Chapter Text

The Shape of Things to Come

The warehouses and auto repairs southwest of Muldraugh were as uninteresting as ever. At least facing a horde wasn't boring. It was almost like a high-speed, high-stakes logic puzzle after she learned to look past the absolute money shot of adrenaline the operation entailed, after she'd grown beyond confident in her abilities – Sayori would disconnect, dissociate, visualize the “playing field” - meanwhile her body panted heavily, poured fire from a rapidly-heating barrel, calmly patted out the suppressor as it burst into flames again since it was too late by now to unscrew the thing anyways, now acting as bait for Mishka and now slowing down to place careful double-taps.

Sayori knew Mishka's pace by instinct, Mishka knew hers, and combat was their dance. It was fierce, ruthless and blisteringly fast when room-to-room, since Mishka's habit of tossing a “present” or two inside before moving to clear wasn't leaving her any time soon. Sayori was still skittish around live explosives, but otherwise? The nature of CQB drew her in like a moth to a flame – this was unapologetic, point-blank and high risk, physically demanding, mentally taxing, emotionally draining, and with no space for fuck-ups.

So Sayori was always on point, ready to draw cold fucking iron if needed, whether machete or work knife or scalpel or awl, and Mishka was stacked up just behind her, pushing Sayori into the room, both crossing the threshold of the room in a fraction of a second. Not that the rotters cared, but if they ever ran into issues with the military again, then it was worth drilling into muscle memory. She'd just have to get used to grenades – easier said than done, although Sayori was warming up to carrying stun grenades or CS gas canisters on her person, following a cooked M67 frag up with an M84 flash-bang and their weapon lights set to strobe.


Speed, surprise, and violence of action were the commonly accepted three base pillars of CQB, although Sayori occasionally considered a fourth pillar; being a ruthless and unsporting asshole. Such as when Mishka, after noticing that the U.S. M67 frag grenades both were lighter and had better effect on enclosed positions than the old Russian F-1, or efka, also noticed that the M67's fuse had a second more wiggle room than the efka, for a total of 5-and-a-half seconds, and ended up counting to “raz-Missisippi” before every throw, making Sayori's hair stand on end, but also making the cursed thing detonate the moment it stopped tumbling.

Mishka once told her about jerry-rigging the shells from an automatic grenade launcher of some sort with standard hand fuses, creating small, portable and quick-burning frags for when they inevitably ran out of that weeks' supply of impact-detonated ones. Sayori missed quite a lot of jargon, but that was okay – she forbade Mishka from even thinking about it as long as they still had crates of not only frags, but incendiaries and smoke grenades and high explosives and...


Cho had mentioned “violence of action” a lifetime ago, and the phrase had etched itself into her subconscious immediately. If her rifle ceased to fire, she'd draw her machete. If her machete got stuck, she'd draw her utility knife, or a brick, or she'd dig her fucking fingers in through those worthless, rotten eyeballs – she'd shove, grapple and joint lock the bastards back into the ground if needed. It was even enough to make Mishka cringe, even with everything she'd lived through, and while it was usually enough to knock the rotters off balance and then stomp or pummel their skulls into mush, losing one's balance was never impossible.

She'd wrestled with the stinking thing for a few moments, then locked it's torso between her legs, forced the thing's jaw shut and slowly screwed its head counter-clockwise until something cracked and the rotter's head twisted almost a full 180 degrees before being wrenched loose along with two or three segments of spinal column. She'd fucking warned the stupid thing, she remembered cursing at the headless corpse, she wasn't... all there, but that was kind of normal now – going from in control but heated one moment to just... watching as a first-person splatter/body horror flick plays out the next, but at least she'd never hurt Mishka, no, never...

...or not since she had to be tied to was a little bit sick and even then she barely did, right? Seeing Mish always calmed her down and brought Sayori back into the drivers' seat again, and maybe it was a good thing these creatures didn't seem to feel any pain after all because she could be brutal sometimes, but she had to be – hand-to-hand combat was not for the faint of heart, and even with the skull open to direct attack, dealing with a larger swarm could entail first chopping off hands, arms, limbs... disassembling the threat before dealing the killing blow. Or blows.


She swooped in every time gaps appeared, dodged away just as they closed, cut off hands, forearms, sever the Achilles tendons, repeat until the nightmare is... her subconscious wanted to say “castrated”, but what did that imply about her? Was she less potentially terrifying due to never having that misfortune? Sometimes, Sayori wished that someone would fucking say something. Start shit. Imply. Give her a reason to run a foot of steel through some condescending asshole, up under his ribs through the solar plexus, then sideways and out so his guts would spill into the fucking grass.

“Sayoshka?” Mishka was standing by the pile of corpses started by Sayori and Jenna and finished up in their usual way. The distaste was as apparent as it was understandable – Sayori and Mishka had actually enjoyed the last half of summer, even if the latter had gone through tube after tube of sunscreen after Sayori had tossed everything that wasn't her bikinis into the cabinets. With how much crunch they'd pushed through before the week Mishka was... gone, they had the town fully to themselves during the tourist peak months, so Sayori had achieved a deep tan, the kind only attainable by farmers and cryptocurrency scammers, and despite herself, started feeling more at home in the mess of muscle and scar tissue her body had become. The deep brown even smoothed over some of her older scars, and although she was even broader and bulkier than before, it was all just more proportional.

“Hmm?” In fact, as long as you didn't look too hard at her arms or shoulders, or her upper back and trapezius muscles, she almost felt passably feminine. Not that it mattered, she'd suit up, lock and load, and tear apart no matter what, but it was kind of low-key nice to feel pretty. Ish. Besides, the thin layer of fat she wore now was excellent insulation, and her period had even returned to normal after a couple very scary months.


“Do you have... what do you say... smokes?” Her American Spirits were on the dashboard of the HMMWV parked into a little nook at the northernmost offices, but she did feel the twinge of a vice denied.


“Oh, I'm trying to cut down, it's a shitty habit and-” Mishka mimicked cutting her throat, tapping one of two M83 white/gray smoke grenades, the spoons threaded through free MOLLE straps on her PC. Sayori carried a canister of CS gas, a pair of M/84 flash-bangs, and an AN/M14 incendiary grenade, stored in a pouch and wrapped with electrical tape to secure the spoon to the body. No smokes, though, neither tobacco nor white phosphorus. “Ohhhh. Smoke grenades. Sorry, no, just CS, 'bangs and thermite. How so?”


“Always useful, I think. Invisibility cloak. More nice than running into tear gas, also. Here.” Mishka seemed relieved to finally shift her focus away from the mass of bloating corpses. Sayori couldn't fault her.


“Hm. Cheers, I guess... Hope we won't-” Jinx.

whine
crack

“Kantakt! Take cover, now! Follow!” Mishka had her head in the game before Sayori even managed to process the fact that someone had just fired at them. Luckily, she also had Sayori in tow.

“...Where'd that... Jesus Christ, what if-” They were pressed against the middlemost warehouse, a colossal block of ugly red brick – Never Eat Sea Weed – the eastern wall? The scramble to get here was hazy at best, there hadn't been another shot – maybe the impact was so far off target that they hadn't managed to zero in on time?

“Came from my 12, you only hear whine and bang if in front of the barrel. Compass pizdets, come on...” Mishka was tearing through her pouches, leaving a pile of crumpled notes, stale sweets and sun lotion on the sidewalk.


“...Your 12 – you were facing the corpse pile, right?” Sayori felt some kind of autopilot smooth her movements out just a little, her compass was in her admin pouch as usual, secured with a piece of cheerful pink-and-blue cord, and she immediately started taking readings. Yes, it was the eastern wall, after all, her HMMWV was now west-northwest, bearing 280 maybe, standing alone and proud in the middle of the parking lot next to the main corpse dump.


“What, uh... yes! Fucking pile of...”


“Let's see- ah!” Corpse pile 272- Mishka forcibly yanked her head back behind the bricks, but Sayori was too wound up to even feel embarrassed, a nervous half-giggle sounding in her throat as she realized her previous idiocy.

“Hide your head before you take readings, okay 'Oshka?”


“Yeah, yeah, fuck... I, uh...”


“Two-seven-zero, two-seven-two, maybe? Aargh, urod, not exact, probably bounced off trees...” The compass debacle was old news, Mishka had her game face on again, and she was scary fast on the uptake.


“Speaking of... there's a shitload of woodland beyond the fence. Can you get a clear shot to here through the chain-link?” Wait that's 355, 360, maybe, but what if...

“No, hill to west! Just past the road that curves north! Two seconds, maybe... 300 meters? No fence, either.” Sayori poked her head out, sweating bullets with every second that passed by, trying to scan for anything human-shaped on the hillocks.

“Motherfucker... whoever it is has a good view over most of the grounds... can't even peel or-”

“Stop! Poking! Your head out!” Mishka yanked her into cover again. “Let's go. Inside of garage. If I was him I would have a friend somewhere up north in the forest right now.” The door was mere seconds away.

“...Shit. Right.” 355, 360, that tracks, find fix flank finish, it's a by-the-book kill-zone, a perfect L-shape, just upside-down...

Sayori, on autopilot, took the left side, Mishka stacked onto her scanning north, thank God the door is unlocked I can just turn the handle and follow the swing inside, and with that they had a breach point. Sayori felt an unwelcome sting of paranoia, Mishka was right, maybe they were lining up a kill-shot from the north just then, only missing by a fraction of a second?

“Mish, get down!” Sayori motioned at something past the grimy glass of the antechamber they'd barrelled into, carefully zooming her scope in while simultaneously trying to consult the compass tied around her wrist, next to her watch. She could see the foot of the western hill – or some hill to the west, at least – from here, and if the shooter wasn't worried about sending their friend on a 300-meter-minimum flanking run, they'd likely have radios to communicate with, and...”


“Sayoshka! Calm down, please. You look like you need the bathroom. Easy, breathe, one thing at a time, we have trained for this, okay?” Sayori fell into a crouch, as low as she could comfortably manage, blinking drops of burning sweat out of her eyes, her glasses fogging over.


“Shit... you're right, yeah, I n-need to...”

“Deep breathing, okay? Stay in cover, good thinking you did. Maybe they have not figured how to get a clear shot without being seen... much easier to trap us here.” Trapped? Here? Fuck, there's no curtains, nothing, we- “...But it should be safe.”

“Y-you sure?” Her mouth was dry, the water from her hydration bladder tasted plasticky, but that didn't matter.

“If it was not safe, we would be dead. Simples.” Hardly reassuring, but true enough. “Yeshka, the northern wall, knock around on the bricks a bit, I need to fix shit from my pack. We can get to your penis enlargement car easy if that wall is built shitty.”

Sayori pulled out the 40-round extended mag from her HK, then slammed it back into the mag-well. 40 + 1, hollow-points, I only have one mag of green tip in my rig, fuck, maybe they're wearing armour too, face-shields even, can't snap-shoot through that, need to hit the throat, or something... Sayori gulped - the soft armour underneath her rig was definitely inadequate in this situation, whether she'd take a hunting rifle round to the stomach or a burst of 5.56 M193 through her chest, the LPVO should have been a 1-4x magnification one, she hadn't zeroed the canted Aimpoint red dot jutting out at a 45-degree angle in ages...

At least her backup iron sights were okay, but a prone, camouflaged sniper laying still 300 meters away in a bush would have her brain splattered onto the concrete before she'd even find the right area, let alone score a hit with her irons. She shook her head, dropped the mag, racked the charging handle to empty the chamber, then slammed in the one magazine of M855 steel-core she had, her left thumb pushing the bolt release, the first of just 30 rounds sliding into battery with a clack. She shoved the spray-painted Magpul into her rig, gulped and got up from her crouch.

“Moving!” A tad loud for the two of them, but whatever stopped her from just freezing thanks to the adrenaline dumping into her system was good. If it kept her doing things, it was good. Just do. “What should I, like... How it feels or...”

“It should sound hollow, tell me where it sounds most hollow, okay?” Mishka's pack rustled, Sayori jogged from the outside door next to the boiler room to the northwest corner, knocking all the while, passing some kind of assembly line complete with a robotic welder, the metal a fresh reddish-orange that brought to mind some kind of citrus fruit.

It was a stark contrast to the dusty, oil-stained, poured concrete floors and the shabby brickwork, so with teeth clenched, her rifle on semi and scope at 4x, careful to not let the nervous drumming of her fingers set off the Surefire illuminator, her palm was wedged against the foregrip, thumb looping onto the top of the handguard.

...just behind the spot she'd keep the PEQ/15 infrared illuminator-laser pointer for night-time work. But now she had neither NODs nor thermals, not even a visible-light laser, just a rifle light without enough throw to reach out 75 meters, let alone 300, and even if she had any of the aforementioned they'd be pointless when her helmet was back at the fort, her lovely camo net-covered high cut helmet with it's scrapes and bumps and her plate carrier with the carefully-patched hole where Smiles had hit her and the bust-friendly triple-curved front plate and cooling mesh construction, dump pouch and IFAK on each side of the cummerbund, the front panel held in place with Velcro and buckles that took mere seconds to switch out for a different setup... at least she had her soft armour vest underneath her rig, the reinforced belt with the holster and the sheath, further medical supplies and a couple 17-round pistol mags for the M&P9. Even the drop leg holster didn't feel as sweaty and annoying as it used to, another two rifle mags in a quick-detach pouch. Leatherman in hand, she knocked her way along the wall, slowly but surely, thorough, maybe even slightly calmer now that she wasn't in the line of fire. 

tap-tap-tap

“Uh... shit, it all sounds kinda wonky, I guess – except next to the exit.” If not for the situation, she wouldn't have been caught dead inside what would likely be a ruin without supporting girders interspersed through the room.

“Oh, Ja durak, I forgot about the door... do you remember if northern building already covers it? Coming behind you.” Mishka was back in the game, rifle on her back, two freshly wired blocks of C4 in her hands.


“I could... peek?”


“Not directly, okay? If door gives us away, then both will zero in on this shitty wall. Use a telescope or a spoon or something. Thermal camera. Something.”

Sayori exhaled, and rethought. The Humvee, armour plated as it was, seemed like the best choice, although with the novelty wearing off Sayori had to admit that it was a profoundly uncomfortable vehicle. Still, it was their best hope, and was parked on the other side of the long northern wall in the garage – to the northwest, nestled in an upside-down-L-shaped parking lot, and-


“Mish! They might not know about the Hummer, just your dinky little shit-box. Big boy's covered by the office to the northwest, like a mirrored L, kinda, if you get what I mean.”


“Just tell me where to put charges. We're blowing through and popping smoke – initial dust should already help, but between two smokes I think we can cover movement all the way!”


“Northwest corner's too sturdy, don't want it too near the machinery either... Uh... Not too far either, maybe... Jackpot! Here!” If not for the pyrotechnics, the two of them could likely have tunnelled through in under an hour, a bit longer if there weren't any tools. But shock and awe was to their advantage – speed and surprise were always applicable, but violence of action implied a stand-up fight, and they weren't getting one.


“If I go to American prison for something, I hope build quality is same or similar. No wonder Yankees hate unions so much, they think rest of world is retarded as well. Wired up – Yeshka, prep smoke, throw when wall is fucked!”

“Prepping smoke!” Sayori fumbled slightly, then grasped the cylindrical body tightly – her palms were sweating, but her Mechanix didn't seem to care. The spoon of the grenade was held between her palm and the surface of the canister, and after a visual double-check that everything was, indeed, fine, Sayori pulled the pin, tossing it aside. No going back now, as soon as the grenade left her grasp, the spoon would fly off, and the fuse would ignite.

What if you have a faulty one? “Just say the word... just say the word.” Shut up. It's safe. Until it isn't.

“Anxious?” What's the pressure increase going to be like? Ringing ears, or internal bleeding? Mishka smiled at her, tight-lipped. It was fine, and there was no turning back at this point either way. “Five, four, three, two, one, please...”


Sayori opened her mouth just in time, then opened her eyes – why didn't it-

She found herself pretty happy about her protective glasses, as it was. The explosion had been completely blocked by her ComTacs but she'd heard it – or felt it in her bones, the difference at these scales was just semantic – throughout her body regardless. Still, rattled as she was, she was already running towards their new door, smoke clutched tightly in hand, and the dust hadn't even begun to settle yet, mixing with grayish-white phosphorus smoke as the wind picked up a few tendrils. Sayori couldn't see exactly how far the cylinder had landed, but she was betting some twenty-five meters, and while the dust was too thick for accurate spotting, her Humvee was stupidly huge, its' familiar shadow looming just a 10 – 20 second run away, doors unlocked to boot.

“Suka! Fuses almost ruined everything... Is the machine there?”


“Smoke's out and car's parked.” Sayori pulled her bandana back over her face, trying to not breathe in too much of whatever Stone Age asbestos they'd slapped the walls together with. “I thought it wasn't gonna blow.”


“Fifteen seconds, then I throw the other smoke, then we run. I can go first, just in case-”


“Negative, Mish. I'll just zoom the scope out, much easier to engage a surprise fucker with an AR than a bolty, right?” Deep breaths, deep breaths, you'll need that oxygen front-loaded, like fucking Usain Bolt, the safety clicked into full auto with an instinctive forward flick of her thumb.


“You sure? You won't freeze up, right?” Speed, surprise, violence of action. Speed, surprise, violence of action. Speed, surprise...


“I pinky promise that I won't freeze up. Just tell me when I start running.” ...violence of action. Speed, surprise...


“I can't do the finger thing right now, Yeshka!”


“It's written into our hearts already, sister.” Speed, surprise, violence of action. “Our very souls. That's the power of the pinky promise.” And all you need is tempo, tempo, tempo – speed, surprise, violence of action...


“You could pass for solemn if you were not so clueless. Smoke!”


“Then how do I come off now?” speedsurpriseviolenceofaction


“You're very, very clueless. Now run, go!”


“Moving!”

Sayori suddenly felt very stupid, running into a tunnel she couldn't see through before leaving, while at least two barrels were likely pointed at that self-same tunnel. If they had thermals, well, then it was worth a try. How much ground did a smoke grenade cover? Besides, smokes were best used for denying the enemy visibility, not blinding yourself, but just where the fuck is the enemy and-”

whine
crack

Either they didn't have thermals or they were zeroed to fuck hahaha fuck fuck fuck this is like running through a nightmare except-

THUNK

Sayori hit the ground with a groan, scrambling to her feet, a pulsating pain in her side. She'd ran straight into the front hood of the vehicle, seemed like, and despite the sudden knockdown and blindness disorienting her, she was still all too aware of everything. The door swung open quietly, and Sayori briefly mused whether to wait until Mishka barrelled into the car as well, or to start the engine now.

Mishka had a tell-tale way of walking and running, in a way, considering that even with the ComTacs improving her hearing noticeably, she still had a hard time picking Mishka out, especially as another pot-shot came hitting the concrete in front of her right before the engine roared to life. And moments later, Mishka tap-tap-tapped up to the back seat, opened the door and jumped inside, and with that, Sayori remembered her pinky promise and stomped on the gas.

“You okay? Got all your limbs?” Now it's speed speed speed just speed baby, ace of spades, ace of spades, hit the road Kate, the chopper is late... They were speeding south, the side mirrors showing a slight trail of greyish-white smoke having followed the vehicle.

“All limbs, all stuff, just much less self-respect.” Mishka sighed, the camouflage netting looped through the spaces of the Viper hood gave a tell-tale rustle as she shook her head.

“Why's that?” We lived. Sayori ducked, instinctively, as a swarm of angry hornets flew past, crack-crack-crack, she'd taken a sharp turn left just as . "...looks like we just missed his friend."

“I thought I had good instincts.” Swallow your pride, please, I've seen you take bigger money-shots from Life again and again, just gulp it down. Don't mind the burning sensation, it's just shame.


“Well, you gave me the smoke... although I guess you could have done that whenever...” Sayori tried to reassure Mishka, although she was too rattled to do anything except drive the fuck away.

“Now you know what parts of war feels like. Somebody you do not see shoots at you, and maybe you shoot at a silhouette you saw for half a second. And then you're pinned for a day.” Fucking adventure of a lifetime right there.

whine
clang
crack

“Awww, they're still trying. Won't get through these plates, sorry.” You blind fucks, just you wait, just wait, I can make you two beg for the chance to buff out that scratch with your tongues...


“Never thought I would be happy about this over-sized Lego car.”


Sayori gave a shaky exhale, fumbled at the dashboard, and almost snapped the delicate white in two before bringing it to her lips. Her Bic was just sparking and sparking, her annoyance grew so much she almost didn't notice the tap on her shoulder, and just as she turned her head backwards, finding a nice long straight, she huffed with annoyance.


“Here. Light.”

“Hampf...” ...couldn't hit a cunt wall if you went balls deep, you fucking amateurs... “Uh, thanks.”

Camels were out, American Spirits were in. Not that she could taste the difference all that well anymore. It was just nice to get a lungful of smoke for whatever reason. Mishka cleared her throat.



“I know, I know, I said I was cutting down, but after something like-” ...gouge your fucking eyes out just so you can have an excuse for being worth half your weight in shit...

“No. Debil. Give me a cigarette. Please.” Oh.


Sayori tossed the pack over her shoulder, carefully taking a turn. No sense in outwitting a sniper duo, and getting outsmarted by a bend in the road.


“Didn't know you smoked.”

“Only on special occasions.”

Sayori couldn't help smiling a little – it was like all the tension in her body was leaving through her lower jaw and her fingers, her teeth chattering quietly.


“You know, I thought that maybe they have thermals, and it's all pointless, but I guess they didn't. Right?”

“Maybe they were just stupid.”

“Those inbred blind drunk wastes of a trigger finger?”

“Same two, if you can believe it.”

“So there's no non-smokers in foxholes? Only heard about atheists...” ...Mishka I swear to God if you don't have a plan cooking right now I will go down there after dark and cut them so fucking bad...

“Kind of both, I guess. Did you make any dumb wishes when running? Prayers, maybe?”

“I... uh... can't remember – don't think so.” Sayori coughed. “Does the pinky promise count?”


“On technicality.” Mishka laughed and shook her head. “But your soul is going to hell.” ...plenty of fucking company down there at least...

“Noted.” Turn right past the gas station an- “Mishka? First time in months we meet others, and they shoot on sight?”

“Yes?”

“Just... what does this mean? Why?” And when are we going back to finish what they couldn't?

“If I knew I would tell you. But thermals?” Mishka threw the half-smoked stick out of the window. “Pack them with you, bring spare batteries, and start being quiet and small. Maybe move. Compound is visible kilo-meters out.”

“But... our stuff... all the trailers... Izzy's grave...” No. Somebody has to tend to it when you get sick. Izzy would have done it for me a thousand times over. It's my fault, my duty and my punishment.

“We can hide the stuff. And the trailers might be graves for all they help.” Mishka sighed. “I missed Izzy for such a long time. And I will continue to miss her. No matter where she lays."

“...” Please.

“I have seen the world. And shot at many different exotic people. There are much better places to bleed out than this backwoods with corn growing everywhere and houses made of cardboard asbestos.”