Chapter 101
Faaaah!
"I don't mind, Captain.
I came along because you asked me to, not because I was demanding any outcome.
But when it comes to apologies, that one isn't meant for me."
Huuuuh!
"Words like that should be delivered directly to Miara—the girl you cherish the most, and the one who has been waiting the longest for an explanation from you."
The chuckling voice sounded bitter, like the groan of rusted metal.
Its soft, brief vibration was not a sign of humor, but the release of a short breath from someone who had realized the full circle of absurdity in his own life.
Shaqar apologized, his words hanging in the stifling air thick with the smell of diesel and fear.
He apologized for dragging Apathy into his chaotic domestic drama, into an embarrassing scene at the front door of a house that should have been a sanctuary, not a battlefield.
The apology was sincere, yet at the same time, misdirected.
He admitted a technical mistake, disturbing his comrade's comfort, but failed to touch the core of the true wound.
Apathy, with a patience seemingly drawn from the calm of the machine he controlled, merely let out a thin sigh.
To him, being there was not a disturbance.
He was a soldier, and accompanying his commander to any front, including the blood-soaked battlefield of the heart, was part of an unspoken duty.
The problem was not Shaqar's invitation, but what failed to happen after that invitation.
The problem was the emptiness Shaqar left behind when his body turned and his legs carried him away, leaving Apathy standing alone on the porch, waiting in silence, while the door before him never truly opened.
"There is a cowardly part of me, and I hate it.
Even more so because that attitude is completely unworthy of a leader of Team Xirkushkartum."
Tuut—tuuut!
"I'm not judging you, Captain.
That kind of reaction is perfectly natural, even among us.
Not every wound can be faced with shouting or strength."
Ssssshh!
"But honestly—I'm a little annoyed.
You said you didn't want the gap between you and Miara to grow deeper, yet you didn't give yourself any chance to close it either."
The heavy breath escaped like the final sigh of a machine running out of steam.
Its deep, dark vibration echoed through the cabin, filled with the held breaths of nineteen other soldiers.
Shaqar felt a gnawing contradiction, a massive crack within the fortress of persona he had so carefully maintained.
On one side stood Captain Shaqar, the unshakable pillar of Team Xirkushkartum, whose authority could quell panic and lead his subordinates through even the most sanctified hell.
On the other side was the shadow of a man frozen before a wooden door, his feet as if rooted in concrete, his heart pounding not from the threat of death, but from the prospect of facing the eyes of a little girl.
This cowardice felt alien and shameful, a weak parasite nesting in the soul of one deemed fearless.
Apathy, from his position at the wheel, caught that vibration of despair.
He did not judge.
In his grim world, among satanic devotees who often sacrificed blood ties for power or blind loyalty, Shaqar's reaction felt strangely normal, even too human.
Many of them severed family bonds with ease, buried their pasts, and perfected themselves as weapons.
Shaqar, who was still wounded, still harboring such agonizing affection, was the exception.
It showed that something had not entirely died, a remnant of softness that should have been capital to mend, not something to be buried.
Apathy understood this paradox, the dark logic of their world that declared care to be a burden, yet without it, they were nothing more than killing machines.
"If I were you for even an hour, I might've already covered my own ears.
Listening to complaints from someone as hardheaded as me would definitely be annoying."
This time, his chuckle carried a slightly different tone, no longer pure bitterness, but a somber admission of an ironic truth.
In the dim glow of the emergency lights, Shaqar could almost imagine Apathy's flat yet meaningful expression.
He understood, perhaps a little, just how irritating Apathy's position must be right now.
Imagine if their roles were reversed, he thought.
If he were the one forced to listen to Apathy ramble on about unresolved family wounds, about doors never dared to be knocked on, about regrets spinning endlessly like a jammed wheel.
Shaqar knew himself well enough.
He would not endure it.
The ranting from his own mind, which he heard every night in silence, was already enough to make him sick.
Listening to another version of it from someone else would feel like added torture, a repetition of the same drama with a different actor.
"Don't laugh too loud, someone up there might glance down."
"Sorry, sorry. But did you see his expression just now? That was clearly a blunder."
"Another round. If I keep losing like this, I'm starting to suspect my hand is blessed."
"Quiet. It's your turn to think about your move, not joke around."
"Seriously, since when can that pawn move that far?"
"Since you got careless and focused too much on complaining."
"Huuuh… fine, I accept defeat. But after this, we switch games."
"At least the atmosphere feels better this way."
The silence that returned to fill the space between the steering wheel and Shaqar's headrest felt different from before.
No longer a tense silence heavy with unspoken words, but a weary quiet, a mental ceasefire accepted by both sides.
The vibration of the engine and its constant hum became the sole backdrop, filling the void where heavy conversation had just lingered.
Shaqar, his head still resting against the seatback, let himself sink into that mechanical sound, trying to drown out the harsh murmurs inside his own head.
Meanwhile, Apathy, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead, no longer felt the need to add words.
He had delivered the truth that needed to be spoken.
What happened next was the captain's own business and his personal battle.
They continued the journey in an agreed silence, a fellowship built not on words, but on an understanding of boundaries that could no longer be crossed.
In contrast to the quiet at the front, the rear of the cabin and the open truck bed were filled with a low, trembling life.
The eighteen soldiers, after passing the initial moment of tension, found their own rhythm as a survival mechanism.
Their whispers shifted into looser conversations, the exchanged words no longer about tactics or fear, but about familiar trivialities.
Occasional laughter slipped out, muffled and swallowed in their throats, producing sounds more akin to vibrating exhales than joy.
Those laughs were a deliberate collective effort.
They kept the volume low, holding it back from bursting forth, because somewhere up there, in a higher space or perhaps within a consciousness watching over their journey, the senses of Zhulumat Katamtum and the other High Ones might be wide open.
Laughing too loudly could be taken as a lack of seriousness, an insult to the sanctity and danger of the mission they carried.
"Amid all this noise and unfinished business, I want to bind a single promise.
Not a grand promise that must be announced, nor an oath burdened with titles or missions."
Bruuum!
"Just a promise between you and me."
Inside the cockpit of the moving fortress that streaked like a dark meteor through the night, Shaqar finally broke the weary silence.
To be continued…