11:20 — July 14, 2047 — Messerprater / Supply Line
Sahra drew on her orange-glowing cigarette.The smoke filled her lungs, burned in her chest, leaving behind a sharp pain that slowly transformed into warmth.It spread outward — from her heart to her fingertips, down to her toes and up to the tip of her nose.
She closed her eyes.For a brief moment, this instant belonged only to her.Alone in her thoughts, lost in the current of time.
She was in her Eden.
She remembered living "above" as a little girl — her family, Bella, the pitch-black Labrador.She saw herself again in the park, laughing as the dog leapt through falling leaves.Colors she could now only admire in fading photographs: brown, red, yellow, speckled in countless patterns.
Then the sky dissolved into flames.
When the bombs fell, only Bella remained — the last living being to escape Armageddon.
How many had been annihilated?Eight billion people — women, men, children, the elderly, the sick — burned in fire.Their bodies vaporized in atomic suns.
Only Vienna remained.
A neutral country, and yet part of the European Military Alliance — bound by assurances that it would take up arms only in the case of defense.Even that had not saved Austria.Warheads detonated in neighboring countries and were intercepted over its airspace.The debris rained down across the land.
Sahra had been seized by an old, white-bearded pensioner who had been feeding pigeons moments earlier.He grabbed the child, the dog in tow, and dragged them into the refuge of the Vienna underground.
Her family had been in the nearby hospital.They had been visiting her grandmother, who was battling lung carcinoma — chemotherapy and radiation had failed.In their final moments, they held each other, embraced — and died.
The man who had saved her became her new and last family member.She called him Papo — not quite a father, not quite a grandfather, but both at once.
Now she was completely alone, guarding her memories as her greatest treasure.
"Commissar?"
A voice tore her from her thoughts.One of her subordinates stood before her, saluting hastily.His helmet sat crooked, his uniform smeared with soot, his eyes tired and hollow.
With a loud sigh, the bubble of her inner world burst.Once more, she bid farewell to her long-lost family — and returned to the present.
"Yes, what is it?" she asked in a monotone voice, continuing to fill out documents.
"Our comrade Political Commissar Mayer has authorized the execution of three deserters. Here is the written order."
"Thank you — and straighten your helmet. What kind of appearance is that?"
Embarrassed, he replied, "Yes, Commissar!"He adjusted the steel helmet with practiced ease, fastening the chin strap with a soft click.
Sahra carefully opened the envelope.With moderate resistance, it yielded its contents; a tear slowly spread from one corner to the other.She unfolded the paper and read:
Soldiers M-3012; M-2957; M-3265have abandoned their posts without authorization and incited their comrades to desert.Therefore, the immediate neutralization of their work-force–corrosive tendencies has been ordered.Execution to be carried out by hanging.
Signed: Martin Mayer
Annoyed, she folded the letter shut.
"Bring them to Platform Eleven."
"Yes, Commissar!"
Two soldiers immediately set off toward the station's prison block.
What a shame, Sahra thought.Had they merely left their post, they might have been transferred to a penal regiment — a chance at "rehabilitation."But by calling on their comrades to follow them, they had sealed their own fate.
In normal times, they would have been executed with a single gunshot — an unexpected close-range round.But due to extreme ammunition shortages, the condemned were granted only the rope.
Only now did Sahra become fully aware of where she was.
A small room, barely five square meters — once a service room, perhaps a storage closet.Now it was her office.
A deep crack marred the blue lacquer of the table.Each day, the paint peeled away silently, millimeter by millimeter.The table had been salvaged by worker crews, old — an antique.At least twenty, perhaps thirty years older than she was.
Its builders and former owners had long since been reduced to atoms, crushed in the great machinery of time.Yet this small possession had survived the end of the world — a final, silent witness of the past.
She ran her hand over the smooth surface.When her fingers reached the crack, she traced it and whispered softly:
"Well? What could you tell me, I wonder? How things used to be, perhaps?"
She gave a short laugh."Well… if you could talk, at least it wouldn't be so monotonous in here."
The sharp smell of her cigarette hung in the air, drifting in gray-blue swirls through the tiny room.A weak forty-watt bulb struggled to push back the darkness.
Files and documents were stacked on the desk.On the left wall hung a faded subway map, carefully marked with defensive lines in red, field hospitals in green, and supply routes in blue.
At the start of the Eastern Corporate State's major offensive, the front had shifted two hundred and fifty meters — then one hundred — then only fifty.Soon, the Eastern Power — the army of the eastern corporatist state — would run out of human material.
And then, Sahra hoped, the front would finally stabilize.
All the Union had to do was sell every lost meter as dearly as possible.
"Well… no helping it."
She stubbed out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray.She took her beret and the now-filthy field coat from the rack, swung it over her shoulders, and adjusted her hair and cap in the small wall mirror.
For a moment, she studied herself.
She looked older.Dark circles framed her eyes.Her pupils were wide, like black pearls.Soot smeared her face.
When had she last washed?One day? Two? Five?No matter how long she thought, the answer remained unclear — as if it belonged to someone else.
"Strange…"Normally she knew such things."Funny, isn't it? I can tell you exactly how many crates of ammunition we have, how many medical supplies, even the precise number of soldiers — wounded, dead, or fit for duty — but I can't tell you when I last washed."
Smiling faintly at the banality of it, she reached for her TK-4 — the so-called tunnel carbine.A small-caliber submachine gun with side-mounted magazine feed, its short barrel perfectly designed for close combat in tunnels.
She wrapped her hand around the doorknob, inhaled slowly, held her breath, then let it out gently.With a sharp motion, she turned the knob and opened the door.
The station's soundscape crashed into her ears.
The dull barking of machine-gun fire echoed deep in the main tunnel.Voices of people going about their business — collecting rations at the distribution station, drinking tea together, working like ants in the manufacturing stations producing ammunition and gunpowder.
The hum of filtration systems allowed this industrial stronghold to breathe — fans built from old radiator propellers, covered with ever-finer fabric membranes, forcing rusted air into something breathable.Despite the effort, the air remained thick with dust and soot.The smell of burning, metal, and blood lingered everywhere.
Children played in the marketplace with old marbles and faded plastic toys.Music fragments cut through the noise — street performers, loudspeakers, an endless background hum.
Periodically, the same slogans tore through daily life:
"Builders, build the future!"
"Soldiers, in your blood shines our pride!"
"For the Consul — to the front!"
Or:
"The Consul commands — we follow!"
The harsh roar of the amplified voice reminded her that her subordinates were already waiting.
With heavy, echoing steps, she crossed the main square — past old wagon fragments converted into living quarters.Before her spread a sea of blood pooled in front of the local infirmary.
With great effort, she avoided stepping on limbs or slipping in the reddish fluids.
Wounded soldiers screamed and writhed on the ground.Medics and first responders rushed out with stretchers, searched for identification numbers, carefully lifted their targets, and vanished back inside.
Outside alone lay thirty, perhaps forty soldiers — and that was only a fraction.Likely an entire regiment, or half of one, had been wounded or was dying.
The war had already consumed one to two full regiments — dead or wounded — on this front alone.
She turned into a narrow side tunnel.
Here, the gallows rose toward the ceiling — jagged, black growths of death sprouting from tiled concrete.
Before them stood the remaining members of her political company.All dressed in gray, unmistakable by the red armbands on their left arms.
They were the execution detail.
"Ah, Commissar! Care for one?"One of the men waved a dented thermos.
"Still warm and fresh," he grinned.
"I'm not sure…" she replied, shouldering her carbine.
"Oh, come on. It'll take a while before they drag the traitors out of their holes."He raised the thermos again, eyebrows lifting suggestively.
"All right."
An aluminum cup was handed to her.The metal rim was warm — almost too hot for her cold fingers.She brought it to her lips and savored the bitter aroma, taking a measured sip.
Warmth flowed through every fiber of her body.For a brief moment, she closed her eyes — once more in her own quiet world.
How many work steps had it taken to produce this tea?
Radioactive water had to be drawn, purified through improvised activated charcoal filters, disinfected with traces of chlorine.Then bottled, sealed, distributed.
And the tea itself?Grown under flickering light from old water turbines and gasoline generators.Cultivated in substrate of soil and feces, tended, cut, dried.
All that effort — for a single cup of tea.
What a luxury in a world that had long forgotten what "everyday life" once meant.
She pressed her eyelids shut.The flickering beam of a car headlight illuminated her face at irregular intervals.
Her colleagues spoke quietly about the latest reports, though she only caught fragments:
"Reduction of food rations.""People's militia conscriptions.""Expansion of the education offensive.""Arts funding by the Council.""Cultural revolution."
The words buzzed around her like mosquitoes — irritating, persistent, unavoidable.With a slight shake of her head and another sip of green tea, she tried to chase them away.
I already have enough to think about, she thought.
She longed for her office — the comfortable chair, the smell of cold smoke and paper, the shelter of her own thoughts.A fortress of memories, dreams, and small wishes she had built for herself.
But this paradise was denied to her.
With echoing steps, the rest of her company approached — together with the deserters.
"Commissar, I present the traitor M-2957," the soldier reported, saluting hastily.
"And the others?"
"M-3012 was pardoned by the military court and the Supreme Political Commissar due to his young age and transferred to a penal regiment.Deserter M-3265 took his own life an hour ago."
He handed her the documents confirming his report.Sahra skimmed the pardon papers and the death certificate.
"Well, at least that saves us some work," muttered one of the soldiers behind her, making a gesture — the tightening of a rope around a neck.
Sahra hesitated."All right… let's get it over with."
She looked at the condemned man, staring emptily into the black nothingness of the tunnel.
An average man: brown eyes, shaved head, a narrow button nose.Dried blood clung beneath his nostrils — the SSD had clearly gone too far during interrogation.She would report it, as protocol required, and request disciplinary action.
"Place him on the platform."
As ordered, the death candidate was led onto the stool.His legs were bound at the knees, his hands tied behind his back.Around his neck hung a sign, written in white chalk:
"I was a deserter and provocateur."
Sahra rolled up her coat sleeve and glanced at the delicate wristwatch on her right arm.
Stammering, nearly panicked, the condemned man spoke:
"Y–You can't do this… I have a f–family… I beg you!"
He swallowed hard, hindered by the rope around his neck.His voice trembled, broke, pleaded:
"Please… I'll never disobey an order again, please! Let me go!"
No one showed mercy.
The commissar stared unmoving at the minute hand of her watch.With a soft tick, it struck the full hour.
"In the name of the Political Commissariat and the Revolutionary Tribunal, you are sentenced to death for provocation and desertion."
With a brief hand motion, she gave the signal.
A kick — and the ground vanished beneath his feet.
He fell into the noose.
Twitching, gasping, clawing for air — in vain.There was no escape for his mortal body.
His head first turned dark red, then blue.Bloody foam spilled from his mouth; he had bitten his tongue, which now hung limply between his lips.
This time, the crime was not false belief.Not the "opium of the people."
This time, the crime was fear itself —the fear of a soldier facing death.