The campfire burns unevenly, its light spilling over uneven ground, throwing shadows that dance between the legs of soldiers gathered around it. Sparks rise and die in the cool night air, vanishing before they can reach the stars. The celebration continues; laughter mixes with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and roasted meat. Someone opens another bottle, its cap flicking into the dirt, and the foam overflows onto the soldier's fingers. They don't care. They are alive, the bear is down, and that is enough to sing about. Native nursery rhymes—half cheerful, half mournful—echo from mouths that stumble over the words. The voices are out of tune, but that is part of the joy.
Aldo is not among them at first. He still sits inside the dimly lit tent, hunched over his small notebook, his posture straight but his movements mechanical. His pen moves carefully, each word written with the same precision as a trained marksman pulling a trigger. Lines, symbols, diagrams—notes that would make sense only to him. He pauses sometimes, listening to the muffled noise outside, the laughter that rises and falls like waves against the tent canvas. His eyes shift toward the entrance, then he sighs, sliding the notebook into an inner pocket of his winter uniform. The act of hiding it feels unnecessary, but he does it anyway—habit, not fear.
When he steps out, the air hits him: the warmth of fire mixed with the sharp scent of pine smoke. Someone spots him almost immediately—a thin boy with messy brown hair and a flushed face. "Aldo! Over here!" he shouts, waving frantically with the energy of one too drunk to notice his hand nearly dipping into the fire. Aldo hesitates, then walks toward them, the sound of his boots sinking into the muddy ground drowned out by laughter.
He is handed a cup of beer by someone whose name he doesn't quite remember. The cup is warm from another's hand. Aldo sits down, the glass resting on his lap, the liquid trembling with each motion of the men around him. He doesn't drink it. His eyes travel around the circle instead, over the firelit faces of Earthlings like himself—boys who once might have gone to school, worked in cities, or played games on glowing screens. Now they are drunk in a foreign world, laughing too loudly, singing in accents that blend together until no one can tell who is from where.
Aldo watches a group of them fall over laughing. Their cheeks are flushed, their eyes half-shut, their bodies slack with intoxication. [They laugh like they've forgotten they were sold here.] He doesn't hate them for it—perhaps he even understands. But still, something in his chest feels tight, a quiet discomfort. He ignores it, setting his cup down and folding his hands neatly over his knees. The laughter goes on.
A voice interrupts the noise—a lieutenant approaches, boots crunching against the dirt, a faint smell of tobacco following him. His armor gleams dully in the firelight. He carries himself with an air of practiced ease, the kind of authority that doesn't shout. When he speaks, the camp goes quiet. "Good work, men," he says, the words slow and measured. "I didn't expect a slave platoon to handle a mission like this."
The soldiers murmur among themselves, uncertain whether to take it as praise or surprise. The lieutenant continues, lifting his hand toward them. "Listen well. Any Earth slave serving in the army for two consecutive years with excellent results will be granted Free Citizen status. Those who continue to complete high-risk missions—like this one—may receive additional privileges in September."
The words hang in the air like bait. Some of the privates smile, others exchange glances. One of them, barely sixteen, grins widely and says, "Then I'll make sure to live long enough for that!" Another laughs, adding, "If you live, maybe I'll take your share." The laughter returns, lighter now, almost childlike.
The lieutenant smirks faintly, then moves toward Aldo, his eyes narrowing slightly as if recognizing him from reports. He places a hand on Aldo's shoulder and says, "Lieutenant Colonel's orders—two more missions like today, and there'll be a promotion waiting for you." The hand lingers for a second before he steps back.
Aldo looks up at him, his expression blank but polite. He nods once. He doesn't care for the promotion. [Sergeant, Staff Sergeant… ranks mean little when you're not free.] What matters is that word—Free Citizen. He turns it over in his mind. A title, a promise. A system designed by the Mikhland Federation to reward obedience among Earthlings—carrots for the compliant. But still, it's something. [Why give us citizenship at all? Guilt? Efficiency?] He doesn't know. He suspects the latter.
He doesn't think long on it. The lieutenant finishes his rounds and leaves, and the laughter returns, though slightly more subdued now. The night wears on. The fire burns lower, crackling softly as the logs crumble into glowing ash. The songs turn slower, their rhythms dissolving into slurred mumbling. Someone snores against a tent pole.
Gradually, the camp quiets. The bottles are empty, scattered in the dirt like small glinting stones. The air smells faintly of smoke and alcohol. Aldo stands, brushing the dust off his uniform, and looks around. The party's glow has faded, and in its place, a heavy drowsiness settles over the camp.
Orders pass quickly between the remaining platoons. The five Earth slave platoons agree—three will clean, two will guard. The exchange is short, practical, almost wordless. Aldo ends up among the cleaners. He doesn't complain. He gathers the mugs, bowls, and soup pots, stacking them neatly before carrying them to the edge of the camp where a stream murmurs through the grass. The moon reflects off the surface in a broken shimmer. He crouches and begins washing, using a bunch of wild plants that release a faint foam when crushed—improvised soap. His movements are steady, rhythmic, more like an experiment than a chore.
Around him, others do the same. Some hum softly, half-asleep, the alcohol dulling their sense of fatigue. The forest watches silently, the wind carrying the sound of water splashing against metal. Occasionally, one of the guards passes by, exchanging a quiet nod before returning to their post. They take turns, rotating positions every so often to keep from stiffening in the cold.
Further away, the native Albus soldiers sleep soundly in their tents. Their snores blend with the whispering leaves. The difference between the two camps is stark: one burns with dim light and weary motion; the other lies in perfect stillness. Aldo glances at the distant tents, the flags bearing the insignia of the Mikhland Federation fluttering faintly in the night breeze. [Free Citizens, soldiers, slaves—it's all the same when you're under someone's banner.] He doesn't sigh. He just continues washing.
The fire by the main camp shrinks to embers, glowing faintly in the dark like dying stars. The laughter from earlier has faded into memory, replaced by the steady rhythm of cleaning and the quiet shift of guards in the distance. Aldo wrings out the last pot, stacks it upside down to dry, and looks up at the night sky—indifferent, infinite.
He doesn't smile, doesn't frown. His eyes reflect the faint light of the embers, unblinking. The world feels still again, as if waiting for something that never comes.
The night air is dense, half-soaked in mist, half-drowned in smoke from the dying campfires. The once-cheerful hum of drunk soldiers fades into the cold void between trees, leaving only the rhythmic crackle of embers and the smell of wet wood. The sky hangs low — a lid of gray-blue metal pressing against the world. The laughter that had once filled the camp now feels like an echo from another lifetime.
Then the sound — faint, sharp, almost imaginary — cuts through the silence. A whisper of motion. A sound that only someone whose instincts have been rewired by survival could hear. Aldo reacts before thought forms, lunging forward and crashing into a private from another platoon. The two hit the ground hard, the earth cold and unyielding. A heartbeat later, the hiss of a bullet grazes the air above, slicing through the place Aldo's head had been a second before. The sound of impact follows — a crack of splintered wood, a puff of dust.
The private freezes, confusion spreading across his face. Aldo doesn't waste breath explaining. His hand presses the man's head down, fingers trembling not from fear but from the controlled violence of instinct. The boy's eyes dart up — wide, young, full of questions that will never matter if they move an inch too high. Aldo's lips part slightly, but no words come. Instead, his body speaks — crawling low, pulling the private by the collar, dragging him back toward the camp's wooden wall.
Around them, the night grows thinner. Every rustle of grass becomes an accusation. The eight soldiers nearby, startled by the movement, raise their guns. Their silhouettes twist against the dim firelight, the sharp metal of their rifles catching glints like teeth. Then they see Aldo, see the private's trembling form beside him, and comprehension dawns like the snap of a trigger. No shouting. No questions. Just a flicker of understanding that runs across the platoons like static. The warning spreads. Men start ducking behind cover, their boots grinding against frozen soil. Aldo's mind flickers in fragments — calculations, patterns, the way the sound came, its angle. [South. Forest line. Too steady for panic. Sniper.]
He shoves the private into the trench near the wooden barricade and turns away before the boy can say anything. The private murmurs a shaky "thank you," voice breaking in relief. Aldo doesn't answer. He walks back to his platoon as if the bullet had never grazed him — but the line of pain burns low on his back, deep and wet beneath the winter fabric. His breath trembles only once before steadying again.
Two soldiers — faces blurring in his memory — grab the bandages, tearing strips with cold fingers. Their hands move awkwardly, the cotton wrapping around his torso in hurried circles. The touch is clumsy but earnest. Aldo's body stiffens when they pull too tight. "Loosen it," he mutters, his tone flat, almost mechanical. They hesitate, cheeks red with embarrassment, before adjusting. The air carries the faint smell of antiseptic, or maybe just frost and sweat — it's hard to tell.
In the flickering orange light, faces gather, grim and anxious. The platoon leaders from other groups start arguing in low tones — short, clipped words, more fear than authority. Some privates have already begun sneaking toward the barracks of Albus's men, whispering names, rumors, speculations that trail off into nothing. The tension crawls across the camp like an animal, unseen but heavy.
The small boy who serves as Aldo's platoon leader — barely fifteen, face still round from adolescence — steps forward, voice trembling with forced composure. "What happened, Aldo?" he asks. His eyes dart to the wound, then to the shadows beyond the rampart. Aldo's gaze meets his. Calm. Hollow. He shakes his head once, a gesture too slow to be simple disbelief. The boy interprets it as denial. "It's them… the Revolutionary Former Slaves," he insists, his tone quickening with desperate certainty. "They must be attacking again. This is our chance, Aldo! We could join them — they'd protect us. We can—"
He doesn't finish.
The word "defect" cuts through the air like another bullet. Silence expands. Ten of the twenty soldiers in the platoon move almost instinctively — as if the command had already been written in their bones. They grab spare uniforms, rifles, ammunition. The sound of boots against wood becomes frantic, echoing against the half-collapsed walls. Their faces are a mixture of fear and feverish excitement — the kind of hope born from despair. Then, without looking back, they run into the night, vanishing beyond the ramparts where the cold mist swallows all noise.
Aldo watches them disappear, the movement of their backs growing smaller until even the memory of them feels distant. He doesn't speak.