Silas felt happy. All hope was not lost; he was in a bunker! Safe and sound from the battlefield outside. But as he entered the bunker, his happiness started faltering rather quickly.
Firstly, he was greeted with the grim faces of his comrades, who gave him the feeling that he was, in fact, not welcome.
Yes, they did take care of him; they looked at his mostly minor wounds and dressed them. Silas was failing to understand what the searing pain he felt when he first woke up was, and how he survived when everyone was dead. Did this game teleport his body to this world?
The questions were many, but Silas chose to enjoy the hospitality rather than pondering over them.
He bathed and wore a new set of uniform. He didn't know how hungry he was until he took the first bite of his meal. This meal, though bland—like water with a metallic tang and stale bread—felt like a feast to Silas. He savored every bite, keenly aware of the hushed whispers and curious stares from the other soldiers.
A girl came and settled down on a chair beside him. She had brown hair and blue eyes; she was beautiful, but her face had been roughed up on the battlefield.
From his peripheral he could see her stealing glances at him.
"You were on Lieutenant Rashmore's company, right?"
Silas laughed internally.
Of course, she was interested in my company.
"Yes"
"Did they all die?" Her hand was shivering
Ah.. She's scared.
"Every single one." Silas's voice was low, laced with a sadness that wasn't entirely feigned. "They didn't stand a chance."
The girl bit her lip, her eyes welling up. "My brother… he was with them."
Silas felt a pang of something akin to guilt. He'd spun a tale, but the grief on her face was real. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer now. "I… I saw him. He fought bravely. He didn't suffer." He hoped the lie was comforting.
"Thank you, Private Volkov," She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand."He was so young and… "
The image of that young boy came before Silas's eyes.
"Please call me Silas. I am sorry for your brother; he was a martyr," he replied, offering a slight nod.
"I am Amelia Bartes."
"It's good to meet you, Amelia, even under these circumstances."
Amelia gave him a weak smile. "You're lucky to be alive. Colonel Sysmer doesn't usually take in survivors from routed companies. He's… strict."
Silas internally cataloged this information. "He seemed concerned," he offered, trying to gauge the Colonel's true nature.
"He has his moments," Amelia conceded, shrugging. "But he cares more about winning than about individual soldiers. We all do, I suppose. That's war." She paused, then looked at him with a renewed intensity. "What happened out there, Silas? Really happened?"
Silas knew he had to be careful. He had woven a narrative, and now he had to stick to it. "It was an ambush," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "They came from everywhere. We were outflanked, outgunned. The shelling… it was relentless. I was knocked unconscious. When I woke, they were all… gone." He left out the drone, the voice, the Locus. Those were his secrets to keep.
"Have you prepared the report yet?" Amelia said.
"Report?"
Amelia frowned, "Don't you know the protocol? Whenever you engage with enemies and return, you should prepare a report. This time, you have to tell them the reason your company was wiped out."
Silas swallowed," Yeah, the protocol, you know… my mind is still disoriented. Everything happened so quickly and… I am just having a hard time accepting all of that."
Amelia's face softened, she gave his shoulder a firm squeeze.. "God helps us all."
She stood up. "I should go now. There's always work to do here." She gave him a lingering look before walking away.
Silas watched her go, a sense of unease settling over him. He had convinced them, for now. But how long could he maintain the act? And what exactly was this "Locus" the voice had spoken of? What did it mean to be the "last man standing"? The bland food suddenly tasted like ash in his mouth.
Silas decided his next step was to observe. He needed to understand the dynamics, the routines.
Silas got back to his bunk bed, where he had his bag. He took out all the stuff on the bed. He locked the door of the room.
He hoped that he would get a clue on what should be in his report.
He found the journal of the boy, Amelia's brother, and opened it.
He began to read. The journal was more than just a diary;
It was a soldier's account, detailing the escalating tensions that led to the war, the early skirmishes, and the long, brutal campaigns that followed.
They were sent to flank the enemy, but the command didn't provide the cover fire they were promised, which had left Rashmore's company exposed and vulnerable.
The entries painted a grim picture of their final stand: a fierce, desperate fight against overwhelming odds, with artillery raining down and enemy soldiers swarming their position.
The boy had written about the last moments, the growing sense of dread, the cries of his comrades, and then…
A blank space, indicating the end.
Silas pieced together the narrative, confirming his fabricated story of an ambush. The details in the journal would provide the perfect cover for his report, lending authenticity to his account of the company's tragic demise. He carefully memorized the key points, the names of the enemy units mentioned, the approximate timing of the shelling, and the tactical errors that led to the wipeout.
It also contained detailed diagrams and explanations of the workings of rifles, grenades, and other military devices, along with practical instructions on their use. Furthermore, the journal held precise guidance on interpreting the worn-out map, clarifying its blurred lines and smudged markings into a coherent tactical overview.
This journal was a godsend.
Was it a gift from the controllers or something? Silas thought, but then concluded that the boy must have been a novice and never had proper training, so he wrote whatever he learned.
Silas unfolded the roughed-up map, spreading it on the bed, and took out the compass. He started marking out enemy outposts on the left of this bunker, as it was written in the journal.
Then a knock came on the door,
Shit, my roommate must have come.
Silas quickly gathered the map and journal, stuffing them back into his bag just as the door creaked open. Standing in the doorway was Lieutenant Krystoff, his eyes narrowed, a stern expression on his face. "Private Volkov," he said, his voice a low rumble, "we need to talk."