Author Notes:
This shall be the last chapter before Mom and I move to our new home in... less than three hours...
I only gonna have slightly more than two hours of sleep then. And I don't think I will have a good night sleep anytime soon for the next month or so... Yay...
During the moving process, I will try my best to output new chapters, but honestly... Sigh, my apologies for being unable to promise a stable schedule.
That said, I can't ever thank you all enough for sticking with Mom and I through thick and thin and hopefully well into the future. Please enjoy the newest RM chapter, and I'll be seeing you soon.
If you want to show some support and take a look at my updates, then do check these links.
https://www.patreon.com/Heartbreak117
https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/Heartbreak117
https://discord.gg/cVZxJ29ruh
-----------------------------------------------------
Jankowski finds himself standing on the tallest building in the city of Kraków, the Basillica of St. Mary. From the northern spire of the Basilica, Jankowski takes in a panoramic view of the smoky ruins that once were among the largest ancient cities of Polania.
To the East, the Red Menace, rows upon rows, columns upon columns of Rusviet tanks, are crushing and bombarding entire districts with each waking moment. Men and women, old and young, conscripts and hapless civilians, desperately throw themselves beneath the Rusviet tank treads in a vain attempt to slow down the hulking green monsters sporting fiery red stars. Behind their futile sacrifices is the lifeblood of the Polanian people; kids and children have yet to know the better part of the world, yet are now witnessing the grimnest part of it. Eventually, the anguish and sins of the Polanian adults, and the cries of the innocents, are vanquished by the unending march of cruel machines and men of the Red Menace. Nothing is to be found of the dead, only a splatter of dark red liquid filling the countless footprints and tread marks.
Jankowski is unable to look upon the slaughter any further. The Chairman of the Revolutionary Command Council can't stomach the sight of his fellow countrymen being debased to nothing but a speck on the muddy ground. Unwittingly, he finds himself looking Westward.
To the West, however, things proceed much differently from the East. There's little conflict and chaos to be seen. No tank in sight and most certainly no blood and disfigured corpses to be found. It doesn't mean there isn't anything going on, though. As sudden and as mysterious as it appears, an all-encompassing gray fog advances bit by bit, pulling everything, people and buildings alike, into a mosaic haze before eventually disappearing altogether. Like the citizens of Polania in the West, Jankowski stands and watches in a confused daze as the gray mist subsumes all color into its unfathomable depth. No sound can be heard from the things that are enroached. An ancient, primal chill shoots up his spine, having witnessed a phenomenon illogical to the human brain, his brain.
Again, Jankowski forces himself to tear his gaze away, but what remains still for him to look at? The East has met the West in their entirety, leaving the Basilica beneath Jankowski's feet the sole remaining place left unsullied. And even then, it's only a matter of time before the Red Menace grinds St. Mary's Basilica beneath its treads, or the gray mist completely dissolves it. The last bastion of the current Polanian regime, the last lighthouse in an otherwise Godforsaken war, and also the sole remaining monument to an ambition bordering on treachery against the living world... St. Mary's Basilica has been Jankowski's anchor and his singular source of solace. The religious landmark's lasting existence is, in Jankowski's eyes, proof that his most fervent desire to uplift the Polanian people to greatness still stands a chance of coming to fruition.
Unfortunately for the once optimistic Chairman of a bloodied regime, the Eastern and Western neighbors of Polania have much to say about his desire to not just tear apart the current world order, but also twist the very annals of history that make the people of Europe who they currently are. Looking at the devouring and desecrating of Polanian lands, bit by bit, Jankowski finds himself laughing dryly with droplets of unwilling tears streaming down his cheeks.
Shakily, Jankowski turns around, thinking of going down the spire and opening up the Basilica's grand doorway to welcome his eventual end, no matter what form it will take. Yet, most shockingly, Jankowski comes to see his ancestors, spirits in forms, but still strikingly adorned in the finest hussar dresses. Jankowski's ancestors, elite Winged Hussars of Polanian nobility of old, fix the Chairman with rightfully disappointed stares, some even with utter disgust and hatred.
It's understandable why they give Jankowski such looks, really. Kraków has deep material and historical links to the Winged Hussars of old. As the former royal capital of Poland, the city of Kraków served as the launching pad for their most famous military campaigns, many ending in the rise of Polania on the geopolitical stage, the very feat Jankowski sought to replicate to no avail. Worse, Jankowski squanders the national fortune that his ancestors and many others have entrusted to their future descendants. Now, Polania stands on the precipice of being erased from the world.
Under the cold and hostile gazes of the Winged Hussars, Jankowski can barely mutter, lacking any sort of grace that he always tries to display as a Chairman.
"I... I thought I could win..."
As a reply to Jankowski's hopelessly delusional defense, the Winged Hussars don't even deign him with a spiritual execution using their weapons. Instead, the Winged Hussars directly kick Jankowski's spiritual body off the Basilica's spire, letting the man fall helplessly and frightfully, to his supposed demise.
The last thing Jankowski feels is the winds rushing up at him, then everything turns black.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
With a bang, Jankowski falls off his bed and awakens from the hellish nightmare that has haunted him for days now. Each night, this mental torture of witnessing his collapsed ambition and his punishment rendered by his most noble ancestors, repeats and drains Jankowski of his will to exist. Rising up with a bit of effort and lethargy, the disheveled Polanian Chairman, on instinct, reaches for the bedside drawer, opening and searching for a bottle that he knows for sure is in there among other junk. Upon finding the desired object with his hand, Jankowski brings the bottle into view, only to discover that it's been emptied of its alcohol content by him last night.
Frustrated, Jankowski throws the empty container onto the bed before moving to the bathroom, hoping his morning routine will wash away the lingering chill the nightmare rendered. No matter how many times the man experiences it, dying a spiritual death is something he can't ever get used to. At the very least, he is physically alive now... For what ends is a good question, however.
By the time Jankowski finishes refreshing himself after another sleepless night, the sun is already up there in the sky, but you can hardly see any of its hopeful shine nowadays. Smoke and ash from the shrinking defensive line have obscured most of the sky over Kraków. Made more depressing by the fact that one can not feel a bit of vitality in the city on what's to be a brand new day as well. This is all because every able-bodied person is conscripted to be a dying number on a dotted line, destined to be nothing but a footnote on the losing side of history.
Mockingly, Jankowski thinks to himself that, mayhaps, he stands to gain the most out of everything, being penned down as the prime offender that led an entire nation down the path of no return, all for the sake of a misguided ambition. Future generations will remember his name as a fool, but at least his name shall still go around, not forgotten like the many he guided to their doom. The moment he finishes that train of thought, Jankowski has already dressed himself up to be as neat as he can be, given the limited circumstances of Polanian logistical capability in Kraków. Once again, Jankowski makes ready to face the music at the edge of the doorway leading outside of his artillery shelter. His mental preparation made, Jankowski pushes the door aside.
The first thing he notes is the changes made to the protection detail assigned to him. Gone are the dispirited veterans who used to protect the Revolutionary Command Council; they're replaced by a motley group of fresh, well-fed faces, bearing well-serviced gear and weapons. Things that the current Polanian military is always in short supply of.
"And you gentlemen are...?" Jankowski maintains a neutral face as he poses the question.
One of the new sentries, their representative and leader, probably, introduces the group.
"Chairman, we're a part of Garm Company, a mercenary group hired by the Revolutionary Command Council, among others. As of now, we're taking over the protection duty of the entire council, and your name is on top of the list of people to be safeguarded."
"I see..." Jankowski draws out the world, before his feet carry him on a path he's unwilling to use at this point. "You may carry on with your task then."
It won't change anything else, anyway. Jankowski may be an ambitious man, but he isn't stoneheaded enough to not see that things are unsalvageable now. Some mercenaries that are foolish enough to accept the Council's contract won't be enough to save Polania. Reality does not conform to war epics unless the Belkans are the heroic party. That is what Jankowski has learned after suffering crushing defeats at the hands of the Belkans and setbacks after setbacks from the Rusviets.
Jankowski navigates silently through the branching corridors and pathways of the underground command structure that the Revolutionary Command Council now occupies. Along the way, he comes across some of the civilian occupants of the place, who are family members of the surviving military high-command staff and councilmen.
"Mommy, when will Daddy return? He said he would beat the bad guys and return to us two nights ago."
"... Soon, honey. Daddy will return soon."
"Mommy, will Daddy bring some candies back? I miss Daddy's candies, especially the orange ones!"
"Yes, honey... Daddy will..."
Jankowski is unable to hear the rest of the words as his feet suddenly speed up past the pair of mother and daughter, forcing his new escorts to keep up with his steps forcefully. He knows the mother and daughter, and he knew the unfortunate man who was a part of their family. Jankowski was supposed to sign the very letter that announced the demise of the man, a loving father and husband surely, and to grant his family a symbolic medal, crafted from melted scraps. The letter is still on his work desk, yet to be signed, and the news yet to be broken to the lonely family in the bowels of this underground maze.
Once more, Jankowski is cut by the reality of his own doings, and he feels the shame within him boiling him alive. But there's little he can do to vent the negative emotions, which is unhealthy in its own right. Perhaps, Jankowski will break under this mounting pressure first before the enemy can even grant him a merciful death.
Eventually, Jankowski's silent walk brings him to the chamber where the Revolutionary Command Council holds its meeting. Leaving the escorts outside, Jankowski intrudes upon the place, seeing the spirited faces of the remaining councilmen. They look as well-nourished, all thanks to their deep pockets that Jankowski doesn't know where they keep them, and they look as if they have struck gold.
One of the councilmen, a shrewd old man with a pot for a belly, stands and greets the Chairman with a report he laced with scalding positive emotion.
"Jankowski, my boy, great news! We won't be stuck in this shoddy city for much longer. For you see, we have a wealth of capable mercenaries with us now, and some have accompanied our remaining veteran Divisions out to break through the enemy's encirclement. All we need is a little bit of time and a puncture in the Rusviets' line, then we will be well on the way to Turkey for some well-deserved Tequila! "
"Turkey... Tequila? Was there a plan I wasn't made aware of, gentlemen?" Jankowski stalls his step, his gaze panning across the room as he questions.
"It's a last-minute decision, really, made suddenly and unaware by you because we had to act on a limited window. Had we not done that, then we would have no other choice but to be fish on the chopping block in the final days here... I apologize for the subterfuge, but surely, you would prefer to live on a sunny beach, biding your time for a glorious return to form, than to be wasted in this forgettable corner of the world? All we need from you is to coordinate with us for a final huzzah, one that will render us the aid of the citizens as we bring with us the soul of Polania to be safely kept elsewhere, until the opportune time arrives to stage a comeback, of course..."
Hearing the sophistry, unrepentant tone of the old man, and the expectant looks of the other councilmen, Jankowski can only laugh bitterly, with tears shimmering on his eyelids.
So even a death in his homeland is denied in the end.