75°56'17.2"S 53°44'36.7"E - Nuevo Trujillo, Spanish Antarctic Colonies

  21.05.2024- 16:20 UTC +03.00

  I was only a visitor by Salvador’s side. I could only see from his side – I was not him, but I was next to him. It was as if I was attached to him and following his point of view. I had my senses, not just visual. I could feel the vibrations in the air, the smells, I could touch what he touched.

  “Go!” Salva shouted at a man at the helm of our small group. We burst through the main entrance of the Escapadas apartment-building-turned-military-compound.

  “This will not be a reconnaissance mission. Neither a distraction. We are the whole mission. If we stay here, we get buried to death. If we leave, we face their wrath,” he had announced to the group before leaving the bunker. “But there are more of us in other bunkers. Comms are out. We cannot coordinate. Only us here can strike. And during that strike, give a chance to everyone to resurface. We have to be brave, and others might stand a chance. We are the ones finding the mercy tonight. We all stand together.”

  The twenty-two men and women had cheered him on back then, and now they were cheering themselves as they ran into the cold night. Bright lights illuminated the terrain.

  “Charge!” Salva yelled and I found myself yelling alongside him. Salva and the Escapadas fired the first round of bullets, but almost two seconds later, enemy fire burst through the cold air.

  Well, I could only guess it was two seconds. The moment we stepped out through the main entrance, everything slowed down.

  “Perfect,” I said, as I turned around, taking it all in.

  Behind us, the large multi-story building was crumbling and fuming. Salva’s assessment was correct, staying in there would have been a death sentence.

  Fifty meters in front of us, a battalion of at least fifty soldiers holding rifles was aiming at us. Their white coated suit was as big as armor, blocking cold as well as bullets. Even farther away, a stationary artillery machine was slowly lowering in our direction. Three figures stood by it, and two large spheres of sunlight flew above their heads.

  “I can see so clearly.”

  It was true, and it was not their lights. The fight did not appear chaotic or frightening anymore. My sight was also unlimited by the snowy white mist, it almost felt enhanced by it. There was no cold, only warmth to it. Safety.

  I turned my attention to the bullets approaching our group. I could see where they would land.

  I rushed close to him, my incorporeal body extending next to his. All I had to do was guide them, and he had to trust me. I felt his body obeying; he understood.

  I remembered Salva’s words: we all stand together.

  I jumped. No longer visiting Salva, but the man right behind him. I quickly gave direction to his mind, guiding him where I thought he would be the safest.

  And the next and the next.

  By the time the front of the bullets reached us, I was back at Salva’s side; but I did not look back. I knew that whoever had heeded my guidance would be safe, but not all of them would, and I had no mental capacity to worry about that.

  Our bullets stroke true, while theirs mostly missed. I felt time gradually speeding up, but I did not let go; more fire was heading our way.

  I repeated the process: I jumped from Escapada to Escapada and guided each one of them. The more I did it, the faster I got.

  “TUR-QUE-SA!” the group now yelled, realizing the insane advantage I provided to them. What looked like a suicide mission a few moments ago, now seemed blessed to succeed.

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  Salvador did not shout like the rest, but he whispered at me.

  We are going for the strike.

  I pulled all my focus onto him, and then time sped up again. My incorporeal arms guided his, as he dropped his firearm and unsheathed a large sword. It was ornamental; its blade was not sharpened to kill, but beautifully crafted into a ceremonial style. He dragged it through the snow, which immediately melted, and rose from the tip of the blade and reached his fingers at the tilt, dousing the full blade in icy water.

  He lunged through the soldiers. I guided him to avoid the fire, but he knew how to strike them right through their minds. Every hit of his blade was like his psychic touch from our first meeting, but lethal; bleeding through their brain and breaking it. He did not need a clean strike to kill, only to touch. His victims fell to the ground, their eyes black from the terrors breaking their minds.

  I hovered around him, seeing every piece of friendly and enemy fire, sweeping and bending him around.

  “The cannon,” he said. My attention turned to the front of us, beyond the enemy soldiers dropping like flies, where the cannon fired somewhere at the group behind us.

  Both Salva and I knew some of the Escapadas must have been hit by that shot.

  “They fear us,” I said. The three figures next to the cannon had turned to us, as the cannon hesitantly turned in our direction.

  I had no doubt that, in the end, they would not hesitate to shoot at their own soldiers if they had to. And an explosion was not something I could swerve Salva out of, so our only hope was we would outrun it.

  “Eyes on the prize,” Salva said lunging once more through the soldiers.

  I felt something tugging me, shaking me, attempting to break my connection to Salva. I resisted, but it distracted me enough for a bullet to hit his left calf. As a response, he swished his blade killing the two last soldiers standing between him and the three overseeing at the back.

  “It is now or never,” I said. My Curse had limits, and we were testing them.

  He and I started running as one. The cannon fired a shell that landed far behind us, missing their last crucial shot.

  I could now see them clearly; three men dressed in dark blue robes, similar to the men atop the Santiago Towers, but younger.

  All three were chanting words fast as they stood behind the machine. They realized we would reach them faster than the cannon could reload, and they could not outpace us. The spheres of sunlight above them flickered and disappeared, dropping the battlefield into darkness.

  “I can see clearly,” I reassured Salva, as something shook me once more, pushing me away from the battle. I resisted once more.

  I guided his movements, and the three chanting men dropped, their eyes turning black. We had conquered the position.

  “TUR-QUE-SA!” Salva finally shouted, raising his sword. I looked around: more Escapadas were exiting from the building and the nearby buildings, all cheering and shouting their respective colors. “ES-CA-PA-DAS!”

  I wanted to cheer as well, but something held me from doing so. The night around us and the stars of the sky reminded me that we were still in the Antarctic cold, with nowhere to run.

  I had nowhere to run. I was weak, alone, and afraid.

  Someone was crying, mourning even. His whimpers made my skin crawl. I couldn’t see yet; everything was dark. But I could feel my hands shaking, covered in a hot thick liquid. My ears rang, and I was shaking. I was in the back of a car, but far away from any fight. It was not moving.

  The crying intensified, and as it did, my vision stabilized. My eyes met Cecilia’s eyes, sitting at the front car and looking through the rear-view mirror. Her eyes looked through mine, looking for something.

  A metallic smell invaded my mouth as I turned to Oriol next to her. He had tears on his cheeks, and his eyes looked sharp and wet. “Fuck. Fuck!” He cursed and he punched his seat in anger.

  I turned to my left.

  “Did I make it? Did I save us?” I asked Hanying, whose eyes widened but remained still. Was she not holding my hands a minute ago, guiding me? She had moved as far away from me as the car seats allowed, her hands on her side.

  “They will run away, I made it. We made it,” I said, replaying in my mind the scene of Salva’s charge through the enemy position.

  The man on my right wailed and pulled my attention right in front of me. There lay Gabi, a man I had just met, his skin grey and cold as if winter had claimed him, his mouth slightly ajar. His eyes were open, but empty of life. The wound in the middle of his body, previously a deep cut by his own dagger, had now turned into a large laceration as if something monstrous had crawled out of him. Or strung him open. Blood had stopped flowing from the wound which had turned rotten and grey, but my hands were covered in red, almost all the way to the shoulder.

  What did I do?

  I was not there. It was someone else. What happened?

  I did not kill him – did I?