EPISODE 20: TRUST
Striding confidently into the corridors of the office, I approach the meeting room where an emergency gathering has been summoned.
“Enter,” comes the CEO’s deep, authoritative voice.
Pushing the door open, I notice several of my colleagues are conspicuously absent. DORA is already seated, arms rigidly crossed, a mask of feigned comprehension clouding his face.
Ohime-sama, exuding an air of aristocratic elegance, takes a deliberate drag from her ornate cigarette holder. Somewhere, perhaps concealed within her shadow, is TSUKI.
TADPOLE stands poised by the edge of the table, deftly mirroring the screen of his tablet onto the video projector overhead.
“What news do you bring?” Ohime-sama inquires in a tone that commands attention, as I take my place next to DORA.
I clear my throat, “According to the intel and the list of flights within that timeframe, UMA has departed the country with the Triad’s captive, and their potential destination is Italy.”
TADPOLE interjects, “Simultaneously, GON and NANAYA have vanished within the confines of Chinatown. It’s premature to accuse the Triads directly. There appears to be a potential link between the recent terrorist assault by the peculiar mercenaries that ambushed our office and this incident.”
Ohime-sama’s demeanour turns contemplative. “I brokered a deal with them. Their primary objective was to destabilize the Triads. Although their deeper intentions remain enigmatic, the crux was clear: once the Triads were incapacitated, we would assume their shares. This acquisition would secure our undisputed dominion over Chinatown. Our contribution to this alliance was merely financial. It never occurred to me that they would act with such rashness. Had they shared their tactical approach, I would have categorically commanded our personnel to seek shelter within our compound. Their very actions, however, bespeak a deep-seated distrust towards us. They pledged to search for our colleagues and ensure their safety. Given the present circumstances, their assurances ring hollow. UMA’s situation will be addressed in due time. But for now, retaliation is paramount. The affront delivered by the Major demands retribution.”
Though I had anticipated such a resolution, reservations linger. “Yet, the whereabouts of these adversaries remain elusive, correct? And with three of our Black Dogs absent, aren’t we at a disadvantage?”
With a sly smirk, punctuated by a drag from her cigarette holder, Ohime-sama declares, “Anticipating your hesitations, I took the liberty of summoning an additional force to bolster our ranks. COME!”
The instant her command rings out, the room quivers under a forceful stomp, reminiscent of an impending seismic event. Another resonant thud ensues, and before our senses can decipher the origin, the ceiling shatters. Descending from the debris, a recognizable figure lands with such might that our meeting table fractures beneath her.
Clad in her signature grey kimono adorned with floral motifs, URCHIN ecstatically leaps into the distressed TADPOLE’s embrace. “MY DEAR TADPOLE! HOW I MISSED YOU!!!”
A chuckle escapes me as I witness the unparalleled might of this titan, who could effortlessly best UMA, GON, DORA, and myself in a melee. Her presence makes us invincible.
In the ensuing chaos, it dawns upon me that DORA acted as our shield, deflecting plummeting ceiling chunks. His heroic intervention tore his shirt, unveiling a grandiose, colourful tattoo of a dragon sprawled across his back.
Nevertheless, our primary concern remains unaddressed—the adversaries’ location is still a mystery. As if she was reading my mind, Ohime-sama, with a final drag from her cigarette holder, proclaims, “Now, we patiently await the esteemed agency to illuminate our path.”
My chest tightens, a whirling dervish of emotion rampaging within, as contradictory feelings crash against one another. The remnants of fear, resentment, and a misplaced sort of nostalgia curdle in my stomach, making me nauseous. My throat is dry, parched, but I swallow hard, steeling myself for the confrontation that awaits.
I slowly push myself to a sitting position, defiance fuelling my movements despite the evident weakness pervading my limbs. I take in the figure standing before me, the one I once called ‘brother’, the Major—or what’s left of him. He’s a bitter semblance of the person who once held both reverence and terror in my young heart. His face, like a weathered battlefield, is a patchwork of scars, marred further by a cruel imitation of a smile that doesn’t reach his surviving eye. That once piercing green orb now looks dull, clouded with years of rage and resentment.
“It’s been a while,” he says, voice dripping with mock warmth. “You’ve changed a lot.”
The room seems smaller with him in it, the air denser, heavy with memories of battles fought, both within and without.
“Likewise,” I respond, trying to keep my voice steady.
It’s painful, looking at him. Part of me wants to shout, to unleash the years of pent-up anger and betrayal that festered in the isolated corners of my heart, but another part—a much younger, much more naïve part—quivers, wrenched with a potent concoction of pity and longing for a figure who was once everything to me.
“Major,” I croak out, my throat parched and voice barely above a whisper. “Why bring me here?”
He lets out a deep chuckle, leaning against a steel table, his prosthetic leg making a slight metallic sound upon contact. “Isn’t it obvious, White Snake? After everything you’ve done, you think I’d let you live peacefully on that godforsaken island?”
“Then why not just kill me? Why go through all the trouble of this grand reunion?” I challenge, though my bravado falters when met with the weight of his gaze.
He smirks, running his gloved hand over his golden hair, which gleams under the dim overhead lights. “Ah. Death is never what I wanted for you. You deserve to witness the consequences of your betrayal firsthand.” The major’s gaze darkens, and his voice grows icy. “When you left, you took something with you. A piece of my soul, my pride. You think I can’t see the ghosts that haunt you, White Snake? I brought you here so you can confront them. Can you walk? Come.”
He guides me to what looks like a rearranged underground parking lot, its vastness echoing our every step. I swallow hard, glimpsing the figures scattered around. The ghostly visages of people who shouldn’t be here, yet stand before me with a terrifying reality, a twisted re-creation of the comrades we once lost. It’s like looking into a mirror reflecting a distorted past, a grim parody crafted from memories tainted with bitterness and despair.
“You’re insane,” I murmur, the realization hitting me like a ton of bricks.
“You left, but I never could. The past binds me,” he admits with a melancholy tone, his single green eye staring into the void of memories. “You need to understand, to remember. And maybe, just maybe, find the redemption you’ve been running from.”
His words hold a twisted sincerity, suggesting a deep-seated pain. It dawns on me that, in his own warped way, the major may still care for me.
As I glance around again, a sudden realization washes over me. These people, these doppelgangers, aren’t the same individuals I knew. They simply emanate the same aura, a reflection of our shared past.
I shake off the shock, the tremors of disbelief giving way to a surge of indignation. My voice, when it comes, is raw and jagged, tainted with bitterness and years of untamed rage. My anger flares, hot and visceral. I can’t believe he’s dragged me into this nightmarish tableau, using these shadows of our shared history as pawns in his twisted game. The audacity of his actions, the sheer depth of his obsession, is almost unfathomable. How can he be so chained to the past that he’d go to such extremes, harm so many innocent lives, and even endanger those dear to me, all for what? To throw me into some guilt trip? It’s not just cruel—it’s deranged.
“You think this will break me?” I snap, my voice laced with a cold fury. “All this? This circus of your own making? You’re deluded. I’ve made my peace with our past. I’ve found my redemption. But what about you? You stand there, pointing fingers, casting blame, but have you ever looked in the mirror? Ever faced your own demons and asked yourself what you need to atone for?”
His hypocrisy is galling. I’ve journeyed through the depths of my guilt and emerged stronger, more resolute. But him? He wallows in his self-pity, wraps himself in the memories, refusing to move forward.
But even as I spit out the words, there’s a tremble in my voice, a quiver of doubt betraying the anguish buried deep within. I am not just angry. I am hurt, gutted by the grotesque display of the past standing before me.
His eye narrows, the smile fading as he observes me, a curious mix of anger and something else lingering in his gaze—something deeper, more wretched. It’s as if he is both a hunter savouring the sight of trapped prey, and a lost child seeking validation, understanding from the one person who might, just might, offer it.
“See? This is what I wanted,” he hisses, the mirth in his voice replaced by a seething fury. “To see you broken, to see you remember.”
“What you want is to drown in your misery and pull everyone else down with you,” I retort, the bitterness evident. “This is not about me. This is about you, your inability to move on, your desperation to pin the blame on anyone but yourself.”
He laughs, but it’s a hollow sound, devoid of any real joy. “Move on? Like you did? You ran, White Snake. You ran from it all, and you think I don’t know about the nights you wake up screaming, drenched in sweat?”
I grit my teeth, refusing to let him see how much his words affect me. “Yes, I have my nightmares. Yes, I have my regrets. But at least I’ve tried to make amends, to find a path to healing. What have you done? Built a twisted shrine to the past? Played puppet master with innocent lives to serve your demented fantasies?”
There’s a pause, the tension palpable, as he seems to wrestle with his emotions. “You don’t get it. I can’t move on. Not when every day is a reminder of what I’ve lost, what you took from me.”
“Remember when you ‘bought’ me, Major?” I sneer, allowing the venom in my voice to make its presence felt. “You said you’d give me a better life, pull me out of that hellhole. But all you did was throw me into another kind of hell.”
His eye narrows further, watching me warily. “I gave you power, strength. Taught you to defend yourself, to be someone people would fear, instead of someone to be stepped on.”
My laughter is a bitter sound, tinged with years of suppressed rage. “You didn’t give me strength; you forged a weapon. You just replaced the chains I had with ones of your own design. The only difference was that you draped them in gold and called it a favour.”
He steps closer, that faux warmth slipping as anger creases his features. “I saved you from being sold, from a life of endless abuse! Without me, you’d have been a slave, used and thrown away.”
I shake my head, disgusted. “I wasn’t saved, I was transferred—from one master to another. You manipulated my gratitude, my dependency, warped my sense of self-worth till I was nothing more than a puppet, dancing to your every command.”
“You were a child soldier, weak and broken,” he hisses. “I made you fierce, unstoppable.”
“No,” I shoot back, “you took advantage of a broken child, brainwashed me into believing you were my saviour. But all along, you used me. Every mission, every kill, every drop of blood on my hands—it was all for you, for your agenda.”
His posture stiffens, defences up. “I did what I had to do. You were a resource, an asset. It was a cruel world, and I gave you the tools to survive it.”
“You didn’t give me tools; you gave me scars,” I retort, eyes blazing with a mix of hurt and defiance. “You told me the pain would make me stronger, that the nightmares were just a part of who I was. But all you did was ensure that I would never be free, never be anything more than the weapon you moulded me to be.”
The Major’s face contorts, struggling to come to terms with my words. The guise of his superiority, his righteousness, is cracking, showing the delusion beneath.
“You needed guidance, discipline. I took you under my wing, and this is how you repay me? By spitting in my face?” His voice rises, an edge of desperation creeping in.
“No,” I breathe out, my voice firm but laced with sorrow. “What I needed was understanding, compassion, someone to help me heal. Instead, you added to my trauma, justifying it as ‘tough love’. You might’ve bought me, but you never saved me. You never cared about the child that was scarred, only about the soldier you could carve out from those scars.”
His gaze wavers, the facade crumbling, revealing a man haunted by his choices, a man grappling with the realization of his own monstrous actions. For the briefest of moments, there’s an inkling of regret in his eyes, but it’s swiftly buried beneath layers of denial.
“You … you just don’t understand,” he stammers, backing away, the weight of my truths too much for him to bear.
“I do,” I reply, more softly this time. “Better than you ever did.”
The palpable tension in the underground parking lot has drawn most of the Major’s team closer. They encircle us, their predatory gazes locked onto me, ready to act at the Major’s slightest command.
Suddenly, feeling my audacity as disrespect, two of his henchmen seize me from behind, attempting to pin my arms and immobilize me. But their underestimation is their downfall. With a swift, fluid movement of my waist, I expertly throw them over, their bodies crashing onto the cold concrete floor.
As I free myself from their grasp, I sharply bring my foot down, stomping on the head of one, making sure he remains incapacitated. Standing tall, I point assertively at the crowd surrounding me, my voice echoing through the vast space. “YOU ARE NOT GHOSTS! NEITHER ARE YOU! AND NEITHER ARE YOU! YOU ARE NOT THE SHADOWS OF THE DEAD, AND YOU ARE NOT OUTCASTS! YOU ARE FREE TO BE WHO YOU TRULY ARE! DON’T LET OTHERS FORCE YOU INTO A ROLE! DON’T LET THEM MANIPULATE YOU INTO BECOMING SOMEONE YOU’RE NOT!”
I turn my gaze to the boy dressed in a pristine white blouse, his face obscured by a mask eerily reminiscent of 1st Lieutenant Kalakuna’s. With a genuine, radiant smile, I then lock eyes with the Major, catching him off guard with a phrase from our shared past. “Everything is a weapon in the Punjab desert.”
The satisfaction that courses through me is evident. Finding closure with this facet of my history, I bask in the Major’s shock, reclaiming the narrative on my own terms, shaping it with my own interpretation.
