Child Knight

"Excuse me…," Zima said, pushing the door gently. Of course, no one answered.

We can stay for free as long as we want then.

Ignoring her own thought, the girl continued down the hallway, which led her to a staircase in the corner of the room. There was an elevator near those stairs, actually. Unfortunately, like most facilities in Mikoyan, it's no longer worked.

You really can't rely on technology, huh.

Muttering that to herself, Zima kept climbing from one floor to the next. Until she finally reached the level she was looking for: the fifth floor.

She crept down the left hallway. Her rifle was aimed forward, ready to be shot. Meanwhile, her eyes scanned every door. After cautiously mapping the corridor, she stopped right in front of room number 511.

He was shooting from the farthest left window of this floor. Which means he has to be inside this room.

Zima grabbed the doorknob and turned it slightly. A creaking sound came from it. Instantly, she pressed her back against the wall, taking cover. Her eyes widened, staring at the door, waiting for a reaction. But nothing happened.

Alright….

Once again, she grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The same creak echoed. Softly. But concerning enough.

Does he not hear it?

Zima then pushed the door as carefully as she could. The room within it slowly came into view. Along with the target she had been looking for.

"Oh!"

"Die, swine!!!"

Instantly, a loud burst of gunfire erupted from inside the room. A volley of machine gun bullets ripped through the wall, the door, and the girl's body. The sudden attack knocked her flat onto the hallway. Her body was covered in gruesome holes.

I should've known that, Zima regretted, gritting through the pain.

From inside of the room, a young man in gray uniform stepped out, while pointing a sub-machine gun. It's muzzle still breathed out hot steam. He was one of the Fascist soldier, those who were ransacked Mikoyan for the last two weeks.

"Did you get him?" A hoarse voice asked from inside the room.

"Yeah… I got... her," the soldier answered hesitantly, after knowing who he just shot.

"Her?"

"It's a girl. She's... just a kid too."

"Is she armed?" the voice asked again.

"Yeah," the soldier said, immediately spotting a Mosin-Nagant rifle on the floor.

"Most kids in Gurevich have been taught to shoot since they were little. Judging by their conflicted history, it seems they've been deliberately prepared for this kind of situation."

"I know that."

"Don't dwell on it. If you hadn't done it, she's be the one putting a hole in our heads. You did what needed to be done."

"Yeah, I know," the soldier said, turning toward the room. "But still, a kid is—"

"That's way too naïve, you know."

"Ahhk!!!"

The soldier was suddenly shoved against the wall. His eyes went wide, and so did his mouth. A sore scream came out clear, mixed with shock. From up close, shot in a vital area, his shots should have killed anyone. And the poor girl had indeed been dead just moments ago.

"Y-you…. How...."

Yet there she was, standing in front of him, staring with her two sharp eyes. She even drove the bayonet on her Mosin-Nagant right onto his chest, clean.

"You don't need to know. Besides, it's too late."

Having said that, the girl pulled out her bayonet. Then, without a second's delay, she aimed the muzzle of her rifle at the soldier's head, pulled the trigger, and sent him straight to another dimension.

"Frederick?"

A voice came from inside the room.

Right. There's still one more.

Zima peeked through the doorway, searching for the owner of that voice. Instantly, she was met with another burst of gunfire.

"!!"

But it stopped after a few seconds.

These people do love wasting ammo.

Zima stormed in, aiming her rifle. It pointed directly at a young man leaning against the corner of the room. Another Fascist soldier. His pistol was pointed at Zima. But for some reason he didn't take the shot, as if shocked with the appearance of the girl.

Zima also didn't pull the trigger, looking onto the condition of the soldier. His left hand was injured, broken at the least. His legs were in bad shape too, both wrapped in bandages. His face also looked familiar.

"The soldier I just killed, was he your brother?" Zima asked.

The soldier found the question strange and brutally cold. But after a few moments of silence, he decided to open his mouth.

"How did you know?"

Zima shrugged and said, "Because you two look alike."

The soldier didn't respond to that offhand guess. He just stayed there, dazed. Of course, the gloomy expression on his face gave Zima her answer.

"Aren't you angry?" the girl asked.

"I'm not sure," the soldier replied.

He let out a long breath, as if trying to purge all the doubt from his heart.

"From the start, we only had two fates. Either win, or die. But with kind of condition, I guess winning wouldn't even means much for me."

Cold wind slipped in through the open window. Snowflakes crept in one by one, floating like velvet, before melting as they touched the floor. The Fascist soldier lifted his face. He showed a faint smile and said, "Tell me, how old are you, Miss?"

"Me? I'm—"

Zima had just opened her mouth to answer that question. But the dying soldier shot her dead on the head. It was his last round, and he didn't miss. The girl's got knocked to the floor—again—with a loud thud.

***