shadow on the horizon.

"Here, put me down here."

Ilia lowered Kruger to the ground, supporting him against a ventilation duct. She scanned his body; half the soldier's gray fatigues had grown red and wet. His eyes gazed far, beyond the cliffs, dark irises unmoving.

"I'm sorry." Kruger coughed. A trickle of blood stained the corners of his lips. "I won't be able to make good on my promise."

Ilia stood noiseless, placid, her back to the dark sky.

"Did Raf say anything else before he...died?"

Without question, without hesitation, she replied, "He said he felt cold, so cold he couldn't move. Like he was turning into a doll."

Kruger looked skyward. "I'd have to agree."

A rumble echoed in the distance, and the wind gusted.

"Hey, Ilia. Think I've got a chance?"

"Based on - " Ilia stopped. She opened her mouth to speak again, but stopped herself before saying another word. Her eyes darted across the ground, then to Kruger.

"Yes," she said, her voice strong and clear.

The dying soldier smiled. "Huh. Isn't that the most beautiful view...?"

Ilia turned toward the mountains.

Kruger watched, his last image her hair, golden and fluttering graceful, bathed in the halcyon glow of the thermonuclear sunrise.