Misty Eyes

Deep in the jungles of Concursus, over Caspian airspace, a dropship flew. It towered over the jungles below it, and though its monstrous visage like a lumbering giant crept over the greenery, it did so silently. This was undeniably a staple of Caspian technology. Their mastery of the air, the wind, it was as if they commanded how you breathed.

It stopped, hovered. There were flat lands below it, perfect for a temporary camping site. Although directly below it as well was jungle trees that littered the entire area, if not the entire planet. It dropped a flare as it illuminated briefly the dark silent night.

The ship fired its silent air cannons below it. It sent a shockwave that blasted everything in its path, clearing the entire area of trees, greenery, and wildlife. Then, it got sucked back before it made too much noise. The process happened within less than a second. For any sensors nearby, the small blip in their recordings would appear like nothing more than a bird flapping its wings through their recorders.

The blasted clearing made for a good landing spot, but Caspian dropships never land. It hovered, wide doors opened. Stood in formation inside were the 44th Biowarfare Squadron, known by the many that lived to tell the tale as, “Faceless”.

They wore caped wings that covered their body from the chill winds. It may be the only discernible human thing about them, the fact that they could feel the chill. Not a single patch of skin could be seen beneath their clothing, not even hair nor eyes. They wore gas masks, in their eyes emit a red glow. No one knows what lay beneath that haunting glow, only that if people saw it, it’s over.

They spread their arms in unison and let the air flow through capes. Then, they jumped. One by one they threw themselves towards the ground, with no parachute the only thing they could rely on are their capes. There, slowly, they fell.

*

Could love bloom on the battlefield? That’s a question that has overtaken Misha Levitsky. She gazed vividly upon a red flower given to her by her lover. He said he preserved it especially for her, that it traveled ten thousand light years to meet her. That it bloomed years ago. That it represented his undying love for her.

Though they were a tale of star-crossed lovers. And those often ended in tragedy, as an Antediluvian, she could not love a Caspian. Not when they’re actively gunning for each other’s throats. Given the opportunity they would hold one another, they would be with one another now.

Love could never bloom on the battlefield. But like the rose that she held in her hands, one that bloomed years ago yet is still preserved at its most beautiful. Perhaps they just needed enough time, perhaps by the end of the war they would be able to be together. They could run away, move to nations that aren’t actively trying to kill one another. Finally, then, they could live together.

“Misha! Throw the marshmallow ‘ere!” Yelled the Vice Captain. He sat in front of a campfire with other people. It was dinnertime for the 12th squadron, the last one as he was supposed to be dismissed by tomorrow morning. Having served for 4 years, it was time for him to go.

“Aye, sir.” Misha stood up and headed for the food container, it was at the corner of the camp. With a heave-ho, she opened the container and revolted a bit at the scent of the contained food. Before she could dive in to find the mallows, she heard a rustling of leaves by the jungle.

It rustled as if the leaves wrestled one another, They moved, hither, tither, then, a squirrel jumped out. It held a nut before squirreling away. She shrugged and crouched into the container. Red eyes stalked the camp, they moved like mists before they disappeared into smoke and mirrors.

After a while of sifting through the food, she finally got the marshmallows out. Relieved, she headed back towards her vice captain. Though as she arrived only he remained, slouched over the fire, it felt as if he was deep in thought.

“The red clouds mist over me, freeing the sordid men.” He sang in a voice that wasn’t his. To Misha it sounded frail, as if his voice would give in any moment.

“Captain?” She called out to him, but he didn’t respond, he kept on humming the tune. With it, and the crackling of the campfire being the only noise she could hear.

“Romeo and Juliet never lived, happy-ever-after doesn’t exist on the battlefield.” She felt the cold chill of the smoke slowly engulf her legs, the campfire’s fire blew away into nothingness as she was plunged into darkness, the only light coming from the three moons of Concursus.

The captain collapsed, dead on the ground. And yet, the song continued. It reverberated through the entire jungle and to her skull. She tripped on nothing and fell to the ground where she awoke to the sound of gunfire.

“MISHA! WAKE UP, IT’S THE DAMN 44TH!” She snapped out of the mist and stood up. She grabbed the gun behind her and fired into the dark jungle, the Vice Captain peered carefully for all, if any, signs of the 44th.

“Misha, Misha…” The Vice Captain called out to her, “I need you to run. The 11th is a few hundred meters south of this camp, we’ll set a distraction and you warn them.” He revved his machine gun as it whirred into energetic matter. He fired southward as it blew into a smoke, a clearing, an opening for Misha.

She sprinted towards the clearing and never looked back. Only gauging how the fight went through the sound of gunfire. There, she ran. She ran faster than she had ever ran before, as the sweat trickled down her brow, the thick jungle seemed thicker than before.

She jumped through branch after branch, with the only light that illuminated her path being the light of the moons. She ran ever after the sounds of gunfire from her camp became muted. Then, freedom. She found herself out of the jungles in an open field. In the distance, she saw the orange glow of the 11th’s campfire. Freedom. She ran.

She felt weak, but she ran. Her lungs slowly gave in, her breath heaved, but she ran. She ran to live, she ran to survive. She ran for her friends in the 11th squadron, for her family back in Kostov. She ran for the vague hope that she could see her lover once more.

There was not a single soul in the 11th squadron’s camp. She stood there, alone. The tents were empty, yet the fire roared. Though as the wind blew it away, even it left her behind. She sat on the ground as the red mists appeared once more. She let herself be engulfed in its warm, calming embrace.

It was soothing, as if she could melt in the ground beneath her, as she closed her eyes, she smiled. She was glad that she lived to meet the people she did. Her family, her friends, and the man who gave her the flower. Speaking of, she reached into her pockets to see the flower.

In her hands, it withered. Love could never bloom on the battlefield.

*

Daybreak, a man in a white toga walked through the narrow roads of an Antediluvian ship-city on the way to the senate hall. Along the way he bumped into a secretary, she was surprised of course. As the man had been in a hurry, “Bit late, aren’t you, sir?” She asked, pacing as fast as he did.

“Yes, yes, unless you have a report could you please avoid slowing me down?” He replied, he knew damn well he was late.

“I do have a report, sir. It’s about the 11th and 12th, we lost contact with them last night and haven’t heard from them since.” She flipped through her flipboard and handed him a piece of paper from there.

It showed the last recordings taken from the two camps. He peered through it carefully as he walked. He sighed as he read the contents, their final moments, the desperation. But in the end it was all for naught, “Contact the 9th and 10th tell them to fall back thirty kilometers from the frontline. It’d be risky with them so close. We’ll handle the rest later.”

“Yes sir.” She saluted and walked away. She disappeared into the crowd.

Eventually, the senator reached the senate hall. As he opened the massive pearly golden gates, he was met with his colleagues, they sat neatly and looked at the eyes of the late senator. In the middle was a man, he stood with his back facing him, “So this is what we’re dealing with today?” The senator said with a slight mix of excitement and aggravation.

“Yes, Brutus. This is who we’re dealing with today.” Said the senior senator nearest to him. The man in the middle turned around and exposed his Caspian noble attire.

The man smiled towards Brutus, as if he met an old friend. They were, of course. But that was real long ago, and the only memories that remained were that of the times that Brutus lost to that man in the strategic games of their era, he growled as he called his name, “Julius von Kaiser.”