[b]Shenzhen countryside, Pearl River Delta[/b]

The rain let up, but so didn't the clouds. The countryside after the rain glistened as the last drops slid down the glass window panes. With the cessation of the tapping of rainwater on the roof an air of excitement came over the men in the country-side gambling house. Chairs shuffled across the unfinished wood floor and gathered at the windows. Their foot falls heavy as they moved about, shouting at laughing at each other. And behind his closed doors The Cashier was weighing the pot.

There was a general air of excitement that moved through. Like a warm breeze it swept through, picking up men like leafs of paper. The swept about the room and through the doors. Outside the muddy parking lot was beginning to rumble with the sound of engines.

“Tui, are you really sure about this?” Cong protested, hands stuffed deeply into his pockets. His head sunk down, ware-fully watching the much larger gamblers that bustled about the cramped house. His face was pale, and he strained his words around his anxiety, “You can back out now, if you want?”

Tui laughed dismissively, wrapping a large arm around the meek and diminutive boy. Cong flinches at his touch, his face shooting to the side where a heavy hand affirmatively squeezed his shoulder. “Don't worry!” Tui boasted, “I've done this more than once. And besides: if I back out now I can say goodbye to my money.

“And my parents will kill me if I loose my week's allowance.”

“But what if you lose anyways!?” Cong protested in a hushed voice. He watched with wide eyes the muscle bound bouncer walk by the two in the narrow entrance hall, a cigarette hung limp in his bulbous sausage lips.

“Not happening!” Tui beamed confidently. “I haven't lost a race to date!” he boasted, holding out his chest.

“You've only been in one!” Cong scoffed.

“And I won it.” the mechanically-minded youth smiled, beating his fist into his chest.

“That still doesn't mean anything.”

“Of course it does.”

“Please, come on. Let's get Feng and go back home.” Cong argued back. Feng herself was in the corner of the living room. Legs crossed sitting on the battered wooden radio teasing the odd gambler. On account of her preference there was little chance she was serious in any of her flirts. “I thought this was just some road trip. Fuck, something to do before the last quarter.”

“And it is!” Pui Tui beamed, “You're going to love it, I promise. I'll let you have window seats too. Let you hold onto the door.”

“I'm going to have no choice on this am I?” sighed Cong, his stomach nodded with dread, “You're dead set on this?”

“Of course I am.” his friend nodded, “And besides, I don't think you're going to want to be around the spectators for anything but five minutes. Not the way your face looks.” he pointed out to the gathering on the front porch where stood a motley crew of dirty and twitchy men with bottles of cheap booze in their hands.

“What about Feng then, is she coming?”

“If she wants.” Pui Tui answered, “But if she doesn't then I'm not concerned. Remember what she and Mei did at that one club however many months back?”

“Didn't it involve a bottle?”

“Yea, some American kwai lo tried to reach for them. They put a fucking glass bottle into his face. I'm sure Feng can hold up to these guys if she wanted.” laughed Tui, “You on the other hand, I never know about you.”

“Shit, you're like a bad brother.” Yan Cong grumbled to Tui's amusement.

“Brothers!” a voice boomed out. The sharp suddenness forcing Cong to jump back into the wall like a frog. His face going an even more ghostly pale as he pressed himself back. Illiciting smart laughter from The Cashier as he passed them by, “Race is set to begin!” the mixed race man beckoned as he stepped through the door, holding out his arms. The two city kids followed him, Cong more apprehensive than he could have been.

“I have the winner's pot from the racers. I'll be taking bets from anyone not.” he said loud and thunderously. His ripping deep voice cut even above the engines that had been started early, “The road warriors can get to their cars now.”

“Come on!” Tui urged, tugging Cong's sleeve. “You coming Feng!?” he shouted, looking behind him.

Feng smiled, brushing aside a stray lock of her oil-black hair and shook her head, “I'm fine here.” she said. Cong couldn't help but feel she knew she could freely avoid a ride in Pui Tui's beast. Cong wasn't given any chance to protest as he swept across the muddy ground by the meat of his shoulder. His friend pulling him along at a racer's pace. It was hardly a blink of the eye that he was again on the fake leather seating of the modifier pick up with the Tei Gui engine seated in the back. He could feel his heart beginning to flutter early and his stomach anxiously searching for something to evict. But the pork buns he had that morning were too far gone to be regurgitated.

For Pui Tui it was a moment of excitement. Birds flew madly in his stomach as he flew the ignition. His head swam in a sea of excitement as he heard the engine's roar behind him, another successful ignition. The steering wheel vibrated madly in his hands. The bed rocked and rumbled.

With a roar the air filled with black smoke and he gave a cheer as he backed up through the wet sticky mud. Already the other competitors were beginning to line up. In the mirrors he could see them. And in the same mirrors he could see the spectators waving them off. Amid the thunder of the engines as they lined up The Cashier rose his voice to give the rules, a mere formality.

Racers to line up in columns of two on the road. First to make it back around the hill wins. Avoid running the others off the road, deaths are too much of an insurance threat to clean up. He didn't need to hear it. The thrumming of adrenaline in his ears was too much. Cong whimpered like a worried dog as he fastened himself in with the safety belt and braced his knees against the dashboard.

As he filled in his place he flipped on the radio, scrambling through the stations, passed the talk news. Hoping to find something akin to music. Sharp twangs burst from the radio as he found just that. Low, bluesy, and almost certainly pulled from America he found the guitarwork of one of the few imports from the US left to live in China. Harvey Edwards, backed by Chen Yiaoliang with his more traditional strings. Old and new, a juxtaposition the two shared and had a basis for their own intertwined careers.

He didn't care. Now the clouds were thinning the station was more there than not. It was music, if spaced between moments of static irregularity. It'd be his sound track to victory. Cong shut his eyes tight in expectation for what was to begin.

Tense moments passed the racers by as they idled. Their motors revving and dying with an anxious restrained fury. Like dogs at the cage ready to charge. The short back of another lightly modified Quilin, similar to that as Tui's stood between he and the open road. Although with a back free it was a lighter built vehicle. Alongside him a sedan of so many mismatched parts and jagged paint jobs lay crouched against the rocky broken road.

The racers all seemed to wait. Whether a signal or an action. But to the side across the muddy front lawn The Cashier and his company stood at wait without motion, or suggestion at motion. Smiling at each other over bottles of cheap alcohol and smokey cigarettes.

Finally the tension broke with a squeal of tires and a fountain of thick heavy mud. The Quilin truck ahead of Tui lit up its wheels and spun them in the sticky muck, tossing it thick into Tui's windshield before speeding off for the road, in quick succession the rest gave chase, rocketing thick fans of deep blackened mud high into the air and across the bodies of all cars that dared pass to close. Cong recoiled back against the windows as the soaked dirt smashed against the glass in heavy frothy thuds.

Pui Tui acted as fast as he could, whipping on the windshield whippers and not sprinting from the start. Delicately coaxing the accelerator he set off for the road, avoiding the slippery earth in much a way the rest of his competition did not. As they spun onto the wet tarmac he pulled out, merging into the thinning lines before he slammed the gas.

The accelerator roared to life behind them. Crying in rage and in pain. The pistons slamming as the motor turned with a vicious roar. More than it had before. It wasn't a constant loud hum, it was a roar that muted all sounds. Dullening the radio and masking it, the song becoming distant and nonexistence to the fierce diesel explosion that propelled them forward.

Despite the violent tossing of the vehicles the sharp acceleration of the truck threw Cong for once back into the seat. He sat hands pressed against the back of his seat and the door, starring wide-eye out the front window. The world blurred before him. The trees getting lost in the haze of speed.

Within inches the car of another racer nearly brushed to a grinding demise alongside Tui. Pressed between he and the steep hillside off the side. The two competed neck and neck, driving themselves to the greatest of their vehicle's extent. Looking out at it, Cong could not help but feel nausea. His chest fluttering with sharp biting fear he stuffed his head between his knees, fighting to keep jagged breaths steadily.

[b]Cantina Madrid, Kowloon, Hong Kong[/b]

“So he told me as we sat by the river that the secret to global peace isn't Communism, nor democracy!” the creature proclaimed. His voice was sweet as the color red and ran as heavenly as the rain. In much the same way his face shifted in awe. “But that in reality, the ultimate society is that lacking in materialism.” the now-horse man proclaimed confidently. His eyes somewhere between an insect and a fish. Or maybe it was a fern.

Mei lounged across red pillows, like several others gathered. Their faces melted and froze in fractal patterns. Disobeying space and time as they sat simply drinking the man's words from the cool glass of his mouth as they swam high on the acid.

“He said that it's really material greed that imprisons us the conflict.” the man continued. He sounded simultaneously lost and found. But the same could be asked of everyone else in the maroon landscape. From off in some distant corner a strange melancholic music played. It was like the soft playful flow of a waterfall. Mei could feel it wash over her as she lay against the cushions. Ebbing waves of azure and teal bands snaked across her body. She couldn't just see the notes of the song as they were, but felt them. Both hot and cold. They wrapped through her very fiber the way the air-conditioning of the underground bar did.

It was a surreal sensation. It wasn't terrifying. It felt like a blessing. Like what it was to be truly alive. No matter the strange way the world changed. At times figures looks dimly resembling of newspaper photo clippings. Some stretched and warped. A few times she couldn't help but stare curiously at the host or the other guests as they took on shapes that resembled her friends. It reminded her, if only for a moment, that she should try to invite them.

But then maybe she'll forget.

The thought made her giggle madly. “Happiness comes with freedom!” the hippo exclaimed, pausing from his speech to praise Mei Hsui Mei, “That's a truth, sister. A deeper color, I tell you.”

The attention he gave her made her laugh more. She ran her fingers through her long silken black hair as she smiled back. Her hair felt like pearls between her fingers. Running fine and cool between her fingers like water fresh out of the tap. She toyed with the banana tucked between her breasts. She didn't know why it was there, it just was. No one could explain it, and it was doubted anyone would want to. They were too deep into the trip.

“Then what does the Man in black have to say about things are they are then?” chirped a buzzard, prying into the situation. He sounded just as lost as they are in the fantasy he was in, but no doubt beginning to climb out of it, “Of China now. Where it is headed. The material world coming in.”

The ostrich rose a finger, bleeting. “It's a test.” he said, “I think. I don't know. I don't remember that far.” he said giving himself an excuse. One which made the group laugh.

“But I would imagine it is not good in the long run, but not as evil as that of Spain or the United States, who must drown themselves in materialism. It's really something of a shame, I think.

“Would you say?” the man asked, leaning towards Mei, brushing a gentle finger across her cheek. She not only felt it on the surface of her skin but deep inside. Like being stroked there on a hundred different levels in a hundred different universes. She would have given him an answer but the pleasure she felt ensured that he was again shifting to something reflective of it. And at best he looked like an angel from the next dimension. It stunned her to silence. Or wild giggling.

Bathed in red lights the Cantina Madrid was for the better part of a day a warping fantasyscape hidden underneath some grimy restaurant in Hong Kong. It was an escape for those who knew about it. The Ethiopians, the Chinese rebel, or the odd Russian that had stumbled into the hidden world this far south. It was where the outside could be forgotten for twenty-four hours, and no one would come to look for you.

The presiding masters of this inter-dimensional pocket ruled over with benevolence. For a few Yen they footed the tiny inconspicuous drops upon their visitors. Sugar pills wrapped in a film of paper that melted on the mouth, adorned with the anonymous image of some strange African with a fine dress suit and thick afro.

It was this unknown character that also hung from a far wall, and was for all curiosities the one thing that didn't change in the entire trip. The Cantina could turn into a forest, and its visitors having left existence or become fantastic animals. And there stapled to the trunk of a tree was the Cantina's blown up painting of the man on the pills.

He was strange. Inviting. But dressed nice, almost as if to mourn or to kill someone. Dressed to opress, as some said. But his hands held out with a polite smile. The words that were his slogan printed over at least a half dozen times. “Try me.” he said.

“Try me.” always.

Mei's hands crept back up to the banana pocketed between her small, tight tits. Her gown and bra doing the extra work to hold it against her chest. It was warm and leathery. And soon she would need to unwrap it and eat. The trip would wear out soon, and the real world would come back and she'd be hungry. The proprietors would give her an apple and a glass of water before sending her off back. No one got to trip twice. And then it'd be weeks or months before she came back.

But for now it was time to enjoy it. Wavering, what little of the present was allowed to leak away. The chattering of their courier becoming a soft wind in a surreal landscape of night skies. She allowed herself to pass into different worlds and different locations for the final leg of her trip.

[b]Omsk, Russia[/b]

It had been awkward being back at the controls again. For being back from negligent driving, it felt too soon. Back on familiar group he would have been ordered to stay out of a tank for several months and forced to clean and polish the armor of the entire battalion. But not just more than a day after his infraction he was back. And now he peered out through the dirtied and scratched glass of his view ports at the war zone of Omsk.

The tank itself yielded ever more to the side than it used to. A struggle he kept up with on a constant basis as he drove the Teigui ahead into the thick. Since their temporary setback Chinese forces had made headway into the city alongside their Siberian allies. But given the sounds of mortars had not died away, or were even muffled out by the sound of the clanging engine of their own vehicle it was not a victory. Nor was the battle at any state to be decided. But it had for sure decided Omsk itself.

The city had not been turned as inside out as at happened to their homeland against the Japanese, or the newscasts and photos from abroad in other conflicts. But the wounds were there, open to the cool Russian spring air and wet with recent rains. Imploded on themselves entire blocks of offices stood empty with deep gashes having torn out their sides. The layout of their floors and walls opened to the day time air, resembling the butchered flesh of an animal; the skin removed the bones and the meat shown.

Piles of rubble littered the roads, making moving difficult and long. He did not know how many times he was ordered to turn back, or to move left or right as they avoided clearing crews digging through the effect of artillery and bombing. Sun Song stood through the turret hatch. He swayed as the tank yawed scanning the roadways for obstructions and delivering orders on that. Somewhere on the front - when they found it - would be their unit.

There was something else that Li Tsung could not ignore, even through the murky windows of his viewing. That despite the intensity of the violence that brooded over the city like a cold blanket, and the soldiers of several insignias present that life tried to persist. Whether incapable, slow, or stubborn to evacuate civilians wandered the streets. Their backs bent and skin pale as they looked both skyward for bombs and forwards for bullets they shuffled along the side of the streets, passed the lone rolling tank as it cut its way through the city of Omsk.

These people who should have left or been killed still remained. And though short still the battle was evident on their expressions. Sunken, darkened, and bruised. The quick mercies of being caught in a bomb or at the end of a sniper's scope were not a concern. It was merely abating the slow demise of other means. And at least among the occupiers they could try to cling to whatever illusion of safety from the front as they could. This far behind the Chinese line they were far from the sway and whipping flow of combat.

A metal pounding echoed through the tank. Sun Song knocking on the hull. “Stop here!” he called out.

Tsung obliged the order. The brakes groaned and the tank was brought to a ambling pause in the street. With a hard snap he locked the brakes on and looked out on the streets. On the far side of the murky glass plates Tsung watched a soldier walk off the sidewalk to them. He reached out to the driver's hatch and threw it open, pulling himself out as the man walked up to alongside their vehicle.

“Good afternoon, comrade.” the man said, rifle slung unceremoniously at his shoulder. He was definitely Chinese, his face dirtied.

“We're on our way to the...” Song began, pausing as he pulled out a slip of paper from his coat pocket. His face strained as he concentrated on it, “Internatsionalnava.” he read.

The soldier smiled as he turned to look down the street. Piles of discarded garbage and more than a few collapsed homes lay out in the street. Over head street-car cables lay in nested piles atop stray colored bricks. “Then you were on the right path.” he laughed, “But they I guess blew the bridges down that way.” he pointed. “Before we could, uh, send in relief units to support the advancing armor they blew the Pytor bridge and the Karla Marksa.

“They tried to hit the big one over the Om, but they botched the demolition job. We can still cross it but only in single-file.”

Song nodded, he fought to keep a frown off of his face. “Where are we then?” he asked unsure.

“Pytor street, I think.” shrugged the soldier, “It gets hard when the street signs are missing.” he admitted with a strained laugh. “You can just keep driving straight forward until you hit the river,” he continued, pointing down the street. Rows of old imperial baroque and revivalist homes and offices marched down the pitted street. Their once brightly colored walls now faded from their once bright light-pinks, yellows, and oranges.

“Then, uh, I guess you can take a right there if Republican mortars haven't collapsed anything into the road yet.” he finished.

“Is that a problem?” Song asked

“Now and then.” the soldier shrugged, stepping aside as a tired old man pushed along a wooden cart. He watched him down the street with a cautious suspicious look, “They kept trying to target the rest of their bridge but gave up then. We've helicopters out looking for their mortar positions across the Irtysh.”

“Can we cross?”

“Not unless a Tei-Gui doubles as a boat I doubt we can.” the rifleman spat.

“Question, sir.” Tsun asked. The soldier looked down at the driver leaning out through his hatch.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Why are there civilians still here? Shouldn't they have fled a long time ago?”

“That is an enigma and a mystery all its own.” the rifleman shrugged, “They refuse to leave. Even with our occupation they try to ignore us.

“I'm fine with this. But we're not all sure. Some men have started talking about black ghosts with horse heads wandering the street at night. I haven't seen anything, but best to keep your wits about you. I heard rumors that an extra unit will be called in to simply help police things. This entire city stinks.”

Song nodded. “Tsung,” he shouted, banging on the hull of the turret with his knuckles, “Take us down to the end of the road.”

“Yes sir!” Tsung responded, dropping back into the port, shutting the hatch with a loud clang behind him.

“And comrade!” the rifleman called out to them as the tank began to lurch forward, “Watch your out there. Snipers are on the river!”

“Thanks for the warning.” Song thanked, sitting back inside the turret.

[b]”Site 62-69”, Russia[/b]

The concrete walls muffled the sound of helicopters as they passed over the former prison complex. The glass panes in the office windows rattled as they flew over head, passing low and close as they made to land outside the fence of the Chinese-occupied prison. Operations were in full swing and over the past several weeks Quan Yun-qi had been ordering the execution of patrols and raids against Republican assets in the north. It was light business, and the capture of the prison seemed it had gone largely unnoticed. The capture of its walls and the troops that held it as a fort buried in Yekaterinburg and Moscow's heft list of mounting issues.

There was an uneasy sense of isolation with the outside world. Though regular flights were beginning to take root in this Siberian wilderness there was a feeling of anxiety that the Russians could retake their outpost. They were only some several thousand strong, and over the past few weeks the limited resources of the former prison were beginning to dwindle. Some even complained about a shortage in light bulbs and returning patrols and raids were affirming that there'd be no hold on use of medical supplies.

To be supplied by air never made matters any better. It was their main link to the friendly line. The tensity at the outpost wasn't made better when late shipments had caused concern when rumors started that the Russians had shot down that day's resupply mission. The helicopters had to cross a great deal of distance to reach their position, so it was logical they could. Even with fighters patrolling the area between them and the airbases.

Still, to some degree of stress Quan Yun-qi had stamped out any serious concern. He bidded their time and focused their energies away from their forward operating position. And as on orders, he was requested to perform raids. He did so without hesitation, and there was no one more volunteering than Tsien Huang.

Yun-qi scratched at the unshaven stubble beginning to grow on his broad rounded chin. Huang was a threatening sort of person, though fiercely loyal. But it was this marriage of traits that was frightening. On the taking of the position alone - when they had counted the bodies Russian and Chinese – it was suggested Huang could have facilitated to the immolation of over twenty-five persons, as well as the known incineration of a large quarter of the original compound; which had been dutifully leveled and opened as a temporary airfield.

Like he, Huang had been in the Philippines. Just in a different part of the islands at the time. He rarely discussed it, only discussing the role in the use of fire that he'd been thrust into. His introduction to the flame thrower. He'd come out as physically fine as any. But if he was hiding something deeper it couldn't be said. And that terrified Quan, who often times woke up with images of Mindanao fading in his vision.

He reached out for the cup of tea at his desk, alongside it was a map of the local region of Russia. He had marked their approximate location with red marker, and loosely plotted their ride likewise with the same marker. It was all done by notes taken the hard way. There was hardly anything of note in way of a landmark in this part of Siberia; nothing that'd show on a map at least. And half the roads known to the he and his men were not plotted.

The air was cold, and the hot tea helped soothe that as he raised it to his lips. The warm steam bathing his face, melting the numbness that had taken hold there. The compound itself had run scarce on fuel and all they could muster came from resupply. It was made worse that the Republic had obviously cut off their electricity and now the entire site was powered by generators that bit into the now rationed gas. So now while the lights were on there was no heat. What they could get in way of that was from older means of heating, such as the fires that burned in the courtyard of stoking stoves with charcoal. The method was getting attention from the regiment's cooks, who seemed to be trying to turn it into a game, which was fine with Yun-qi.

He put the glass of tea down and leaned over the map on the desk. Set off to the side was a book of coordinates he had been given from his communication's officer. He had been carefully plotting them over the half-hour. Many of which landed north of the small town in the far bottom-right corner: Surgut. He presumed they were oil wells they wanted him to hit.

There was a surreal lack of settlements even this far north. Site 62-69 was probably by far the first human-built anything they'd ever come across in northern Russia. From there south the marks of human progress would be found. But only scattered until they neared Kazakhstan. And everything else marked had such long bent names that he was sure he would never be able to remember them right.

The door to Yun-Qi's office groaned open, and he looked up from the map. The room was sparsely decorated, having seized it from the former warden, or commander. Whoever he was. Like he, the personal effects were packed away somewhere beyond his reach; he didn't know what'd happen to them or the former commander.

The door was reflective of the room. Or as much as it could. Simple, bare, industrial. Flat. Its hinges were poorly alligned and the metal cheap and corroding. And even for Tsien Huang it was by no means a stealthy way to enter.

The sergeant stepped into the room, turning to Yun-Qi. His broad caveman face held flat as he rose his hand to salute. “Commander, comrade.” he said.

“Huang.” Yun-qi greeted.

“I'm here to deliver my debriefing.” the man said, walking across the room. His armor hung loose under his uniform, half-way to being unhitched. A heavy brown scarf hung off the soldier's neck guard.

“Then debrief.”

“To make it short, nothing happened.” Tsien Huang began dismissively. Either it was the fact he was presenting another debriefing or that nothing had happened that dug at him. His words were layered with a ripe bitterness. “Xiàshì Huen saw a deer while we patrolled south. He bagged it with his gun and we loaded it on our personnel carriers. This was about eleven in the morning. Around twelve we navigated south-west for thirty minutes and came on an abandoned cottage. The roof may have collapsed in from the snow this past window. We searched the scene but didn't find anything of note. So we turned back north and came home.

“At approximately twelve-thirty Junshi An's personnel carrier ran across a ditch of unmelted snow and fell through, throwing him off. He recovered and is in good order but I ordered him to the infirmary to keep him checked out. He complained his shoulder hurt as we righted his vehicle, which took close to twenty minutes.

“We got back about two hours after that.”

Quan Yun-Qi was tempted to scold Huang for allowing his men to recklessly discharge his weapon. But over the past few weeks this had tempered when his unit began taking deer on patrol or anything they could recover in an effort to make up for what many complained to be poor rations. They were turned in for part of the cook's games with wood and charcoal.

He'd reported the matter to general Wen. He had no issue with the matter. Offering support in the form of reciting Sun Tzu. He publicly dropped all show of disagreement against his unit since.

“So was that all that happened?” Yun-qi asked.

“I wish not, but it is.” Huang sighed, “Somedays I wish the Republic would do something. We fight deep in the streets to the south, and here we are waving our dicks in the cold wind.”

“I wouldn't get too impatient.” the officer counseled, looking up from the map.

“You got orders for something?” Huang asked.

“Not sure, only coordinates.” Yun-qi replied.

Huang nodded, walking close to the desk. He carried a strong odor about him. He stopped short and looked down at the map, at the red marks.

“I see.” he said.

“Don't tell anyone.” Yun-qi scolded, “If I hear talk, I'll know. I'll tell the men in time.”

“Which is?”

“When the orders come in.” he grumbled, “You're dismissed by the way.”

“Yes comrade.” Huang bowed, “Have a good day.”

[b]Perm, Russia[/b]

The cool night sung with the drips of water as long shadows cast by the streetlamps flooded the alleys with a thick black soup. Fresh from rain the fire escapes and gutters above leaked water onto the twisted cobblestone below. Trashcans sat thrown against the walls. And somewhere a feral dog barked madly. The sounds and darkness of night no hindrance to the laughing men who stumbled out of door, lighting the alley with a bright flare of yellow light. As sudden as it had opened it slammed closed, letting the sheep out into the night.

Cackling and laughing they staggered through the darkness. Cigarettes clenched in their teeth and a bottle of beer or vodka in their hands. They staggered drunken and stoned through the night, unaware of the predator after them.

“Cheers to Bogdan, who can no doubt drink the dead to under the table!” roared one of the men as he staggered to alongside a trash bin, raising his bottle of vodka over his head. He stared off emptily into the night, cheeks a rosy red. His head swam in a warm sea of inebriation.

“Aye, and to the health of the Czar!” laughed another.

“Not even the bar could handle.” cackled another.

Merry and warm the men staggered through the alley. Stepping out into the moonlight. Roaring and howling at the moon. “I'm flying so damn high right now.” said one amazed, stepping all over the sidewalk. His eyes dilated tight.

“If you had any more Vsevolod you would be catatonic.” jeered another, “Is good. You not going to pass out?”

Vsevolod staggered to a stop and swayed where he stood. His face scrunched into that of confusion. “What the fuck did you say?” he whipped out. He charged forward, but in a few steps it turned into a messy stuppor and he stopped short of who he was approaching.

“He can't even fight right!” one of them laughed, holding out his bottle.

“God damn it, you fucking say what?” spat Vsevolod, “I'll destroy you, swear on my mother.”

“I wouldn't promise that.” crooned another man. Taller, with a messy head of hair.

“Semyon, I'll come for you next.” sneered Vsevolod as he turned around. Throwing himself dizzy he nearly fell backwards. But by chance he threw his foot back and re caught what was left of his balance. To him his world was a swimming mix of shapes, dancing in the midst of a whirlpool. And he was watching himself be the fool, unable to stop himself before reason caught up.

“What was that shit anyways?” he burped, performing a sharp one-eighty.

“A magician never reveals his secret.” Semyon smiled, clapping his hands. He stepped forward, a little sloppy but more coherent than the rest.

“In any case, that was a killer present.” a large figure said, “I won't be coming down for weeks!”

Semyon smiled warmly. He would keep winning off of him until he fell over dead. “The pleasure is all mine to help a friend have fun!” he boasted.

“Well let's get home and have more. I'LL PAY!”

The proposal was met with wild roars of agreement and they shuffled back through the streets again. But it wasn't more than a few steps until the men stopped cold. Behind them something clattered against the cement of the pavement. “Who the fuck!?” Vsevold boomed.

“Calm down, it's probably just a cat.” Semyon comforted, walking up to the stoned individual. He held out a hand to turn him around, with a slap he smacked his hand away.

“No. Fuck it. I'm tired of this shit!” he shouted, “Fucking tired. I got to go cut some shit. Fucking pussies. I don't care. I'll cut it. Cut it. I'm hungry for its blood.”

Semyon threw his arms out from his side, letting the drunkard stagger to the disturbance. Somehow the unprovoking provocation had given him enough purpose to take control of his world as he staggered left to right through the streetlights.

“Vesevold, for fuck's sakes. Come back!” one of his friends yelled. But he didn't respond, and turning a corner he disappeared into the darkness.

“We got to go get him.” one of the other drunks suggested soberly, following after him with just as much success. The others followed suit, leaving Semyon alone. The dealer stared at them perplexed, and deeply confused. Junkies were hardly ever predictable. But it was one of those moments he second guessed his career choice. But he knew he had to follow them if he was going to get anything out of them.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets he followed after, grumbling under his breath.

He rounded the corner into the alley where they had just come. His feet gliding shallow over the stones. He barked angrily as he stepped into a warm puddle, recoiling back as he shook his foot. “God fucking dammit.” he cursed. Another drunk not too long ago must have let go of his entire bladder there. The growing anger was beginning to not mix well with his buzz, and very quickly the night was going south.

No sooner had he put his foot down it hit something else. Toes first he kicked into and stumbled over something large in his path. He came unhinged from the ground, and his arms flailed in the cool night air as he plummeted face-first to the ground. With a solid meaty “umph” he landed atop something. The shadows making it all but its lumpy shape clear.

“The fuck?” Semyon cursed, as he picked himself up. His hand dropping into a puddle of something warm and sticky. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and his face went frozen. His bowls released themselves into his pants, filling them with yet another uncomfortable sensation. His stomach felt weak, and his head cold.

He shuddered as he picked himself up. The entire world closing in on him as he reached out for what he hand landed on, feeling it over with his hands. Still warm. Dressed in clothing. The familiar feel of a face, and an open mouth as he fingers explored the dark and still face of one of the men he had just been with. All the sudden the bricks turned to a terrifying tide, and he wasted no time to throw himself off the ground.

Uncomfortable and uncoordinated he tossed himself up and to the side. His awareness failed, and he quickly fell back to the ground, clambering over the bodies and pools of blood as he struggled to get himself to his feet. His head spun and he felt weak. His world shrunk around him, narrowing out to only himself and the bodies.

Slipping across a pool of blood he managed to pull himself up. Stumbling against the cold wet stone of the wall. He climbed up, hugging the stone as he cried out in fear. “I- I- I-” he babbled, “No- No. I didn't do this. I- I need to get out of here.” he stammered. Turning for the road, heart beating like a machine gun in his chest. He wasn't a step out before something grabbed him and threw him against the wall.

“I didn't!” he screamed out, “Don't!”

“What if I do?” a voice said, low and cold. It carried a heavy oriental ring.

“B-because I'm not worth it.” Semyon cringed, “God damn it. Please don't.”

“I need information.” the man said.

“Then I don't have it.” Semyon moaned. He wormed off from the wall. Only for the man to grab hold of him again and slam him against the wall. He hissed as pain split through his skull as it recontacted with the rough brick work.

“Jesus!” he barked, “You fucking psycho, man. What do you want?”

“Information.”

“On what, my cache? Fucking tell me what!” Seymon demanded. His head was a rattle of broken glass, and the back throbbed with volcanic pain.

“I'm looking for someone.”

“Shit I see a lot of someones you fucking celestial!” Seymon spat, “Who?”

“Goes by the name Gabriel.” Jun sneered, leaning in close on the drug dealer. He rank of alcohol, fearful piss, and sweat.

“G-Gabriel?” Seymon stammered, “I- I don't know a Gabriel. And you wouldn't want to know! That man has some issues, and no one knows where he comes and goes.”

“And what of Wraith?” Jun demanded.

“Fuck you talking about? Those bastards following the guy with the horse head? Shit, I don't get into that you fucking chink. I just deal dope is all!”

“Then you'll know someone who knows.” Jun growls.

“No man, this isn't worth it.” Seymon grumbled, squirming and trying to find a way out. His daft attempt at escaping was brought to a pause as the long cold metal of a blade was brought to his neck. He could feel the still-warm trickle of blood. His breathing froze. What breath he could draw quivered weakly as he faintly drew back his neck from the sharp bite of the blade.

“I'll gut you you here as I did your comrades.” Jun demanded, pressing the sword to Seymon's throat. He whimpered at the closing nibble of the Chinese blade.

“Go ahead. I don't got nothing to say. Alive or dead.”

The maodao hovered at his throat. Jun contemplated slitting it there and ending it. He was lingering in the alley too long, and he wasn't sure when the door would open again. Fleeing or moving to kill the newcomers would just give his first known lead a chance to escape.

“Perhaps I won't.” sighed Jun, lowering the sword. Not from his neck, but to the groin of his pants.

“N-now there's no n-need for this!” Seymon laughed nervously. “I-I uh, I'm telling the truth. I don't know where they are. I know they're here. Those freaks with the horse heads have been in town and we've found a few men strapped dead to crosses, so Gabriel is in.

“T-the man who makes me crystal, he knows!” Seymon wailed pleading, “Just not there. I'll give you his name, apartment! Alexondronovich Basily. Motovilikhnisky Rayon. Imeni-Lenin road. Building 14, floor 6, room 016!”

“And he knows?”

“I'm sure he should man!” Seymon squeeled, “Or something. But for christ sakes, not the penis. I use that!”

Jun drew the sword from his crotch. He held the man's face in the cold air, looking him over. With a dismissive grumble he threw the man down against the ground. His body landing in a tumbling thump against the bodies of the drunkards and junkies. Whimpering he rolled among them in the night shadows of Perm.

[b]Chake Bay, Pemba, Ethiopia[/b]

Drums echoed in the high afternoon light as drills went underway. The sound of marching boot steps accompanied the beat, accompanied by the shrill brassy rings of cymbols. Even more distantly the pops of rifle fire from the range wafted along the cool sea-side breeze. Beyond that the distance muffled the sound of a descending airplane, it being only evident on the horizon as a faint light-gray shape descending from the sky.

Cut off the routine drills, the back veranda of the officer's quarter was a world away from itself. It looked down on the bay the operational outpost was named for. Its crystal blue waters lapping languidly against the pearl-white sands of the shore. Flocks of gulls – long accustomed to the sounds of Chinese operation – flew between the rocks and the swaying palms below. Squabbling flocks darted along the sands, competing with several other birds for the hunt for crabs or a place to sun themselves while the afternoon was full of light. Often times Deizhi Cao would sit on the porch in the comfort of wicker chairs, sipping tea in meditation. Or drawing the birds as they came up to the porch railings. But now things had changed.

The thirty-eight year old officer sat against the back of the chair. His face sunken in with murky worry. A dark cloud loomed in the north. Far beyond his gaze and the formal extent of his informal kingdom. A Spanish behemoth went to war, swinging with the force of iron against the African lion. He could sit there and listen to the reports on the radio all day. But the circumstances never changed, and neither did his feelings on the matter. He was afraid. Deeply so. He was afraid of the Ottomans, and they were swept up; the Africans had made amazing ground against them.

But shouldn't that validate them? To some terrified degree it didn't. The Ottomans were of a dying breed, suffering from necrosis on the inside. Their body stretched far too thin over far too many peoples. They made too many enemies at home to ever expect to be as effective as Suleiman had hoped. So it was no surprise that for all the glitz and glamour and might the ancient Empire had postured itself as having that it was all a facade that too quickly burned. Though primitive, the Empire of the Ethiopia had its youth and its energy behind it.

Spain was rightly similar, in a sense. Though a character on the world stage for centuries it was the newest in the old powers to reclaim the title as a major world player. It had youth, but it also had experience. It could effectively mobilize its resources. Bureaucratically manage its hate. Where on the other hand Ethiopia was but a young teenager, fighting out with its strength but with no practice. It had flailed the Turks to death with its fists, but Spain would just wear it out. He didn't believe in the theories the Spaniards would just be drowned in the Ethiopian highlands. They'd work around. And then he – and more importantly: China – would be out of a playing card.

Cao might be a coward, but he wasn't a moron. He knew how important Ethiopia was in the long-run for China. It was an ally close to Europe, a check against their conservatism. If under more active foreign policies they would have turned it over to a barrier against European ambition, but Hou and the Congress failed to realize this. Cao had learned this during his time here.

His face turned up as he heard the door open. Stepping out onto the porch was Sen Zhou. She was shorter than most, but by no means a weak woman. Years younger than he, but acted many years more older. In a surreal way when not acting as a right-hand, she was a drill sergeant of sorts. The straight face of Cao. Where he showed cowardice, she showed bravery. He apprehension, she energetic bravado and an almost cruel necessity. He had not fought, she had fought hard. Her record was well worth the position.

On this afternoon though, she wore no face. She looked down at the commander. Her round feminine face not framed by the long hair of her contemporaries. She wore her feminine self almost the same way as men theirs. Her uniform open to the white top underneath. Firm breasts held up in her bra.

“I'm not going to like it, am I?” Cao asked, dropping his gaze to the ocean view.

“You're not.” his lieutenant replied, “May I have a seat?” she asked.

“Go ahead.” he invited, waving his hand. She bowed modestly. Pulling over a chair and sitting at the small wooden table kept there.

“Beijing's not withdrawing us.” she said plainly, breaking the silence before it could begin, “And they don't even want us on the island. As soon as the situation demands of us we're relocating to Addis to assist in securing the capital. The remnants of the 2nd Beijing Flight squadron are coming down as we speak, they'll arrive here, and presumably we'll redeploy from there.

“Chake Bay will most likely be turned over to the local Pemba garrison in our absence. They didn't say for how long that'll be.”

“We're going for the long run then.” Deizhi Cao wavered, “Do the men know?”

“They're no doubt aware of something.” Zhou laughed, “You can't hide the Spanish have invading, and even the shallow minded ones know we'll be forced to respond. Addis or Beijing won't bide us being here forever as something goes on. We'll either be withdrawn to save ourselves, or thrown in to protect their lovey-dovey relationship. Or its face.

“Cao, I do think you're going to have to take your first life soon.”

Dezhi had no response. He continued to look down at the birds of the beach, with a blank distant expression. Perhaps it was by not being a part of combat that for so long he'd remained youthful. But in the mornings since the news broke he started to notice the fine lines of stress ringing his eyes. And his round face became more haggard.

“What was it like for you?” he asked suddenly.

“Was what like?” Zhou asked, “Service? Sex? Killing? You know we're not at liberty to discuss one of the three.”

Cao cracked a strained smile. His voice stressed tight he replied: “Killing. What was your first kill like? Real kill.”

Zhou nodded. “I can't remember.” she said, biting her lip, “I mangled many in Mindanao during the war there. But to be honest, it was my knife to their balls or their hatchet or club to my face. Philippines – or Mindanao to a greater extent – has sort of blurred that sort of thing for me. I can't remember how I felt the first time I really shot someone, and I knew.

“But it was on Taiwan...” she started hesitantly, her voice shuddering, “Some young Japanese kid. I still wore my hair long then, or longer as far as regulation goes. But no one knew how to handle mixed combat brigades then, so there was no formality. But I can remember the look on his face before I shot him in the chest, had just pushed out over a blockade south of Taipei. Shit thought I was from some magazine or something, paused almost and face went red; like I was the first woman he saw in years.

“Then he was dead. I had to move on after, so I couldn't be sure who – or what – he was. I was under the command of Shaoqiang Wuzong then, and I happened to watch him have the Japanese administration and command in the city executed as soon as he found them. Some of which personally, himself. All I remember was feeling so damned cold, and complaining about how humid the air was. A storm I think was coming in that day.

“If you want some reconciliation, I really can not give it to you.” she frowned, adding.

“Right...” Cao mumbled.

“But listen,” she said, leaning back comfortably into the wicker chair, “either way you got to stop being such a fucking bitch. We'll get through this the same way as we did the Ottomans, and they basically had us locked down in that Arab shit hole.”

[b]30,000 meters[/b]

The muffled hum of the jet engines pierced through the hull of the aircraft. Digging through the light-weight metal hull to become a constant tidal moan. Even under neath headphones the mechanical static of the engine noise was an intrusive constant. As much as the cold was, even through a thick full-body flight jump suit and face protection.

The fleight instruments hung somewhere in the green as they flew along. All sorts of baubles indicating air pressure and fuel read well. And even their angle to the horizon was respectable. But all this was an issue to the constant at which they flew. Straight ahead with no deviation. And the dark, open sky ahead displayed in the same lighted brilliance the pure emptiness of being above the clouds. The pilots had long lost their feelings for the nauseating vertigo of peering upwards and outwards to the blending bands of blue into black.

“Location confirmation?” a voice said over the radios, infused with crackling static.

“We passed over the Rub al' Khali fifteen minutes ago, I think.” another responded in the same manner, “I think the Red Sea is coming up below us.”

“Copy that.” replied the navigator. After a brief pause he spoke up again: “Comrades, we're entering into hot airspace.”

“Copy that.” the pilot said into the radio, “Get ready comrades, we don't know what will happen from here.”

He sat up from his seat, trying to peer out over the long pointed nose of the aircraft. A sort of morbid curiosity playing on him. But he could find nothing but the long gray nose of the GHH. He sat back down to a light tapping on his shoulder, from his co pilot.

He looked over to him. His face mask unfastened from his helmet, it hung to the side, held gently in one hand as he held it close to his mouth. Just enough for fresh warm air to come out. But not so much it'd come into interference with the radio. Clean comms. He mouth to his superior to do likewise, miming to move aside one speaker of his headphone.

“What is it!?” the pilot shouted. His ears filled with the loud roar of cold air sweeping over the body of the airplane, and the roar of its engines.

“I don't want to scare the others,” the copilot started, looking back to the navigator's station behind him, “But I want to ask, what happens if the Spanish find us out?”

This question struck the pilot back. Personally, he had thought very little of it. Through preparation he had fought to drown out the idea they'd even know, let alone respond. They just flew too high. But like a snake the hidden fears the Spanish could respond came back.

“We're outfitted if something happens.” the pilot responded.

“With what!?” the copilot said, shocked, “A glass dome modified for taking pictures out of? Do you expect our turret operator to photograph Spanish interceptors to death?

“I'm just wondering, you know. Because this isn't the fastest bird to fly. That's for sure.”

“We're thirty-thousand meters up!” the pilot reminded, “I- I'm sure we're fine. Most normal engines fail well before here. Inteligence says the Spanish probably do not have the means!”

“Yea, but what if they're wrong?” the copilot asked, face pale, “What if they can? We can't survive the fall. No one knows how the body even reacts if it falls from this high. S-shit, the sea could kill us the moment we make contact.

“Melons explode when they hit concrete. What do people do? Will we even exist.”

The pilot breathed heavily. He couldn't let the topic bug him. He needed to stay focused. “We'll see how this flight goes!” he ordered, “Put your mask back on, we'll talk about it when we land.”