There was never enough time to split the platoon between the two transport helicopters. Havoc never asked about the status of Glass, Geiger, or about everyone else Condor 3 was supposed to extract.

  Gene warriors were packed like pre-war sardines in the cabin of Condor 2. Some gene warriors were sitting on their mates’ laps; others were standing elbow to elbow. Even the landing craft that assaulted the beaches of the Aleutians one year ago were not this packed. These gene warriors were nothing like Rain’s long-forgotten comrades that stormed the Aleutians, nothing like the lost brothers and sisters that conquered Alaska soon after, and the polar opposite of Geiger and Glass.

  Rain could barely hear the engines from the frantic shouting: chanting, mocking, boasting, retellings of the “Talbot Valley Massacre”. None ever mentioned fuel or failure; none even mentioned Geiger’s name. They hissed about carnage and burnt cockroaches, vowed that they would make the blues wish the nukes hadn’t left the job unfinished. They reveled in their prodigious tally and cursed that they didn’t have time to collect some “souvenirs.” He did not remember the last time he had seen a unit celebrate a tactical defeat like this.

  But he remembered what the blues called Gen-6s.

  Demons.

  Geiger once translated this roachword. It meant “powerful beings that bring destruction for its own sake.” Molot was the first unit that truly lived up to this classification.

  Major Havoc, Rain, and Blood were the only ones silent. Blood was unconscious on the floor; Rain had already had his fill of death and destruction. Havoc, the architect of the slaughter, had propped her maps against the wall, jotting down notes on them. She was above celebrating a defeat for morale’s sake. Rain stared at her; she was the shortest, most feeble-looking of almost all gene warriors he’d met. And she was alone; none was her mate. Her matte black hair had streaks of white; her gray skin was wrinkled. She wore no badges, held no souvenirs, just her comms, her maps, and an ancient VSS-Vintorez rifle. The stock of her gun was scratched with myriads of callsigns, all barely readable, all double-crossed. Her fatigues were long-obsolete arctics dating all the way back to the invasion of Japan in 2056. Gen-3s were supposed to be extinct or retired, but not this one. This one soldiered on.

  He knew it from the moment he stepped into that FOB. But now he was sure. None was here to return alive. They were here to carve their callsigns in history. Today, they annihilated a mechanized company in less than two minutes.

  His sense of smell could barely distinguish between burnt gunpowder, sweat, blood, and kerosene.

  His sense of touch was unlike the rest. It was impossible to dull and almost as hard to kill as him. But it was also the only one that he could not manipulate. The sense of touch was what kept him clinging to existence; it held Blood’s fire-red hair. Mates are assigned by cockroaches, but they are chosen by the ritual of touch and trial of battle. Those that fail the first march alone; those that fail the second get away with a bullet.

  He stroked her hair, exactly as she had brushed his hours ago when he could not escape Embers’ ghost. This time his touch gave him the final verdict.

  She is worthy.

  Worthy of knowing the Rain that is hidden beneath. Not the smiling killer.

  Does this dull the pain enough, Blanket?

  Blood was still unconscious, lying flat on the fuselage floor, in a pool of her own blood. Blood clung to its namesake as if they both gave meaning to each other, as if they existed to be spilled, used, and then rewarded with a soft touch and kind words.

  As blood slithered away from its user, some of it froze on the fuselage floor. Some was trampled by the boots of her platoon; some was gently brushed away by Rain. None ever thought twice about it.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Rain clenched his fists and teeth to prevent himself from remembering Embers. He could never escape her ghost. And, worst of all, he could not lie to her.

  Embers was just like her name. Always burning like a chunk of white phosphorus. Unquenchable. She laughed at everything; everything was a joke meant to be enjoyed and then forgotten. Existence for her was a joy, no matter the context. She never saw killing as a metric of worth like Molot, as an assigned fate like Glass, as duty like Geiger, or as torment like Blood. Best of all, she never asked the hard questions. She just enjoyed everything to its fullest.

  What would you do now, Embers?

  Rain exhaled and forced a wide smile on his face. He pushed away his comrades to check Blood’s feet. Sinew and muscle were weaving themselves around the pitch-black bone of her soles in real time. What remained of her combat boots clung to her ankles in tatters. They looked like they’d been shot through. Tourniquets did absolutely nothing to stop her regeneration.

  Wire raised her boot above Blood’s stomach, and then violently lowered it. Rain caught it mid-air and dug his claws into her calves. Wire recoiled back into Carbide’s lap.

  “Please let my girl catch some shut-eye, dear gene sister.” Rain licked the blood from his fingertips and nodded, smiling.

  “Was just checking if she’s alive.” Wire raised her hands in front of her and mirrored Rain’s smile.

  “What the fuck is she?” Carbide leaned in and scanned every inch of Blood.

  “Good question,” Rain beamed; his eyes never left Blood, and neither did his touch.

  Carbide reached for her hand and gently pulled it, weighing it in his hands. He glanced at Wire, nodding; she shrugged.

  “’Bout time our Gen-6 asses turned obsolete.” Wire elbowed Carbide.

  “What’s her story? Your and that other Gen-6’s files check out. Geiger and her files we couldn’t access. Anything Gen-7 is state secret.” Carbide patted the pouches of his rig, eyes pinned on Rain.

  Wire unwrapped a protein bar and started feasting on it.

  “Her story, you say, boss?” Rain passed Carbide a cigarette and lit one himself.

  “Aye.” Carbide closed his eyes and exhaled smoke.

  “Oh, not much of a story. Was takin’ a stroll outside, saw an unexploded nuke. Unscrewed it, and this candy bar popped out. Decided to keep her is all,” Rain gestured a screwing motion with his lit cigarette.

  “How so?” Wire slapped her knee and rasped a laugh.

  “Good company,” Rain winked at them. Carbide corked his neck and joined in his mate’s laughs.

  “She any good?” Wire bit her lip; Carbide playfully elbowed her.

  “How boring can an unexploded nuke be?” He took Blood’s hands in his and exhaled a circle of smoke.

  “Depends on how close you are to ground zero.” Carbide unequipped the largest golden Rolex from his wrist and forced the broken contraption into Blood’s armored rig.

  “The closer the better; keeps shit from becoming… complicated.” Rain knelt closer and kissed Blood’s cheek. Wire and Carbide glanced at each other and held hands.

  “Yeah, complicated ruins it.” Carbide gave him a thumbs-up and held his fist.

  “Nuke’s earned the R&R.” Rain met Carbide’s fist.

  “A sweet little bullet sponge! Lucky you, brother.” Wire wiped her boots on Blood’s knees. Rain’s hand itched for his dagger. He scratched his palm and smiled.

  “What’s her tally again? I got 2 APCs; didn’t count roaches—the cocksuckers didn’t even have power armor.” Carbide aimed a finger in Blood’s face.

  “Two tanks, two APCs, also your cargo and your ass, Commander.” Rain pushed Carbide’s hand away.

  “Yeah, not bad. Shit training. But good weapons don’t need much sharpening.” Carbide ran his fingers on the haft of his sledgehammer.

  “Will work on it; shouldn’t take long.”

  “If you need assistance, don’t be shy.” Wire ran her claws on Blood’s thighs, licking her lips.

  Before anyone could blink, Rain slashed Wire’s sleeve. He upturned his palm, balancing the tip of the dagger on the nail of his index finger.

  “Accidents may happen in my lessons.” He never broke eye contact with Wire. Carbide’s eyes widened as he exploded in laughter; Wire followed suit. Rain holstered the dagger and mimicked laughter.

  Blood stirred, roused from Wire's touch. Her hands reached blindly. Rain caught them before she opened her eyes, and held them tight—tighter than ever before. He leaned close; his face was the first thing her eyes registered. They shut just as fast as they opened.

  “F-fuck, my legs!” The massive warrior violently crawled into a fetal ball, tripping all four gene warriors that happened to be standing over her.

  “All’s good, don’t make a fool of yourself,” Rain leaned to her ear and whispered. Two of her allies smiled and playfully punched her. Others threw cartridges at her, whistling.

  Carbide stood up. Everyone that could make space, did. The cabin went silent. He let a 14.5mm cartridge fall on her armored rig, gripped his sledgehammer in both hands, and shouted, “Bulletproof!”

  Others took turns throwing cartridges at her, each chanting the word as their turns came.

  Finally, Carbide extended the haft of his sledgehammer, and Blood caught it. Everyone helped her to her feet. She groaned from the pain, but smiled anyway.

  “Welcome to our tribe, Blood of the Talbot Massacre.”