Ruin Behind, Wreckage Beyond
Western Berzerkian Territories
Thirty Kilometers East of Dyabursk, 1938
Hot incendiary rounds ripped through the air high above the plains of Western Berzerkia.
The frozen atmosphere hosted a massive formation of bombers boasting the Vasbekian Eagle on their waists and wing tips. Fire erupted out of their machine gun turrets, spitting lead at the Berzerkian fighter planes dancing at their tails. Vasbekian fighter escorts were in hot pursuit of their enemies, the edges of their wings and noses ablaze with gunfire.
The sprawling fields of the Western Berzerkian Territories were littered with the corpses from the brutal air battle above. Pillars of smoke rose into the skies, black columns marking the final resting place of Berzerkian and Vasbekian pilots. There was a sparse population of Berzerkian farmers below the fighting, some of them having been taken out by prematurely dropped bombs or the wreckages of aircraft. Those farmers, along with any pilots that survived being shot down, had their eyes glued to the skies to see the outcome of the air battle above.
They stare skyward to a spectacle that cemented rumors whispered throughout the countryside over the past week: war had come to the Western Territories. To the Empire of Berzerkia. The pillars of smoke that rose into the clear, crisp skies of the Motherland brought with them undeniable truth that yet another conflict had set itself upon them.
There was one, however, who had her eyes elsewhere.
Walking along the long, barely winding countryside road was a small girl in a tattered and stained dress, slowly approaching a lonely tree. She carried a knapsack and a semi-automatic rifle that was almost as long as she was tall. Her pale, ice blue eyes were lifeless, her face set in a neutral half-lidded gaze of apathy. Bags under her eyes were even more pronounced by the girl’s pale complexion.
Aside from the girl’s complete disinterest in the air battle above her country, what made her stand out all the more was her long, starkly white hair. The unkept locks marked the girl as less than human in every nation but her own, but that didn’t mean that discrimination was absent.
High above, a Vasbekian fighter jerked to the side only to have its wing ripped off by Berzerkian gunfire. Thick black smoke trailed behind the spiraling aircraft as the pilot bailed out. However, as the aircraft continued down towards the ground, it became increasingly apparent that the little girl below was in its way. Those that were watching from their homes saw the situation, yet hesitated to call out to the girl. Her white hair killed their voices before they could speak out. By the time the less prejudiced could even think of warning the girl, it was too late to save her.
As the now-burning aircraft approached the small girl with ever-increasing speed, the noise of the craft’s impending crash could not be ignored. Those watching the situation unfold held no doubt in their minds that the girl knew that something was closing in on her.
However, there was no reaction from the small girl as the plane surged not a foot away from her as it continued past her another few yards before slamming into the Berzerkian earth and erupted into flames. Even as the shrapnel and massive heat wave from the explosion washed over her, the small girl offered no response as she slowly made her way onward towards the west.
A white parachute had appeared over the countryside and begun to gently fall to the ground below. The pilot held by the nylon fabric material drifted towards the small girl as well, carried by the wind as he held his head in anguish.
The small girl continued, barely noticing as the Vasbekian pilot’s parachute snagged by the lone tree.
“Dammit!”
The pilot cursed in his native tongue, trying to reach his knife but finding that the blade was absent from its sheath. The man looked from side to side, then down to the ground that was just a foot below the reach of his feet. The edge of his knife caught the light of the afternoon sun, glinting just out of the reach of the pilot.
Just as the man was about to consider his options, something strange caught his eye. A little girl with lifeless eyes and white hair standing silently a few feet away from him.
What is a Child of Ragnos doing all the way out here? The pilot couldn’t help but think to himself.
“Hey there, young lady,” The pilot cooed, trying to speak his best Berzerkian, “I know your parents taught you not to talk to strangers, but could you hand me that knife there?”
“…Who are you?” The girl said, the pilot straining to hear her as another plane crashed some distance away, “…What are you?”
“My name is Hendrich von Gilger, young lady,” The pilot responded, doing his best to sound non-threatening. The last thing he needed was for the child to run off and leave him here to be captured by his enemies; or even worse, have the girl take the enemy right to him.
“…” The girl stood silently before him as he hung by the straps of his parachute, her eyes hollow.
The Vasbekian gave a nervous laugh, “Won’t you do me a favor? I can’t get down unless you hand me that knife, young lady…”
“You…didn’t answer the second question,” The girl said evenly.
“Ah…I see,” Another nervous laugh escaped his mouth, “You see, I am a pilot. Now that I’ve answered your questions, can you hand me the knife?”
Something changed in the girl’s expression. Hendrich barely noticed it, and couldn’t quite place what it was. The thought fled his mind as the girl approached slowly, almost methodically slowly. The wind shifted, blowing the girl’s white hair to the side. Had it not been for the movement of her pale locks, the Vasbekian most likely wouldn’t have noticed the semi-automatic rifle at her back.
If I can just get down from here, I can use my pistol to get that rifle from this girl! The Berzerkians might be incompetent militaristic pigs, but their weapons are the highest quality. With that rifle, I should be able to hold out until I can meet up with my comrades…
As the girl approached, Hendrich smiled as gently as he could, as if he were looking at his own daughter, “That’s it, young lady. Just a little further.”
Silently, the small girl crouched down and picked up the knife. As the sound of the metal scraping across the gravel road reached his ears, Hendrich let slip the smallest of smirks as his salvation was handed to him on a silver platter.
The girl, however, didn’t place the knife into his open palm. Instead, she walked over to the trunk of the tree and placed her belongings at its base, save the rifle which she kept strapped to her back. She took the excess of her tattered dress and tied it into a simple knot so that it was pulled taut at her hips. Then she climbed the rough bark of the tree with the knife gripped between her teeth.
Confused, the Vasbekian watched as the small child continued until she was above him with the knife in her hands. Without warning, she started to hack at the cords of his parachute.
What is she thinking? The man thought to himself just as the last of the cords was cut and he was released.
Hendrich landed roughly, his thoughts distracting him enough that he didn’t catch himself before he landed, most of the impact going straight to his tailbone.
“Tch,” The man let out an annoyed sound as the girl calmly climbed down from the tree. “Ya saved me, girl.”
As if she didn’t even notice the change in how the man was acting towards her, the girl hopped the rest of the distance to the ground.
Taking his chance as the girl faced him, Hendrich pulled out his sidearm and trained it on the child. “Now…I think I can make better use of that rifle than you can, girl.”
The girl didn’t even flinch at the gun pointed at her. What was even more infuriating was how she looked at him with a hint of disappointment. She stood still, the knife in her hand shining in the light. She didn’t move for her gun, nor did she look around. She simply stared straight into his eyes with her hollow, golden irises.
Hendrich couldn’t understand the girl from the simple standpoint of common sense. Shouldn’t she be scared? Anxious? Curious? Anything other than apathetic at a time like this?
“I’m sure if you understand or not, girl,” The man said, his voice getting lower, “But if you don’t hand me that rifle, I’m going to have to kill you.”
“…What are you?” The girl suddenly said, her voice venomous.
“Asking that again?” The man laughed, “I already told you, I’m—”
“No,” The girl said, cutting off the man with a sharp tone that made her apathy appear as though it were anger, “What are you?”
“What do you…Ah, I see,” Hendrich said, realizing the real questions she was asking him.
Where do you come from? What nation do you fight for? What blood runs through your veins?
“I am Vasbekian.” The man said proudly.
As if his words were her cue, the girl’s hand rose. The metal of the knife in her palm shone, Hendrich’s eyes widening in realization at what she was going to do. Though it was too late, the Vasbekian tried to move out of the way as the knife came tumbling end over end through the air towards him.
He turned, the hilt of the weapon bouncing harmlessly off his chest.
“Ha, it looks like you’re out of luck—!”
Before he could finish his sentence, the report of the girl’s rifle cut him off. A neat hole had appeared where the knife had struck, right above his heart.
Though it wasn’t an instant kill, it was apparent by the Vasbekian’s thrashing and desperate movements that the girl had shot something vital.
“How…did…you—?” The man croaked, the fear of death washing over his face.
“Lizaveta,” The small girl stood over his dying body, her small voice now sounding eerily deadly. “Lizaveta Illyasov. That’s the name of the one who killed you. Make sure that you let your comrades know once you get to Hell: All of Vasbekia shall die. I will kill them all for what they’ve done.”
As the man lay on the ground, his hand reached for the girl’s face, though he couldn’t touch it. “You…demon Child of Ragnos…!”
The look of fury that had been in Lizaveta’s eyes was replaced with a cold look of hatred as she picked up the knife at her feet and pounced on the Vasbekian pilot.
Stabbing him time after time in the chest, even after the man twice her size had stopped moving, Lizaveta muttered in harsh tones to herself and the corpse of her enemy. The bloodied knife slipped out of her hands as she looked at her palms.
The crimson that coated her palms reminded her of what happened barely two days ago. Fire surrounded her, the screams of the dying filling her ears. The smell of engine exhaust and gunpowder assaulted her nose through shallow breaths. Everyone who was in her small hometown on the outskirts of the Western Territories, everyone that she had ever known, was now dead. There was no one left. There were only the sounds of the dying and the sounds of triumphant Vasbekian yelling.
But Lizaveta could barely remember hearing any of it. She could only feel the warm, sickening feeling of blood on her hands. The sound of shallow, crippled breathing. It was all that the girl could think about—her beloved sister’s dead body, with the blood on her hands.
But this was different.
The dull crimson, the fleeting warmth of his life. It brings a catharsis over her that she cannot explain. It spreads from her heart, to her chest, then to her face. It tugged at the corners of her lips, bringing a faint grin to her lips.
