The neon sign of the 444 Bar flickered like a dying ember, its broken letters casting fragmented glows onto the rain-slick street. It was late, but the city was still alive. The cars hummed like distant insects, footsteps echoed off wet pavement, and in the background, a radio droned on from inside the bar.
A battered radio crackled behind the counter, "The fall of the tyrannical Aether has become the most prominent point in human history! For years of oppression, we are finally freed from the hands of the totalitarians! This commemorates the very first celebration of our country, Sulliva's, freedom."
"Still at it," muttered a man slouched at the bar. His tie was half-undone, shirt stained with the salt of sweat. "Ten bloody years, and it's the same broadcast. Like it's supposed to mean something." He raised his empty glass, waved it lazily. "Another bottle, would you Bernard?"
The other man beside him which was similarly dressed, eyes bloodshot with more than just drink. He grinned through his glass. "You're just upset they didn't mention your glorious service in the Great War of Falling Off a Mule While Drunk."
"The mule was hostile," the first one grumbled. "Practically Aetherian."
"We did it, though. Beat the tyrants. Kicked down the sky. And now we're free. Free to be taxed into our graves by our own pompous bastards instead of someone else's." Bernard sneered
The first man snorted. "Progress, mate. At least now the tyrants speak our language when they rob us."
The radio buzzed louder again, sputtering into patriotic noise, "Let our freedom ring out from every village and city, a triumph of sovereignty, of destiny fulfilled!"
"Destiny fulfilled, my arse," Bernard muttered. "You notice how speeches get louder the less people believe 'em? Like they're shouting over our doubts."
The first man leaned in. "Aether was just the overture. Now comes the real war and it is Sulliva against Al-Nour. Cold, they say. But I've seen enough of these 'cold' wars. They thaw fast."
A shadow crossed his face as he took another sip. "His Majesty's just waiting for the right excuse."
Bernard said nothing for a beat. Then, with a quiet click, he opened his jacket. Tattooed on his chest, just beneath the collarbone, was a crimson skull.
"Can't be a leftist if there's nothing 'left,' eh?" he said dryly.
"Peace never suited you anyway," his companion muttered. "You get jittery if a day goes by without riding something wild. Like that hot secretary Linda at the office--"
"Shut your fucking mouth!" Bernard slammed his glass down, voice sharp. "One time. That was one time. If my wife finds out..."
The radio stammered into jazz, then looped back to celebratory fanfare. Outside, the fireworks crackled louder now.
Across the street, a figure leaned in the shadows. Cloaked in black, short in stature, the stranger's white hair slipped from beneath a hood. Their red eyes flickered in the reflection of a phone screen as they sent a message. One blink, and the figure was gone.
Later, the two drunkards stumbled out into the night, the street shimmering with smoke and celebration, yet beneath it all, something gnawed at Bernard, a gnawing suspicion he couldn't quite place.
Then came the buzz.
A notification lit up on Bernard's phone, and his body went rigid. His companion, still swaying in his drunken haze, watched in silence as Bernard's face drained of color.
"My house," Bernard whispered, barely audible. "It's gone."
His words hung. His legs moved before his mind caught up, and he bolted, calling for a taxi. The other didn't follow, still caught in the haze of their shared revelry.
When he arrived, the world seemed to warp in front of him. Fire and light burned. His apartment complex that was once home, now nothing and reduced to ash. Firefighters fought a losing battle, they were frantic but futile. The Monarchy soldiers and their armored figures stood stoic amidst the looming chaos.
The bystanders gathered like ghosts in the smoke, their faces etched with indifference. Bernard pushed through, desperation in his voice. As he reaches to the barricade tape, one soldier comes forward with a warning.
"This is official Monarchy business," the soldier snapped, stepping into his path. "Clear the zone. It's not safe."
"My family!" His voice cracked,
"My family's in there!"
But there was no getting through, no breaking the iron wall of indifference. No answers, just whispers that slithered through the haze.
"They refused to come out," one soldier muttered to another, his words as cold as the night. "Terrorists. Burned 'em out. Standard protocol."
"Red Skull," the other replied, almost casually. "All four of them."
The words pierced in Bernard's chest like a death sentence. He stumbled back, the smoke closing in around him. His legs buckled, but he refused to let himself collapse. He couldn't. He knew that if he pushed any further, the suspicion would settle. His family, burning away in front of him, was a guilt he could not escape, no matter how far he ran. The sight was suffocating like black smoke that filled his lungs with regret.
He turned, stumbling blindly down the road.
Until a shadow detached from the alley and gripped him from behind. Darkness swallowed him.
Bernard's mind was a haze when he woke. The dizziness gripped him tightly, making the world tilt at an awkward angle. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but all he could discern was darkness. He tried to move, but his wrists burned, bound tight to the chair behind him. Panic swelled in his chest, clawing at his throat.
His breath came in shallow, frantic gasps, but the more he tried to scream, the less sound seemed to escape. A cloth stuffed into his mouth muffled everything. Fear creeping up his spine, and for a moment. The light bulb above him shone directly down, casting shadows across the room.
The door creaked, a sound so loud in the silence it made Bernard flinch. He tried to twist his body, but it was futile. Then, like an apparition, the girl with the hood entered. She walked toward him, her soft click of her boots on the cold concrete floor filling the space between them.
She sat down across from him, and in one swift motion, she reached forward and tugged the cloth from his mouth. He gasped, trying to steady himself, but he could feel the sweat sticking to his skin, his body trembling.
"Who the hell are you?!" he demanded, his voice hoarse, a mix of anger and fear.
The girl smiled.
"Mister Bernard Jorgen. Quite the resume you've got here." She pulled a paper from the folds of her jacket
"The bombing of the Marrowgate. Kraft City, A week ago. It seems you're partially responsible for that, hmm? Thirty-three lives lost."
His stomach lurched. He clenched his fists, his breath ragged. "I didn't do it! I had nothing to do with that--"
"Oh, but you do." She cut him off, "Here's some footage. Shot by a drone the other week. It seems to me that you and your friends are somewhat pretty busy installing your new lawn mowers" She slid a small device across the table, and Bernard's eyes went wide. He saw himself there, in the footage, alongside his comrades, unloading crates from a delivery truck.
The girl's lips quirked into a small smile. "Funny, isn't it? Your backyard's dry, yet you were stockpiling what looked like... lawn mowers?" she chuckled,
"But I'm sure those crates weren't for a garden."
His pulse quickened. "No... No, that's not—"
"Those crates," she continued, leaning in ever so slightly, "were filled with IEDs. And you, Mister Jorgen, didn't bother to follow firearm regulation processes, did you? That's a grave offense."
He fell silent, every defense he had crumbling. He couldn't form the words. The weight of his own actions, the lies he had told himself, hung heavy in the air.
The girl didn't seem to mind his silence.
"Now, normally this is where I'd lean in real close and whisper something terrifying. Maybe talk about fingernails and pliers. But between you and me? I find it all a bit... cliché. Torture's messy."
He sneered back at her, "So what are you? A spy from the Monarchy? Am I supposed to be intimidated that you're gonna choke me to death instead?"
She leaned back in her chair, "Oh, my good sir, you should be. Despite how I look I am actually capable of crushing your neck and rip out your tongue and vocal cords out".
Her legs crossed, "But again, torture is fucking messy. So spare me the barbarism and tell me, where are the other Red Skulls hiding."
The silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive. His mind screamed at him to say something, anything. But his mouth refused to obey. His gaze flicked to the door behind her, to the walls. Anywhere but her face.
The girl's hands began to tap rhythmically on the table, the sound like a countdown. She waited. And waited. And waited some more. "Bernard," she finally said,
"I'm getting bored."
She reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, silver 8-shot revolver. The click of it being set on the table made his stomach twist. She didn't seem to care about the gun, not in the way he thought she should. She seemed more intrigued by the tension, the silence.
"I think we should play a game,"
"You're insane."
The girl smiled, spinning the chamber with a flick of her wrist. "Not insane. Just theatrical." She picked it up, cracked it open, and slid a bullet into the chamber. Then she slid the gun toward him.
"Oops, my bad. Let me untie you for a moment." She moves over to Bernard and frees his hands. Then without wasting any moment, he takes the chance to lunge at her but is stunned when both his feet get trapped in the floor by flat metal bars.
The girl chuckled in a mocking tone "Oh no, you almost got me."
She then returns to her seat. "Now, pick up the gun and point it at yourself, or you can--" He snapped before she could even finish. He grabbed the gun, pointed it at her, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
He stared at the revolver in confusion, his heart pounding in his chest. The girl's lips curled into a wicked grin. "You know what, I like you. I am not even done setting the rules and you're already breaking them."
She picked up the gun, her fingers tracing the barrel. "But before we continue... I think we should partner this with a game of truth or dare,"
"Of course, what else should I expect from someone like you? Playing these games... fuck this, man. Let me out of here!" He snickered.
"Killing is a game to you too. I hope you'll find it just as enjoyable. Here's how it works: pick 'truth' pull the trigger and you answer me honestly. Pick 'dare' and you do exactly what I say. Then, you pull the trigger."
He stared at her as if she were some hallucination from a fevered nightmare. "You're mocking everything."
"Not everything. Just the illusion that any of us have control." She leaned back. "So, truth or dare?"
"Truth," he spat.
She leaned in, her gaze piercing. "Alright, what was your objective with the Marrowgate depot sabotage? Be honest."
He remained silent
"No answer? That's a forfeit," she said tapping her fingers on the table.
"So I'll make something up. You wanted to pin it on the Monarchy, didn't you? Stir the pot, cause some chaos. You knew damn well the Marrowgate depot was under Central Ministry jurisdiction. If anything happened there, it would always come back to us. Am I right?"
His silence was enough of an answer.
She didn't press further, just leaned back in her chair, spinning the revolver again. "My turn."
She raised the gun to his head.
Click
"Still alive. Lucky you."
Bernard's hands trembled as she slid the gun back to him. "Truth or dare?"
He gritted his teeth. "Dare."
The girl raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Daring rebel. I dare you... to aim it at me."
Without a second thought, he took the gun, leveled it at her, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
She laughed, the sound rich with dark amusement. "Stars above, I love you people. All fury, no filter."
She pulled the revolver back, spun it again, and rested it gently between them. Then she pulls the trigger on Bernard, still no fire.
His breath came in ragged gasps as he watches her twirl around the gun.
"I've seen it all," she said,
"You know, I've been doing this a long time. I've seen rebels scream, cry, beg, spit, pray. Some even laugh. But you, well, you sit there like this isn't happening."
Bernard looked at her, rage simmering beneath the surface. "Fuck your interrogation. Let us get this over with! I can't wait to blow your head off and get the fuck out of here!"
Her eyes glinted. "Before you do kill me, I still want answers from you."
"What did the Red Skull offer you in return for sabotaging Sullivan supplies? Weapons? Safe passage?"
He didn't answer
"You're just cannon fodder, you know that?" The girl said, chuckling "You didn't even care about your family being roasted to the ground. But of course, the mistress, the 'hot secretary' is always gonna be there for you--"
Bernard's nostrils flared and in a fit of rage he screamed "SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT THAT THEY'RE DEAD!" Tears followed, dripping from his eyes.
"Ah. There it is. You do know. It is not too late to redeem yourself Bernard. Tell me or we will continue this game until one of us will be dead lying"
She slid the revolver back to Bernard.
"Truth or dare"
He didn't respond
"Fine. Truth it is," The girl said.
She asked her final question. "Were you taking assignments not from the Red Skull?
Still silent.
"If I may recall correctly, is he someone from the Order? From a man called 'Gawain'?"
His eyes grew wide, and his lips finally parted. His truth was out there, but admitting it felt like surrender.
"Yes," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
"But I'm no longer in contact with him. I left the Red Skull after that incident."
The girl smiled slowly, as if she'd been waiting for that admission.
"Progress." She flipped a page in the file.
"Your area of operations are one of the abandoned factories in Lativya just a few miles away from Cordoba. There were three leaders on record. You as the espionage, Marnen Kesh-- the one with an asymmetrical mustache and part of the El Pueblo, and Lael Rivers. Which one of them is in contact with Gawain?"
He hesitated
She rested a finger on the revolver and points it at Bernard then as she pulls the trigger, nothing came out
"Three chambers left."
Bernard picks the gun up and with a sigh, he pulls the trigger, still nothing came out.
"…Lael."
"There it is. The confession I needed."
She smiled, slow and satisfied.
The game was over. And Bernard felt it. He was no longer the man who walked into that room. He was something else now. Broken. Ash.
"If that is all that you wanted... then please... please release me now..." his head went down, hopeless, "I swear I will do good and change my life! Start a new one! Just please..."
The girl instead grinned, stood, and walked around the table, picking up the revolver again. "No, Bernard. What I wanted was to see what a man like you does when he realizes he was never the revolutionary… just the useful fire. Gawain gave you a match. You burned. Now you're ash."
She takes the revolver, twirls the cylinder, and with precision, she lands it perfectly in the bullet's catridge.
"Last round. One chamber left. But too bad, I am the last one to pull the trigger," she snickered
He stared at the gun, then at the girl. "Why... are you doing this?"
He just heads down, "I'll be waiting you in motherfucking hell!" then,
She pulled the trigger.
Click.
He looked up in confusion, why is he still alive, why is the world not darkening on him, then there he caught the girl's gaze. She giggled, and suddenly, her laughter erupted uncontrollably. He couldn't quite process what was happening, but somehow, he found himself laughing along with her, though the creeping fear inside him refused to let go. "I bet you were thinking that I have planted some blank rounds in here, well, you are goddamn right!" She continues to chuckle filling the room with monotonous cackling.
"You think I'd kill someone? No, that's plain murder. Unlike you, who felt no remorse after slaughtering those innocent people at Marrowgate. You should thank your lord and savior Christ for his mercy. But..."
The girl's grin widened.
"I don't think it's going to be the same for these people..."
The door behind them opened. A woman stepped inside. She looked familiar to Bernard. Her face twisted in anger as she saw him sitting there, bound, broken.
"Linda..." Bernard's voice cracked. His voice falters as he looks at the woman, eyes wide with horror.
"Shut up!" she screamed. "You're the reason... the reason my fiancé died! He was in that explosion because of you, you goddamn spawn of the devil! I don't need evidence!"
She grabs the chainsaw and yanks the cord, the engine roaring to life.
"Linda, please! I never meant all of those! Please, don't do this!"
The little girl steps out of the room. Outside, the swamp stretches in every direction, bathed in the dim, ghostly glow of distant city lights. She's deep in the forest. Calmly, she shuts the steel door behind her and locks it. Behind her, muffled through the thick metal, the sounds of agony begin to rise. His screams, choked and raw.
She reached into her coat, pulled out a cigarette, and struck a match. The flame flared briefly, casting a faint light across her face. The smoke curled from her lips. Then, she pulled down her hood. Gone was the illusion of the child. In her place stood a woman with pale complexion and a cold gaze in her blood-shot red eyes. Her short, ashen hair framed a face that was unreadable. The number "11" was carved in her flesh, into her temple.
A soft vibration buzzed against her side. A message.
"Yuan, I received your message. Get back here this instant."
She chuckled darkly. "Heh. About fucking time."
Above her, the sky stretched wide and empty, the stars indifferent.
END OF CHAPTER TWO