Chapter 18
War Calculations
[DATA: 30. CYCLE 11. YEAR 40 INDUSTRIAL]
[LOCATION: SECOND DEFENSIVE WALL — FRENCA]
[TIME: 10:15 LOCAL]
[STATUS: RED ALERT — PERIMETER BREACH]
The firmament over Frenca remained deceptively pristine, a crystalline expanse where stray ivory clouds cast languid shadows over soldiers performing their routine duties, oblivious to the encroaching tide. In Byg, the atmosphere was hemorrhaging under the weight of war-cries, but here, at the Second Wall, a hollow tranquility reigned.
?Colonel De Gori emerged from the command sanctum, squinting against the glare as he scrutinized logistical ledgers with a weary yawn. His stare anchored upon a soldier stationed in the mire of the front below. With a sharp gesture, he summoned the subordinate. The soldier ascended the metallic staircase, the structure groaning and resonating under the kinetic impact of his boots.
?“Report, soldier. Any intelligence from the courier I dispatched to the First Wall? Two days have expired,” De Gori queried, his optics never leaving the parchment. “Has the vintage of that sector seduced him into dereliction of duty?”
?“Zero intelligence, Colonel. Furthermore, the communication array remains fractured,” the soldier replied, stiffening.
?De Gori lowered the reports, interlocking his hands behind his back as he stretched. He pivoted toward the communications hub with a flare of irritation.
?“What in the abyss is paralyzing that line?” he murmured, before addressing the soldier again. “Regardless, notify me the instant a frequency is established. Tell the men to remain composed; today promises to be a protracted, monotonous cycle.”
?As the soldier turned to egress, the earth beneath them shivered. A minute vibration at first, which rapidly mutated into a heavy, rhythmic percussion. De Gori froze.
?“Define that resonance,” he commanded, pinning the soldier with his stare.
?Before an articulation could form, a gargantuan detonation at the horizon shattered the stillness. A column of obsidian smoke surged toward the heavens—a shroud of expiration devouring the skyline, advancing with predatory velocity.
?“Optics! Give me the optics!” De Gori bellowed. His ledgers slipped from his grasp, fluttering like wounded birds into the damp earth.
?The soldier tossed the device. De Gori lunged toward the parapet, calibrating the lenses toward the smoke. In that heartbeat, he turned to stone. His knuckles whitened as he constricted the frame of the binoculars.
?“Colonel!” the soldier shouted, gripping his arm to break the paralysis. “What do you observe? What are your mandates?”
?“It is... impossible. We are extinguished,” De Gori whispered. His voice, once a pillar of authority, was now a fragile, vibrating wreck.
?In the distance, the black silhouettes of Nax-Geot’s heavy artillery—the PaH 2000 units—were aligned with geometric precision. They were calibrating for the terminal solution.
[SUBJECT: PaH 2000 — 3 ROUNDS IN 9 SECONDS — FIRE READY]
[OBJECTIVE: SECOND DEFENSIVE WALL]
“Deploy the artillery! Mobilize the defensive division!” De Gori erupted, his desperation finally finding a frequency. “Signal Command in Pisa immediately! Demand emergency reinforcements!”
?Another soldier breached the chaos, saturated in dust and perspiration.
?“Colonel... communication with Pisa is terminated! Every line has been neutralized. The transmitters are offline!”
?De Gori recoiled as if struck by a kinetic projectile. His stare remained anchored to a map that was now functionally extinct.
?“We are abandoned to the volatility of fate,” he murmured.
?“Colonel,” a voice trembled as a junior officer approached with a stack of status audits. “The readiness reports... they indicate a catastrophe.”
?De Gori pivoted with a fusion of rage and latent dread. “Define ‘catastrophe’.”
?“The resupply was scheduled a week ago; it never manifested,” the officer stated, averting his gaze. “Ammunition reserves have hemorrhaged by 45%. Rockets and grenades by 65%. Most critically... we possess zero fuel for a sustained engagement.”
?A suffocating aura of despair colonized the space around De Gori. “Quantify the reserve,” he stated, his voice dangerously low.
?“Approximately 3 tons, sir,” the soldier replied, head bowed.
?De Gori’s fists constricted in a surge of irritation. “Insanity! How can a defensive perimeter operate on a measly 3 tons of diesel?” He turned his stare toward the horizon once more. “Damn it, we can’t even reach the nearby depot. To retrieve it ourselves would leave the wall vacant. What in the abyss is happening here?!”
[LOCATION: OBSERVATION NODE “THE SPEAR” — FRENCA FRONTIER]
?[TIME: 10:20 LOCAL]
Beyond the horizon, the plumes of soot and the incandescent embers of the Primary Wall remained the solitary witnesses to what was once an invulnerable fortification. Halter stood atop an eminence, scrutinizing his host as it lacerated the terrain forward like a metallic leviathan. His boots were encased in visceral mire, yet he remained oblivious. Beside him, Blais materialized, his visage illuminated by a tactical exhilaration.
?“Chancellor, the data from the internal informant was 100% surgical,” Blais reported, gesturing toward the front. “Every clandestine artery, every munition cache was situated precisely where we were predicated.”
?“That is resonance to my ears, Blais,” Halter stated with a sub-zero smile that merely grazed the corner of his lips. “The epoch has arrived for our own incursion. I anticipate sampling their caffeine and observing the cadets of Finca; they are rumored to be the apex of the world.”
?Blais could not suppress his smirk as he trailed the Chancellor toward the armored chassis waiting with ignited engines, prepared to grind the ash of Frenca beneath their treads.
[DATA: 30. CYCLE 11]
?[LOCATION: BYG EMINENCES — OVERLOOKING BURS]
?[TIME: 11:30 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: ABORTION OF OPERATION “RAPID FIRE” — ETHICAL PARALYSIS]
Oblivious to the tectonic shift occurring behind their vanguard in Frenca, the Allied host had hemorrhaged onto the ridges surrounding the city of Burs. The protracted transit through the visceral mire and fractured terrain had depleted their frames, yet the fatigue was suppressed by the adrenaline of the terminal assault. At the apex, General Ademi scrutinized the void below; his Grade B insignia ignited beneath the solar rays like a promise of hollow victory.
?Adjacent to him, the echelons anchored their optics upon the city, which appeared dormant. The elongated bores of the M.H 142 heavy artillery were elevated toward the firmament, prepared to vomit incineration upon Nax-Geot’s First Division. Ademi calibrated his leather gloves with a smirk of absolute self-assurance.
[SUBJECT: M.H 142 ARTILLERY — TARGETING RADIUS > 100 KM]
[OBJECTIVE: NAX-GEOT 1ST DIVISION “BARRICADE” — DISTANCE 78 KM]
“Calibrate the M.H 142 arrays. We shall strike beyond the urban perimeter, where their military core is entrenched,” Ademi mandated, his hands anchored behind his lumbar.
?“The trajectory of the M.H 142 reaches a threshold of 100 km, sir. They are low-resistance objectives,” a soldier replied, poised to transmit the ignition signal.
?But abruptly, one of the reconnaissance officers emitted a shriek that fractured the tension.
?“Cease all operations!” he bellowed, directing his optics toward Ademi with vibrating hands. “They are utilizing the civilians as a kinetic shield to occlude their withdrawal!”
?“What delirium are you articulating, fool?” Ademi roared, seizing the optics with force.
?Ademi anchored the lenses to his eyes, and for a nanosecond, the world inverted. Within the crystalline focus, he perceived the protracted columns of Nax-Geot echelons retreating with mechanical discipline, but surrounding them, like a tragic human veil, marched thousands of Burs civilians. Men, women, and offspring advancing with bowed heads, creating a barrier of flesh that cloaked every tank and transport of the First Division.
?“Damnation upon them...” Ademi’s resonance was stifled. “They are herding them out of the city like livestock. If we discharge the M.H 142, we shall orchestrate a massacre upon our own populace before we even graze a solitary enemy soldier.”
?Panic colonized the officer staff.
?“General, what is our trajectory?” one queried, his resonance vibrating with visceral horror. “They are navigating toward the southern seaboard. If we fail to strike now, they shall evaporate from our grasp and reconfigure!”
?Ademi remained in stasis for several seconds amidst the chaos. The officers anticipated a mandate, but received only his petrified stare toward the impending carnage. After seconds that registered as centuries, he spoke with a sub-zero resonance:
?“We shall not be designated the ‘Executioners of Burs.’ Abort the artillery strike! Mandate the Infantry Divisions and M.S 4 tanks to initiate a close-quarters pursuit. We must sever the soldiers from the civilians in a frontal engagement.”
?“But this maneuver, General, necessitates abdicating our supply and fuel transports,” an officer countered, anxiety hemorrhaging from his voice. “If they initiate a counter-strike, our capacity for redirection will be neutralized.”
?“They are numerically inferior; should they counter, we shall sustain the front until the logistics converge,” Ademi retorted, his optics anchored upon the retreating Nax-Geot host. “Now, accelerate!”
[LOCATION: VANGUARD OF 1ST DIVISION — SOUTHERN SEABOARD TRAJECTORY]
?[TIME: 12:15 LOCAL]
Ademi scrutinized the descent with a feral indignation from the ridge’s apex, observing his infantry surrender the advantage of distance as they merged toward the human “mass.” Concurrently, within the ranks of Nax-Geot, the atmosphere was frozen—a discipline bordering on absolute psychosis.
?A neophyte soldier of the First Division constricted his MGV 42 firearm, his digit vibrating upon the trigger as he monitored a cluster of civilians whose pace was decelerating from sheer terror. The moment he elevated the bore to “accelerate” them, a weighted, frigid hand anchored upon his shoulder. It was his superior, with a visage that appeared etched from granite.
?“Do not presume,” the officer whispered. “The Chancellor’s mandate is definitive: these entities are constituents of Utopia, and we are the combatants of Utopia. Utilize them merely as shadows. The Allies shall not dare discharge a single projectile as long as the civilians remain as the medium between us and them.”
?At the vanguard of the convoy, within an armored command chassis, General Alfo remained immobile. Adjacent to him, a Colonel bearing the Grade A insignia upon his sternum was monitoring the radio frequencies. A coded transmission had just surfaced.
?“General!” the Colonel stated with a predatory smirk. “The echelons commanded by General Stancer and Zeta have established their blocking positions. The fleet is in total combat-readiness, anticipating the ignition signal. Every variable is calibrated; only our maneuver remains.”
?Alfo offered no immediate rebuttal. He pivoted his cranium toward the reinforced aperture. Upon the horizon, the solar rays fractured the obsidian clouds, generating pillars of light that granted the theater of war a divine, almost surreal aesthetic. He smiled faintly, delicately calibrating the Grade A insignia upon his chest.
[DATA: 30. CYCLE 11]
?[LOCATION: SRR CENTRAL COMMITTEE — MISKA]
?[TIME: 02:20 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: POST-OPERATIVE DIAGNOSTIC AUTHORING — ANALYSIS BY MAJOR MASHA]
In Miska, the solar cycle had initiated with an anomalous stasis. The atmospheric precipitation had ceased, yielding a crystalline firmament that reflected the glare upon the vitrified thoroughfares. Although the industrial resonance from the periphery maintained the city’s customary mechanical pulse, the authentic tension was hermetically sealed within the ramparts of the Central Committee.
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?At the terminus of an elongated corridor, an administrative clerk stood before Masha’s portal, supporting a tray with a steaming chalice. After several unanswered percussions, he breached the threshold with hesitation.
?“Major Masha Watson, you are released—“ he initiated, but the articulation calcified in his throat.
?The office had mutated into a kinetic theater of parchment. Broken styluses littered the floor, spilled ink had engineered obsidian cartographies upon the parquet, and hundreds of folios were hemorrhaged over armchairs and archives. Behind a gargantuan monolith of reports upon the weighted timber desk, Masha’s visage surfaced. Her optics were depleted, yet her stare remained lacerating.
?“I am present. What is the current requirement?” she queried, elevating her head above the mountain of documentation.
?“I have procured thermal chocolate, Major,” the clerk replied, depositing the chalice with precision adjacent to the freshly authored diagnostics.
?Masha retracted the cup toward her perimeter as if it were a fragment of forensic evidence.
?“What are the constituent elements of this chocolate?”
?The clerk remained petrified, oscillating in search of a logical rebuttal for such an erratic interrogation.
?“From... dark cocoa, Major.”
?“Analytical. This must be integrated into the diagnostic,” she murmured, seizing the stylus and transcribing with predatory velocity upon the subsequent folio.
The chocolate in Fana was composed of dark cocoa and possessed a unique chemical profile that impacted the kinetic morale of the echelons...
She permitted the stylus to collapse onto the reports and ascended slowly, decompressing her frame beneath the solar glare penetrating the expansive aperture behind her. With the chalice anchored in her hand, she pivoted toward the glass, scrutinizing the populace maneuvering like formicidae upon the thoroughfares of Miska.
?“The interval for restoration is now,” she stated, consuming a protracted draught.
The administrative clerk, while organizing the remnants of ink upon the workstation, discerned a portrait positioned in isolation from the technical diagnostics. It was a unique composition, executed by a hand that possessed an intimate familiarity with the aesthetic of the brush.
?“Pardon me, Major,” he queried, elevating the frame slightly. “This figure within the canvas... if I am not mistaken, it is Victoria? The arrogant seraph who attempted to shield the mortals from the celestial indignation of the gods?”
?“Correct, it is she,” Masha replied without pivoting her cranium, her stare petrified upon the exterior void. “She commands an aura that radiates kinetic force... it was precisely she who inhibited me from—“
?She severed the articulation mid-sentence, constricting her jaw with military self-suppression. The clerk returned the portrait to its stasis, admiring the intricate details.
?“It is hypnotic. Her red optics synthesize perfectly with the aurum of her tresses. A lethal aesthetic.”
Masha approximated the chalice to her lips, permitting the thermal vapor to warm the tip of her nose. Below, upon the thoroughfares of Miska, she discerned the “Ivory Mantle” once more. Simon was advancing with phantom strides, as if he were not treading upon the resonant asphalt, but upon virgin snow in the marrow of a silent timber. In one hand, he clutched a paper shroud from which emerged a fragment of black bread and archaic canisters; in the other, a bundle of depleted vestments.
?“Observe him,” she murmured with a vitriolic smirk. “This is the supposed ‘apex marksman,’ scavenging for sustenance and rags like a mendicant. I must index this as well... it would occupy at least two folios in this abhorrent diagnostic.”
?She pivoted toward the clerk and reclined once more into her weighted throne.
?“I possessed an interrogation... that entity... how do you designate him here... ‘The Dream’?”
?“You refer to the White Dream, Major?” the clerk queried, massaging his chin with reverence.
?“Indeed. Who is he in actuality?” Masha leaned back, impaling the clerk with her stare.
?“His nomenclature is Simon. But he is designated the White Dream because he constitutes the terminal nightmare of every adversary. He liquidates with such clinical purity and velocity, that it appears as if you are witnessing an unbelievable hallucination,” he explained in a subdued resonance. “He is an enigma. No one possesses knowledge of his genesis or his sanctuary when he is not deployed. We recognize only one variable: if Simon has acquired you within his optics, your solitary recourse is to pray that his munitions are swift.”
Masha exhaled a frail draught against the thermal vapor of the chocolate, yet her cognition was exiled elsewhere. She blinked to evict the residual image of Victoria and anchored the chalice upon the workstation with a percussive impact that shuddered the folios. Simon was not merely a marksman; he was a specter being coerced into becoming her kinetic shadow.
?“Simon. So, that is his nomenclature. I trust he fails to compromise my logistics in the field,” she murmured with a resonance saturated in skepticism and cold calculation.
?Masha seized a fresh strata of folios, the ink still incandescent, and extended them toward the clerk with a jagged motion.
?“Regardless, secure these. Forty additional pages. The diagnostic regarding Fana’s logistical infrastructure.”
?The clerk accepted the documentation with clinical precision. He initiated a subdued enumeration, auditing every page as if they were currency of the State. Upon termination, he elevated his gaze with a smirk that resonated within Masha like a terminal sentence.
?“Exquisite, Major. With these, we have attained 279 documented folios. You possess a deficit of 221 pages to satisfy Commander Bruskin’s mandate.”
?Masha’s visage calcified. Her features tensed until they mirrored marble, while her optics ignited with an indignation that could no longer be localized. She constricted the porcelain chalice with such force that her knuckles achieved total pallor.
?The clerk—a veteran of survival within the Committee’s labyrinth—perceived the imminent hazard. Retreating with calibrated strides to avoid the obsidian ink upon the floor, he reached the portal and initiated its closure with velocity, his stare never detaching from the Major.
?“Vanish from my sight, you and those accursed reports!” Masha bellowed with a resonance that vibrated the chamber’s glass.
?The microsecond the valves sealed, the weighted chocolate chalice took flight, colliding with the timber of the door. The dark cocoa hemorrhaged over the polished surface, leaving behind a stain that symbolized the absolute expiration of Masha’s endurance for the cycle.
[DATA: 30. CYCLE 11]
?[LOCATION: COMMAND CENTRAL PLAZA — VARNA]
?[TIME: 01:25 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: GRADE S INSPECTION — ARRIVAL OF GENERAL KENZI GORETA]
The capital, Varna, was shrouded in a soot heavier than cycles past. The firmament, burdened with leaden clouds, discharged minute flakes of frost that descended upon the urban void as if temporal flow had been vitrified in an archaic military photograph. The denizens of Varna maneuvered like specters, long since assimilated into the presence of Nax-Geot’s echelons. Adjacent to the command monolith, clusters of soldiers encased in thermal winter tunics exchanged dissonant laughter, slightly fracturing the city’s sub-zero silence.
?At the periphery of one cluster, Erten remained retracted, submerged within his universe of abstractions. He sketched formulas and resolved complex equations upon salvaged parchments, while the other combatants scrutinized him with a bewilderment laced with derision. However, his cognitive focus was shattered by the metallic resonance of a black military limousine that breached the plaza with absolute sovereignty.
?As if by programmatic command, every soldier aligned in total stasis. Only Erten remained seated, disoriented, until a weighted hand anchored upon his shoulder.
?“Ascend, boy! It is him,” a veteran soldier whispered.
?“Who?” Erten queried, rising with uncalculated haste.
?Before a rebuttal could manifest, the vehicle’s valve ruptured open and Goreta emerged. He wore his ceremonial regalia, burdened with insignias attesting to decades of attrition, yet draped over it was a protracted black greatcoat. Upon his sternum, solitary and dominant, ignited the Grade S emblem.
?“That is the Grade S General, Kenzi Goreta,” the veteran continued in a subdued resonance. “The neural architecture behind the Empire’s logistics.”
?“Wait... Kenzi Goreta?” Erten calcified. “One of the ‘Five Masters of the Blitzkrieg’?”
?“Indeed, boy. The entity that compels the impossible to maneuver in synchronization,” the soldier confirmed, his stare never detaching from the General.
?Goreta did not immediately navigate toward the officers awaiting him in ivory gloves. He advanced toward the ranks of the rank-and-file with a tranquil, almost paternal stride.
?“How are you, men? Have you received your rations this cycle?” Goreta’s resonance was thermal, yet it carried the authority of a man who controls every milligram of sustenance and ordnance upon the continent.
?“Superlative, General!” a soldier from the vanguard replied. “Your presence fortifies our morale. It is a distinction to have you here!”
?Goreta offered a frail smile and anchored his hand upon the soldier’s shoulder, impaling them all with his stare.
?“No... it is my distinction to have you. Without your kinetic force, none of my blueprints would be anything more than ink upon parchment.”
?The General pivoted and navigated toward the command monolith. Erten could discern only the apex of his cap vanishing behind the weighted timber valves. The microsecond the doors sealed, a profound silence colonized the plaza.
[STRATEGY CORE — VARNA COMMAND TERMINAL]
?[TIME: 01:30 LOCAL]
The stasis within the command corridors was fractured only by the rhythmic cadence of Goreta’s boots and the frantic footfalls of the echelons trailing his wake. When the weighted valves of the strategy chamber ruptured open, the atmosphere within became instantaneously oppressive. Goto, Aista, and the operational staff ascended as a singular organism into total stasis.
?“Fat—“ Goto faltered for a micro-fraction of a second, before emitting a cough to occlude the rupture of protocol. “General, welcome to the Varna front.”
?Goreta emitted a frail laugh—a resonance that failed to synchronize with the sub-zero rigidity of his rank—and struck his son lightly upon the shoulder. It was a vestige of biological sentiment in a chamber saturated with war machinery. He navigated immediately toward the workstations carpeted with tactical cartographies and logistical diagnostics.
?“What is the current status of the supply strata?” Goreta queried, scrutinizing a report regarding combustible fuel.
?“We have progressed with accelerated velocity, sir,” Aista reported. “Project Utopia is being engineered with an efficiency that transcends our primary prognostications...”
?An ironic cough lacerated the presentation. Avasha breached the chamber with her defiant trajectory, supporting a small cardboard shroud.
?“General Goreta, what a dereliction of courtesy!” she stated, with a smirk radiating lethal hazard. “You failed to notify me of your manifestation. I would have orchestrated a banquet for the Master of the Blitzkrieg.”
?“The gratification is mine, Colonel,” Goreta replied, exhaling a weighted breath.
?The two Grade S entities stood diametrically opposed. The glare of the insignias upon their regalia appeared to collide within the vacuum. Goreta maintained a seriousness of granite, while Avasha appeared to be performing in a theater perceptible only to her.
?“’Colonel’?” Avasha queried with a synthetic bewilderment. “What transpired, Goreta? When I am in the presence of the Father, you invariably designate me as ‘Mademoiselle’.”
?“Indeed, but the Chancellor is not currently present,” Goreta countered with a severing resonance.
?Avasha rotated her optics in derision and unsealed the box. A saccharine aroma colonized the scent of ink and saline perspiration within the chamber.
?“Claim one, General. Saturate your palate. They are transcendental; they dissolve upon contact. What was the nomenclature...”
?“I believe they are designated Melomakarona, Colonel,” Goreta added, claiming one with a delicate motion.
?“Precisely. It was the terminal cache I secured, hence I possess zero for the rest of you,” she stated, sealing the box with a dry percussion. “They originate directly from Gerik. They are a rarity here in the North.”
Goreta impaled her crimson optics with his stare, attempting to decipher the intent behind that derisive mask.
?“Your benevolence is as anomalous as these confections, Colonel. I shall reserve it for a microsecond of triumph.”
?“No necessity, General,” Avasha countered, depositing several lacerated folios upon the workstation. “These constitute five pages of diagnostics I have personally synthesized. I trust you will integrate them into your cognition. I am vacating now, leaving you with your monotonous cartographies. Saccharine requires absolute focus... much like conflict.”
?The violent percussion of the portal as Avasha exited induced a vibration that shuddered not only the ramparts, but the very consciousness of the echelons within. It was a kinetic awakening. Without temporal waste, Goreta anchored himself at the apex of the table, gripping Avasha’s chaotic reports with a lethal concentration, while Aista resumed her technical monotony.
?“As I was articulating, General,” Aista continued, indicating specific nodes upon the map, “Project Utopia is advancing at a critical velocity. We have finalized the network of infirmaries and civilian relief nodes throughout the Po territory. We are engineering an infrastructure they have never conceptualized.”
?“Our forces are deployed in strategic divisions, establishing a sanitary cordon along every frontier with the SRR,” Goto interjected, oscillating in search of his father’s validation. “We enumerate over 300,000 active echelons. A precise inventory of munitions and combustible reserves will be surrendered to you within the hour.”
?Goreta audited them, yet his optics were not anchored upon Goto’s inflated metrics. They were submerged within Avasha’s chaotic linework. Within that turbulence of script, he was deciphering a variable the others failed to imagine. Abruptly, a frail smile—almost imperceptible—manifested upon his abrasive features.
?“And regarding the subterranean conduits of the city?” Goreta queried, elevating his cranium without warning. “Do we possess engineering diagnostics or granular cartographies of the sewage systems and the archaic tunnels?”
?Goto and Aista exchanged disoriented glances. The interrogation appeared entirely divorced from the context of “Utopia” and their perceived triumph.
?“Negative, General,” Goto replied with a self-assurance bordering on naivety. “We perceived no utility for them. The urban center is already under our absolute hegemony. There exists no internal threat necessitating subterranean vigilance.”
?“Understood,” Goreta stated, casting Avasha’s reports upon the table like a gauntlet. “However, should the trajectory invert one cycle and a withdrawal becomes mandatory... here is our contingency protocol.”
?The officers remained in stasis, scrutinizing those five lacerated pages with confusion. To them, they were merely defiled parchments; to Goreta, they were the arteries of escape from a constriction he had just begun to recognize.
[THE ANOMALY OF MERCY — BEYOND THE STRATEGIC PERIMETER]
?[TIME: 01:45 LOCAL]
While within the command chamber the diagnostics and logistics collided in a bureaucratic attrition, Avasha had located a pocket of isolation facing the monolith. Seated upon a frigid stone bench, she scrutinized the flakes of frost accumulating upon her shoulders, consuming the terminal fragments of the confections. A short distance away, a cluster of the city’s offspring monitored her with famished optics, fixated upon the shroud radiating the scent of saccharine.
?She emitted a protracted exhale, sealed the box with a rhythmic lethargy, and ascended while recalibrating her cap. Without pivoting her cranium, she departed, abandoning the box “incidentally” upon the bench.
?Erten, who had audited the entire sequence, momentarily discarded his technical schematics. As Avasha navigated through the echelons who bifurcated with reverence to grant her passage, he spoke with a resonance laced with a cryptic admiration—for a facet he had never perceived within her.
?“Colonel... I was oblivious to the fact that you practiced philanthropy amidst the viscera of war.”
?Avasha ceased all movement instantaneously. Her red optics anchored upon him with a defensive frigidness.
“What delirium are you articulating, scientist? That container is a vacuum. Nothing remained within.”
?“Indeed... let it be so,” Erten countered, observing the infants assaulting the box upon the bench as if it were a celestial treasure fallen from the firmament.
?Avasha ignored his rebuttal and seated herself adjacent to him, once again rupturing every protocol of command distance.
?“Regardless, what necessitates your presence in this sub-zero gale?”
?“I was unaware that my abstractions interested you, Colonel,” Erten retorted with an ironic smirk.
?“It is superior to remaining in a chamber saturated with the scent of necrotic parchment,” she stated, extending one of the final confections she had preserved within her tunic. “Claim it. I have consumed such a quantity of sucrose that I perceive an imminent gastric rejection.”
?Erten accepted it slowly, marginalizing his intricate sketches. He scrutinized the object in his palm with a curiosity bordering on forensic.
?“If I am not mistaken, this is a Melomakarona. How is it mathematically feasible for a product of Gerik to have migrated to this coordinate?”
?“Exterminate the infinite interrogations and consume it,” she countered, reclining against the archaic rampart of the monolith.
?The frost descended upon them, engineering a vacuum of silence that insulated them from the dissonant laughter of the echelons and the resonance of the logistics transports. In that subjugated urban center, beneath the umbra of a conflict devouring the world, they had located a fragment of illicit peace. It was the solitary coordinate upon the continent where temporal flow was not calibrated by casualties, but by the resonance of honey and the frost that failed to register the weight of insignias.
