“Vronsky. You have a minute?”

Lieutenant Commander Petrov’s hoarse and croaky voice rattles out behind my back as I’m wiping Donkey’s blood and saliva off my fists. It comes as a surprise since everyone’s been dismissed for the day. People usually would head back to their room as soon as they could, to get their much-needed few hours of sleep. I stayed behind to make sure Donkey gets carried to the infirmary on a stretcher, but surely Petrov doesn’t have a reason to linger around.

I turn back to see him rubbing the bridge of his nose as he studies me with an inquisitive gaze.

Petrov might be inept when it comes to tactics, but there’s a reason he’s promoted in rank. He’s one of the few people who would actually keep track of others in his team and try to find out what’s going on with them. Others might appreciate it, but not me. I don’t like it when people check up on me out of duty.

“Hm?” I reply, arms folded in front of my chest. Fuck, there are hundreds of other people to bother. Why me?

“How are you holding up, comrade?”

“Fine.”

“You sure you’re fine? I wouldn’t feel too good if I had to beat up a comrade against my will.” He cracks a small smile, one with no genuineness in it. I can’t trust a man whose smile doesn’t even reach his eyes.

“Really? I thought you were cheering along.”

“What do you take me for?” He smirks. “You know how the commander is. He has a bit of a temper, sometimes. You would, too, if you were in his shoes.”

“Alright, be honest. Why are you talking to me all of a sudden?” I stop myself right before I’m about to ask him where he had been when Roman died, when he’s supposed to be the Section Leader. Calm down, fuckhead. Don’t cause a ruckus.

Maybe I just don’t like Petrov’s general presence. Maybe I don’t like his ashen, sickly skin tone; maybe it’s his crooked nose; maybe it’s his slanted eyes. Something about him seems off, but I can’t tell for sure.

“Checking up on you, that’s all. Say, you think you’re going to take over as the captain? You sure have the guts, and you are talented!” Petrov raises his half-cheery voice.

Ah, the classic ‘I’ll just get someone to do my work for me’ gimmick.

“I haven’t thought about it.”

Petrov lets out a small sigh. “You should. There are only, like, three days left until the Reorganization day. They were going to make me an official Section Leader, but I think you’re a . .”

As soon as I hear ‘three days’, all the sounds are muffled. Petrov’s mouth is still moving, but I can no longer hear his voice. I can only hear my own voice, prodding and pressing.

Fuck, no! Not now. Not another episode of hallucination.

Things I’ve never been through. Memories that never existed. They all come to me, as vivid as daylight. It feels like I’m watching another person’s story through the lenses of their eyes. I don’t know who suffered, but I know for sure that they were the ones who committed those horrendous deeds.

I have three days left. I have three days left. I have three days left.

Then that man will come for me. Dear Great Russia, no matter how much I refuse to think of the events taking place in my mind, they just keep lunging at me. I can’t stop. I can stop any physical charges, I can stop any assaults, I can even stop bullets. But I can’t . . . stop this dreaded memory.

The images flood over me in a rush. I’m back at that underground tunnel, rows of fluorescent light tubes bounce their light off of a charcoal black steel wall, stretching to infinity. Fear and adrenaline pound in my temples.

Standing next to me are two men whose faces are obscured by the blinding light. The man on the right takes out his pistol then shoots the other man on the head. His blood gushes through the gaps of his teeth, trickling on my lips as he collapses on me, the insides of his brain spews over my face. I kick him off of me, and his corpse flies into the air.

The crimson covers my vision. The metallic taste of fresh blood lingers on the tip of my tongue. I’ve sunk my face into the snow; I’ve rinsed myself off with any kind of liquid I could find. But the memories just won’t go away.

The dreadful scream of the man with the pistol plunders my ears. “Do you think you can be a normal person? Look at yourself! We’re monstrosities!”

I want these memories gone. ALL. GONE.

I can’t remember anything. All I have in my mind are fragments. They told me I have to do these missions to atone for my sins, but I can’t even recall what I did.

Who was I?

Why can’t I remember a thing?

The scene before me turns to smoke. A tingle runs down my spine. I feel cold sweat trickling down my nose. Then a voice rings inside my head: Your target, Vronsky.

The grayish outline of a person forms before my eyes—first, as a grainy silhouette, then comes the rendition of their limbs. Then the waist, the chest, the neck. Their face has yet to take shape, but I don’t need more confirmation.

I know this person.

A snap of the finger resounds, then the outline turns to smoke also. I blink, and Petrov once again appears in my vision.

“You alright?” He squints, taking a step closer.

“Uh, yeah, yeah.” I take a step back, rubbing my face repeatedly.

“You spaced out for a minute there.”

“I’m good.” I shrug. “Just had a tiring day, that’s all. Thought I would’ve gotten used to it by now.”

“The incident is still bothering you, eh? You said it didn’t get to you, but you sure aren’t looking that way. Ah, whatever. It’s been a hard day for everyone ‘round here. Make sure you don’t space out in the middle of a battle. Oh, and also, commander Dzyuba summoned you to his quarter.”

“Right now?” Why, though? Whatever the reason, meeting Dzyuba sounds like bad news, especially after the ruckus just now.

“No. He’ll tell you the date and time. Keep posted.”

“Will do.” He can say whatever he likes. I don’t want to hear anymore.

I watch as Petrov’s shadow grows longer into the distance. As soon as nobody is around anymore, I slump down like a robot running out of battery.

“Fuck. I remember . . . I remember now. God fucking damn it,” I mumble to myself.

The mission. I now know what I’m here for.

How could I forget about it for so long? All this time, I thought they had some inside guy who’d give me the mission. I never thought they would program some shitty ass duty right inside my brain for it to conveniently pop up when the time comes. They must’ve messed with my brain. It’s almost like they didn’t want me to grasp the details of the mission until the last minute because they knew I would back out.

Maybe this is why I’m so forgetful. Somebody’s fucking with my memory. I don’t want anybody messing with my fucking mind. I don’t want to do this fucking mission. I can’t do this anymore. But do I even have a choice?

As I take a cigarette from my jacket pocket, I can see my hands shivering.