Chapter 6 - Delirium

 

Leros’ right eye twitched as she shook the hand of her new partner. Sizing him up, she found Oliver rather lacking, and hid her distaste the best she could. One thing was for sure, his palms were sweaty.

‘Guess I’ll be your spotter starting from now, huh?’ she said, wiping her hands discreetly, ‘You know what spotters do?’

‘Uh, yes ma'am, the instructor told me.’

‘No need to be so formal, Oliver is it? I’m only two ranks above you. Call me Leros.’

‘Sure, call me Ollie then.’ 

She would much rather not.

‘Mind if I ask where you got your name from, it’s not local is it?’ he asked.

Oh great, another one. It’s always the name.

‘Yeah, it is.’ she lied, ‘Funny people live round here, right?’

No they don’t.

‘Rigghtt,’ he said, not wholly swayed, but dropped the topic, ‘Want to meet the rest of the squad? They’re at the barracks.’

‘Why not, let’s get going then.’

‘I’ll carry your bags for you.’

He reached down to take one of two suitcases, but Leros intercepted and picked both up, struggling with her rifle strap. 

‘No, it’s good, lead the way.’

Oliver was stumped for a while, and then chuckled nervously.

‘Got it, through here.’

They passed the boundaries of the gate, which slammed shut behind them. Back here, compared to the front, it was quiet, the only noise coming from the occasional gunfire from the range and relentless screaming from some unhappy instructor. 

‘Yeah, sorry for that, it gets louder nearer to the evening.’

Kid, if you think this is loud, you’re about to shit yourself when we get over there.

Only hours before, she had been at the 88th’s HQ, preparing to leave. Some of her comrades were sympathetic, wishing her swift return, others more disparaging, crying “Coward” and other less endearing terms. She had never really settled down, a lone wolf through and through. Not at least, since that incident. The thought of it brought a tear to her cheek, and she brushed it off. Ahead, Oliver’s back was to her, talking all the while about camp life, all of it drowned out by her mind. With her head down, Leros could finish teaching the basics to this moron, and be done with it. Back to hunting, back to what she knew best. 

‘So, any questions? Don’t be afraid to ask, you know.’

‘No, no, I’ve got the gist.’

‘Great, we’re here now.’

They stood before a decrepit one storey building, extended with no concern for architectural integrity or decorum in mind. Leros was no stranger to appalling conditions, yet this seemed to trump the thought of even sleeping in a puddle for two nights, on a midsummer day. Oliver had entered, and Leros followed suit. 

‘Welcome to Hotel Charlie, I guess, haha.’ he laughed weakly.

‘Charlie?’

‘Yeah, we’re Charlie company, split into two platoons of three squads. We’re in 5th squad.’

Please don’t make any more jokes, they’re awful.

The building was separated by a single corridor, with as appropriate, six doors lining the walls, each adorned with a number and insignia. They passed by the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and finally settled on the 5th, which had the heraldry of a stag bearing the number five. Noble, beautiful and proud, at least they got one thing right, the 3rd squad had decided on the most fearsome chicken as their mascot. 

‘Oh and word of warning, some of us are pretty enthusiastic.’ Oliver scratched his head, ‘I’m sure you’ll feel at home here, though, they’re nice people really.’

With that, he turned the knob, and opened the door. Kate and Ingram were being tutored by Archibald on the dangers of over modifying their machine gun, while Peter snoozed on a chair, abandoning a game of chess with Simon, who instead set to work cleaning the quarters. Yvonne was in the process of finishing a letter, and Matt was the first to welcome the newcomer.

‘Damn, girl, you are fine!’ Matt stopped cleaning his rifle, and put a hand around her shoulder, ‘I didn’t know a cutie was being transferred in.’

As a response, Leros twisted his hand and rebuked his advances.

‘Try that again and I’ll cut this hand off, clear?’

Matt rubbed his sore hand, and nodded, eyes watering ever so slightly.

‘Oh don’t mind Matthew, he’s the bane of every woman in this camp, the name’s Simon, I’ll be your Squad Leader.’

Over his uniform, Simon wore overalls with frilly patterns, dustpan in one hand and brush in the other.

Great, two more idiots.

Ingram started with his name, but was drowned out by Kate, who pumped her hand enthusiastically. 

‘That was a great hold, could you teach it to me?’

‘Uh, I don’t know if I can really…’

‘Kate, settle down.’ Archibald straightened his glasses, “My name is Archibald, come to me if you need any mechanical assistance, I oversee that the squad is in optimal fighting condition.’

Not so much an idiot, but a prude, yes.

‘Ingram, that’s me. Seriously, can I know that move?’

I can’t just teach it, you muscle for brains.

Yvonne responded at last, putting away her writing utensils and tapping at Peter.

‘This little guy’s Peter, he gets tired from playtime, so he needs to nap sometimes.’

‘I can hear you, Yvonne, my eyes were just closed.’

‘Pleased to meet you…’

‘Leros, Private First Class Leros.’

‘That’s an odd name.’ piped up Peter.

Not this again.

 

{---}

 

Halsworth broke her reverie as feeble sun rays pierced her blindfolds. It was too good a day, which was becoming less and less common as Autumn began to set in, and even that made her uncomfortable. The months following the last proper Council of Keys meeting had put her on edge, especially those parting words from Wilkeshire, poison dripping from every syllable. Was she being watched even now? Was toast and butter incriminating proof of the Head’s luxuries whilst the people made do with hardtack and sour milk? A newspaper was draped across her seat, as she had asked her secretary to do, with a still-warm flask of coffee beside the typewriter. The only new addition to the company of furniture was the Head of Treasury, Rafael Whistletop, seated comfortably on her favourite mahogany chair, sipping green tea that had been obviously provided from the Qing Embassy across the street. Those odd people from the East were always generous with their gifts, just the other day a bouquet of foreign flowers and paper cranes had been left at the doorstep, eyed at inquisitively by less aware bypassers. 

‘What brings you into my office today, Treasury?’ she settled into her seat, and idly read through the newspapers.

‘Halsworth, when I’m in your office, that normally means one of two things. I’m either short of money, or have too much to spend, can you guess which one it is today?’

The headline read :

Price of flour increased to 4 coppers to a kilogram, stocks low.

‘Treasury, when you were sworn into that office, you were made abundantly clear about the duties and risks of the job.’

‘Yes, I must’ve skipped that part of the orienteering course.’ Rafael returned sarcastically, swirling his cup, ‘There’s nothing that can be done about it, unless we increase supply from the farms, or begin importing goods from abroad, and that requires-’

‘I am not, for the last time, Rafael, authorising our navy to leave the docks, they’ll be chewed up out there, have you any idea how large the Imperial Fleet is?’

‘It’s a risk that’s worth taking, most our boats are outdated pieces of junk, they clog up resources that could go elsewhere, might as well make them useful for a while.’

‘Junk or not, they are our only line of defence from coastal invasion, I will not allow it.’

Rafael tapped the cup he held, face neutral. He then retired from his chair, and set the cup down on a mantelpiece.

‘Head, the people are discontent, a decision must be reached, and soon.’

 

{---}

 

Quincy was your archetypical worker of Silveria, having gone from a blacksmith working away at his trade to starting his own weapons production facility, where he thrived and amassed a small fortune. He was well aware of the fact that he was behind on his 120 coppers monthly due to the Treasury, but that never bothered him, he always paid in the end. Equipped with a trenchcoat and fedora, he looked like any other working man on the Main Street, though he was far from average. 

Suddenly, another man bumped into him, and he dropped his briefcase. Taking it up, the other man apologised, before stopping. Quincy smiled, and shook the hand of Festus, his companion. They took a sharp left turn into the sodding underfoot of an alleyway, a hotspot for drug trades. The addicts lining the walls made that claim all the more believable. 

It was the less pleasant side of Silveria, the corrupt core of the nation, where festering wounds of poverty and desperation oozed pus. They continued unbothered, chatting in an animated manner, before reaching a dingy and unlit shopfront. Looking left and right, and seeing no immediate onlookers, they entered. 

The two were met by what seemed like an ordinary shop. At the back of the store was a counter, manned by a tall and thin man with spectacles resting on the very end of his nose, as if he was constantly plagued with contempt. Festus approached, and said a string of incomprehensible words. Then, nodding as if he understood, the tall man turned and fiddled with a point in the wall, before it opened up into a corridor. 

Quincy took off his fedora, ducked into the corridor and walked. Festus took a last measured look behind him, and went in after his companion. The door closed, with the letters S I C imprinted into its front.