The once-habitable zones became annihilated beyond recognition, creating a landscape of burnt ashes mixed with soot. The streets–cornerstones and town squares alike–had lost all semblance of their unique architectural design. Also, the skies above had transformed into a greyish-red hue from the unperishable flames' smoke.
The combat medics identified by their medical armbands began lifting and tossing the corpses to a secluded spot only accessible to those with their squadron’s patch, far away from their subordinates’ privy eyes who might question their intent.
“One, two, one…two!”
“Good job, let’s get on with–”
“Soldiers, carry on with your duties! Stop slacking off!”
“Yes…sir!”
Some day, in the distant future, a curious soul will pick up a postcard from these times and question how things ended up this way. Hopefully, they will pick up the slack and restore the beauty of Central Atlantea to its original state–a time before their natural resources were plundered under a flag of unification for the greater good.
“Good job, guys.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“Get on with it.”
“Yes, Dr Pavlov.”
The Medical Officer, Dr Boris Pavlov, a commander of the Lupus Squadron, stood at the edge of his makeshift command post, observing his medics dealing with their latest haul, stacking them like a monolithic tower akin to the biblical tower of Babel. Because these citizens lived here, the S3 (Operations Commander) had deemed them “potential threats to the democracy”, mandating swift, decisive action to correct them.
“Just one more.”
Boris heaved a giant sigh and remembered the two-faced response given by the higher-ups. Ever since that day, the Federation had plunged into a depressive, psychopathic mood. The citizens’ smiles had become lost on their faces. And in its place, something maniacal engulfed the psyches of these once hopeless, lazy humans. Everything dark that remained hidden from plain sight had emerged.
“Sir, we’re done with this zone!”
“Ok, go to the next.”
“Yes, sir!”
The citizens demanded revenge against their fellow brethren living in the South. Those despicable, hard-working labourers protested on the streets to prevent their children from being conscripted! The South’s incessant cries of individualism and self-sufficiency brought chaos and destruction to the Federation. Most importantly, the loss of their children–those selfless and courageous youths who perished while protecting their homeland!
If only the South’s citizens had allowed their children to serve their homeland. If only! But no, it was not meant to be. Instead of conforming, those bastards betrayed the constitution they served and retaliated with an unprecedented attack. It was a blindsided betrayal which rekindled the unsolved conflict between the North and South. To make matters worse, they dared to start a revolution to overthrow the United Atlantea Federation–the audacity!
The final memory these victims had as a collective state was standing helplessly at the stadium’s entrance, visualising the destruction unfolding by the wicked audio leaking from within the execution grounds. Eventually, the Federation’s sombre mood transformed into an orchestrated cesspool of artificial bloodlust by the government’s perfectly crafted media campaigns.
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This graveyard was one of the thousands of lands plunged into hell upon the decree of the intellectuals. Boris had trouble processing the nightmarish scene when the Federation’s soldiers first invoked hell on Earth two years ago.
There came the tenth. Then the hundredth. And after the nth time, he had become desensitised. Lucky to him and the Medical Corps serving under him, they were not directly involved with the desecration of their homeland. Merely acting as the “cleanup crew”, they had their hands filled with salvaging the corpses and filling the trucks with bales provided by the S4B, the Logistics Corps.
On that day, when he saw the Federation tout Neptune Smith as the hero of the massacre, he knew that holding an alternative opinion would be detrimental. He pondered the events on that island and instinctively knew.
Like a pendulum…
Except this time, his hands were stained. The same hands trained to save lives had become tainted. As a doctor serving in this regime, he had become reduced to nothing other than a body technician.
“Just a little more. I promise. It would be okay.”
Watching his combat medics don the hazmat suits to move the corpses around in this scene described as hell on earth, Boris spoke, but to whom? Those lips attached to the unmoving heap of mortal coils would no longer part again that…soon.
A familiar sensation began burning his nape.
<...Proceed to Point F6F>
And that same voice spoke again, with impatience this time around.
Due to confidentiality issues, the S2B, the Intelligence Branch decreed that commanders and KAH (Key Appointment Holders) had to use their respective call signs for in-operation communications, even with the private communications network’s impenetrable firewall. Internally, the fear mongering of their enemies tapping into their network had caused distrust amongst their ranks–sad.
Even with the private network relaying voice-over information through quantum-encrypted data packets, Boris could feel an icy blizzard-like chill from the commander who led the Faceless.
Boris heaved a giant sigh, instinctively resting his vision on his medics. He wanted his men to rest up after this gruelling and psychologically damaging affair. But the thought of them getting an insubordination charge made him bite his tongue in self-defeat. He would bite the bullet of satisfying one person’s mandate rather than have everyone suffer because of his decision.
And then, there was static.
“Man, what’s up with this guy…” Boris groaned as he rubbed his head. Then again, who was he to judge another person when he was equally guilty himself?
Is that what I have become reduced to? I am no different than…
“...God, tell me.”
With one last mission scheduled by the SMCTF (Strategic Missions Campaign Task Force), Boris looked up at the heavens as the greyish-red hue cleared, revealing the obfuscated puffy clouds in the azure-blue skies. He prayed solemnly to the one in the skies and wished upon a miracle. Whether his pleas to the heavens would be answered remained a mystery, for the collective sins of his homeland had likely upset the gods.
He knew the missions launched one after another served as cannon fodder for what was envisioned with that incomplete system. However, if the system fails and information gets leaked during the post-war era, the repercussions would be ugly for everyone involved.
Hence, there was a need for a miracle. His homeland had turned into the proverbial devil by choice. And if the devil that crawled out from the darkness of his brethren's collective hearts exists, then by some miracle, a benevolent being should exist.
“Everyone, go take a break!” Boris called out to his medics, who rejoiced after finishing their work.
“Yes, sir!”
Once his men were no longer within earshot, Boris took out his device and pinpointed the location Kairos commanded him to meet. Upon recognising the destination, his lips curled disappointingly as he muttered.
“I recognise this layout.”
After eavesdropping on conversations and rumours, he prayed that this mythical, benevolent being would one day return to save the world again. The hero that dances fervently in the colours of peace while brandishing a weapon, only one who had honed and mastered his combat skills to the utmost perfection could ever do.
The mere mention of the hero’s call sign could even make a General shudder in his feet. Boris knew that was the answer to the conflict, not this mess of a war on the precipice of outbreak.
“Please. Please save us all.”