TRL
Radio Bob Approved
- Joined
- Mar 16, 2022
- Messages
- 133
- Thread Author
- #1
“Before there was bread, there was war. Before war? Monsters.”
The man replied to Kirill, though he never was able to remember what question or conversation prompted such a reply. It was one of the few things that he did remember about Vihaan. He remembered his face, the smooth dark lines typical of the Dalit. He remembered his dark eyes and his obsession over his toothbrush - a treasured piece of personal hygiene that gave him those starkly white teeth. In the flicker of lamplight Kirill could only see the eyes, the teeth, the shadow of Vihaan and the armband that he wore- the golden gear with a golden star in its center.
“The Combine are monsters. They no doubt existed before bread, before war. They were never meant for this time, this planet.”
“And so we fight.” Kirill replied. These were the virgin years of the occupation, where he was still in the transitioning state between the man he was before to the man he is now, a period in which all the Georgian left in his path were corpses, his only marks on the world made in the form of lacerations. It had been five years of near constant warfare: First bugs, now xeno-imperials…
“And so we fight.” It was then that Vihaan rose from the shadows, for a brief moment fully illuminated by the oil lantern in his stride towards- no, past Kirill. The Georgian looked up to see the Dalit peering from the window he was positioned behind, and so naturally he craned his own head, pivoting his body to get a glimpse at what might’ve prompted such behavior. And when Kirill saw him of all people, he knew exactly why Vishaan had stolen a glance.
Kirill and Vihaan sprinted out of the line of sight, though already the walls they hid behind were peppered by small arms fire of Chou’s metropolice entourage, an entire cadre of 45’s most ruthless and sadistic. They sprinted deeper into the apartment complex they were hiding in, dodging the mines and boobytraps they laid days prior. Soon they had reached the other side of the sprawling complex, where a dizzying glow emanated from a hole in the wall, shafts of smog-laden sun allowing them some modicum of visibility. He looked to Vihaan with searching eyes.
“They’ll turn us to stalkers for this.”
“No, only me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Open that trunk there. Take it all. Move to the QZ, I’ll fend them off.”
Not yet realizing the implications of those words, Kirill followed Vihaan’s pointed finger, revealing a small crate tucked away underneath loose rags and debris. Not missing a beat he slid the debris aside, popping the lock to reveal a strange suit and an even stranger device. He looked back, confused. Vihaan grinned.
“Here. Let me help.”
Vihaan slung the VSS around his shoulder, moving over to Kirill to help him through the process of wearing the mass of armor, rubber, and pressurized material. Kirill felt his feet go into what might only be described as a strange sort of mold, a second skin that took all the heat and sweat and trapped it in a bubble that surrounded him. It was a deeply claustrophobic experience, but Kirill nevertheless accepted his wearing of the suit though, for after all, who was he to deny Vihaan? The Dalit went around and took the mass of metal, connecting a tube that stretched from the bodysuit into a notch that connected both together into one mechanism. He patted Kirill on the back, and said only three words:
“Remember me, Kirill.”
“I will, Vihaan.”
The man replied to Kirill, though he never was able to remember what question or conversation prompted such a reply. It was one of the few things that he did remember about Vihaan. He remembered his face, the smooth dark lines typical of the Dalit. He remembered his dark eyes and his obsession over his toothbrush - a treasured piece of personal hygiene that gave him those starkly white teeth. In the flicker of lamplight Kirill could only see the eyes, the teeth, the shadow of Vihaan and the armband that he wore- the golden gear with a golden star in its center.
“The Combine are monsters. They no doubt existed before bread, before war. They were never meant for this time, this planet.”
“And so we fight.” Kirill replied. These were the virgin years of the occupation, where he was still in the transitioning state between the man he was before to the man he is now, a period in which all the Georgian left in his path were corpses, his only marks on the world made in the form of lacerations. It had been five years of near constant warfare: First bugs, now xeno-imperials…
“And so we fight.” It was then that Vihaan rose from the shadows, for a brief moment fully illuminated by the oil lantern in his stride towards- no, past Kirill. The Georgian looked up to see the Dalit peering from the window he was positioned behind, and so naturally he craned his own head, pivoting his body to get a glimpse at what might’ve prompted such behavior. And when Kirill saw him of all people, he knew exactly why Vishaan had stolen a glance.
He stood at about five-foot eight. Old, but not elderly. With those little beady eyes and old fashioned baton… It couldn’t have been anyone else. Nao Yag Chou. The butcher of City 45. ESIC was only slightly behind the Combine’s level of depravity due to him. The nightmarish stories of being awoken from the night, entire city blocks made into ghost towns by his order. He was unrelenting in his quest to purge City 45 of ESIC activity, often targeting the racial minorities which made up the indigent population and culling them wholesale. And today was no different: There he was, looking satisfied as a group of masked units rounded up a scared and disheveled bundle of citizens. Kirill watched the little flashes of light come from their guns, and the distant popping and rumbling of their guns as the masses that once stood became heaps against a corner. In a flash he had went to reach for his gun, but it was missing: Held instead by Vihaan, whom simply looked focused as a much louder sound occurred from the barrel of an old VSS Vintorez. The sound it made was like the snapping of branches, the bullet whizzing by in the wind and causing one more mass to collapse on the floor. That of Chou. Kirill and Vihaan sprinted out of the line of sight, though already the walls they hid behind were peppered by small arms fire of Chou’s metropolice entourage, an entire cadre of 45’s most ruthless and sadistic. They sprinted deeper into the apartment complex they were hiding in, dodging the mines and boobytraps they laid days prior. Soon they had reached the other side of the sprawling complex, where a dizzying glow emanated from a hole in the wall, shafts of smog-laden sun allowing them some modicum of visibility. He looked to Vihaan with searching eyes.
“They’ll turn us to stalkers for this.”
“No, only me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Open that trunk there. Take it all. Move to the QZ, I’ll fend them off.”
Not yet realizing the implications of those words, Kirill followed Vihaan’s pointed finger, revealing a small crate tucked away underneath loose rags and debris. Not missing a beat he slid the debris aside, popping the lock to reveal a strange suit and an even stranger device. He looked back, confused. Vihaan grinned.
“Here. Let me help.”
Vihaan slung the VSS around his shoulder, moving over to Kirill to help him through the process of wearing the mass of armor, rubber, and pressurized material. Kirill felt his feet go into what might only be described as a strange sort of mold, a second skin that took all the heat and sweat and trapped it in a bubble that surrounded him. It was a deeply claustrophobic experience, but Kirill nevertheless accepted his wearing of the suit though, for after all, who was he to deny Vihaan? The Dalit went around and took the mass of metal, connecting a tube that stretched from the bodysuit into a notch that connected both together into one mechanism. He patted Kirill on the back, and said only three words:
“Remember me, Kirill.”
“I will, Vihaan.”
This was a small one-shot story I wrote in the span of an hour. Art credits to Skwallie & Bogdan Tufeciuu .
zapada