The sound as soft as a heartbeat. Val mummurs, refusing to wake up. The coat is dry and warm, and her cot is surprisingly stable.
*Thump
Louder. Closer. But still soft. Possibly part of the dream. She nuzzles into her arm folded under her head. Sleep, honest to gods sleep, is worth more than her memory of the clear blue sky. The wind in her hair. The sound of laughter- not the hollow sort of laughter down here. That dark and horrid sound of resignation turned into a desperate rejection of reality. Not the forced compliance to laugh and be cheerful around Father. Not the-
*THUMP
The cot shunts backwards as the young woman springs to her feet. Eyes wide, she waits in that stillness between dream and reality. Unsure of which is-
*Boom!
The blast shakes her little hut of plywood and galvanized roof panels. Lights flicker. Her heart races. Val scrambles to drag on her mismatched boots and clamber over the short distance to her work bench. Reaching underneath, she pulls out the one box that was never meant to be used for medicine.
The ancient weapons locker, emblazoned with a sickle motif, flies open with a dreadful creak. She reaches inside without hesitation. Trembling hands tear away a ratty cloth covering, only to put hands on cold, oil protected, steel and lacquered wood.
Val stands, drawing up the Kalashnikov rifle. She reaches into the crate and struggles to drag out the heavy ammo can next. Dropping it loudly on the floor, she pops it open to steal two full magazines into her pants pockets. She holds up the rifle to a scream of her muscles, protesting in unison. The rifle is old, it’s heavy, and… her eyes squint against the iron sights. Sputtering to remember, she searches the work bench for her glasses.
Tucked away as a bookmark in the medical journal, the small brass colored frames feel like a last breath of calm. Blissfully unaware, the scuffed lenses reflect the warm glow of the murky incandescent bulb that hangs just overhead. Any other day. Any other time. She would relent sitting and reading the incomprehensible pages for hours… She snatches the glasses out of the book and dons them in a hurry.
Another blast shatters her reality. Dirt flies by the opening of the shack with incredible force.
IV drips rattle and fall to the floor. Patients groan and stir through medicated numbness. The light fails its valiant effort against that dark night. Heart rate monitors soon follow.
Val whimpers, gut sinking, and rushes to make things right- tucking IV bags under arms. Whispering soft but distant hopes and a few prayers too. Before turning to bolt out the door in order to defend the last precious moments her friends and family have left.
—
One badass guitar solo later, the air clears enough for the mech to power through to the now cavernous opening. A few steps in, the machine stops dead in its tracks.
The spotlight falls onto a frail figure doing their level best to keep the rifle from dropping off target.
Staggered. Confused. Outraged. “WHat in sam hell is goin’ on here?! Who the hell are you?!”
A burst of smoke, sound, and shrapnel. The rifle bucks hard and the poor woman hasn’t the body-weight to control it. They backpedal, fighting to keep their footing.
Three bits of scrap metal falls to the dirt covered tracks below. The mech's force-field shimmers.
You’re welcome.
“Like it could have broken through. That relic is how fucking old?”
Classic AK-74. 5.45x39mm. Archaic by today's standards of course. But still more than enough to stop any average Joe stupid enough to take it head on… Do not make it a habit madam.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
The mech lurches forward, leaning in and broadcasting loudly over external speakers. “Sweet-heart that relic ain’t gonna do piss against my armor. So why don’t you put that down and we try again. Huh?” To the Vanguard's dismay, the young woman does the opposite.
Backing away, glare still transfixed on the abomination of steel before her, they reach out to find a rope- attached to an old copper bell.
“Honey, don’t do th-“
The bell rings out loud, caterwauling- only for a moment.
Melted copper falls in red hot blobs. The woman with the rifle jumps away.
The mech’s simple helmet mounted laser cannon ticks cool, but the air around it still sizzles. “See, that’s just plain rude.” She admonishes them. “We clearly got off on the wrong foot. So how ‘bouts we fix that?” The mech’s chest, arms, and legs crack open to reveal the pilot underneath.
A staggeringly too-tall woman hops out with energy. She begins to stretch her muscles, of which are clear to anyone, and rolls her neck to a satisfying pop. Drab army green tank top shows off tanned but fair skin. Army cargo pant are scrunched at the waist by a web of utility harnesses, and at the bottom by massive combat boots. “Name’s M1 Hazard. You can just call me Hazard.” She snickers running a hand through her hair- natural brunette on the sides that are undercut very short while a mohawk of bleach blonde flare rises up and flops to one side. “Call me Karen and I’ll back hand you into next week.” Hazard pushes forward an offer of a handshake.
Now out of the mech, and helped generously by the spotlight, Hazard gets a good look at the cadaver standing defiantly in front of her. The large coat is nothing but a sham. It’s not filled by a person, it’s held up entirely by starch and grime. The person undernearth is held up entirely by spite and determination. A bony figure that is far past starvation. Pieced together clothes. Broken glasses. Patchy, unwashed, brittle, shoulder length hair. Sickly yellowed skin that probably hasn’t seen the light of day in years. Hazard’s heart begins to quiet, taking a well deserved back seat to worry.
“Небезпека?? ти просто Американська собака” the woman spits with venom, raising the rifle back up. Shakily.
Hazard blinks repeatedly. “Pardon the fuck? What did you just say? I don’t think I like your tone.”
I do believe she just called you an American Dog. In Ukrainian. I cannot say I disagree with her initial assessment. It is quite common among your peers. But, I am curious-
Eyes roll. Hazard cuts off her AI with a snarl, “Look here missy. I am not here to hurt you. Can you just tell me your name?” she opens her hands, palms up and empty, as a show of good faith.
“Валентина”
Valentyna. Or, phonetically, Vu-lyn-TI-nuh.
“Great.” Hazard quips sarcastically. “So, Valentina, can you tell me what the fuck you’re doing down here and, more importantly, if you’ve seen any aliens come this way?”
Gybralton happily replays an exact likeness of Hazard’s voice translated into Ukrainian. It earns a scowl, but the AI is unbothered.
Val responds in a heavy Slavic accent. “The only alien here is you, Invader.”
That quiet backseat her heart took didn’t last long. Hazard’s temper flares with the insult. Only to be blindsided by the perfectly understandable english. 'Gybbs, did you do that or am I going fucking bonkers from the sewer gas and stale as fuck air down here?' She fires across her mind-link.
I was wondering how long you were going to take to realized. How do you think she was responding to your questions before I started translating?
Hazard snarls again, eyes unfocused as she fights the internal battle. 'So then you didn’t need to translate at all you bastard?!'
No, no I did not. But I did so in order to better build to the punch-line, I thought it quite clever.
Val takes advantage of the distraction- Another burst of smoke and gun-fire. Just as before, the force-field protects its pilot.
Seems she really does not like you. Gybralton sneers playfully as he pulls the Mech’s gauntlet back from shielding Hazard just in time.
Hazard reconnects to the moment and her blood boils.
Val shrugs. A now typical Slavic cynicism in her voice, “Can’t blame me for trying.”
“Oooh-ho-ho, I’ll do more than that.”
Counter point. For the moment that is. Where are reinforcements? They should have been here by now to assist our malnourished combatant.
“Hold the phone- Hey! Yeah. Do you realize you’ve fired that thing six times and rang that god-damn bell and yet none of your buddies have come to help?” Hazard reiterates with less decorum.
Val’s eyes bulge out of her gaunt face. The rifle safety clicks and she turns to run, stumbling at the door to the shack- she slips and falls, cursing. When she drags herself to her feet, the spare mags have fallen from her pockets but she doesn’t care. She quickly checks on her patients. “[Izaak. Shh, calm now. I’ll be right back. Hold this.]” She presses his IV bag into his hand before darting to the other. The older woman is reaching out, muttering incoherently in a panic. “[Uliana. Dear. Go back to sleep. I promise, everything will be alright.]” Val places a cool hand on bandages wrapped around their eyes and forehead, and tries to settle them back down. “Shhh.”
As the old lady softly whimpers in distress, Hazard’s shadow stretches long across the floor as she braces one arm against the wilting structure. “Holy fuck…” she worries under her breath.
Val doesn’t waste a moment, she hurries out past the vanguard with nothing but an angry glare over slouching glasses. She gets a few painful paces down the tunnel before she hobbles to a stop. Val turns, dragging the rifle up to her chest, and yells back Hazard who hasn’t left the empty door frame, “If you are here to kill us. Just do it quick. We’ve suffered enough.”
The big woman swallows hard… But doesn’t reply.
Val turns again, towards the shanty town and curses at her legs to run.
Suspense'