It had been a week since then. The de facto commanders of the temporary alliance—those two young men who could be seen arguing over a map once every other hour—pushed the job of being bait onto Not-Neruz. His role was as a jester and clueless fool, acting as a refugee and begging understanding from the men of stray patrols and unknown camps, suspecting nothing of Not-Neruz as he gauged their allegiances.

There was no better man suited for the job. He was already an actual spy, and he had fluency in Inglish and Azerkali. All he had to do was pretend to be monolingual and call for help in the opposite language of the unknown force. Careless soldiers would spill secrets in broad daylight, believing that the person in front of them couldn't understand them.

A small insurance force tailed Neruz. If he signaled for help, they would create a diversion, or, if needed, call for the main force to get him out. So far, he hasn't had to do so.

Neruz's acting skills terrified Singer. He wasn't just acting as a refugee, but as a refugee with a severe case of PTSD. It was a flexible excuse to wander around or even run away in a fit of mania. Singer—a real graduate of a real drama school—tried to nitpick at any hints of excessive or underwhelming acting, but every single scene was just too real, even indecipherable from actual traumatized refugees he'd smuggled across the border himself.

At times, Neruz was straightforwardly turned away, and the force in question would quickly pack up and leave. In the eyes of military intelligence, it was a technical loss, but at least it was left at that. Smooth-going, though, it was not; he got stuck being interrogated in a federalist camp the other day. The support force heard Neruz's pained crying for his mother—an exaggerated call for help, but a call for help nonetheless. Within 20 minutes, the support force set off some fireworks while the main force quickly ambushed a real enemy patrol to be convincing. In the confusion, Neruz escaped.

Today was slightly different, however.

"Why am I here?" Jack asked. His trigger finger, and the rest of his hand, itched from mosquitoes. Perhaps the bugs would get him before the Reorganization did.

"Jus' t' suffer, Sherloc," Singer replied. His eyes were glued to a pair of binoculars. "Told ya t'get gloves."

The two were lying prone behind some thick roots, watching Neruz do his usual "I lost my whole family and now I'm here" routine—a surreal and perfect replay each time. Perhaps, it may have even been partly real, drawn from the unexplorable breadth of the man's background.

As usual, he was escorted into the unknown force's camp. Even if it was hidden behind trees and foliage, any discerning eye would notice that the bivouacs and fighting positions, though sparse, extended across a kilometer. The place bordered on being a stronghold, even if it only had some sandbags and shallow, 5-minute trenches for fortifications.

Just as Neruz was about to be escorted into a tent, a firefight erupted. Jack and Singer panicked to determine the direction. "Oi, that's the supportin' group, right?" Singer hushed. The pair was the second insurance in case the much larger supporting force was discovered. Without thinking, Jack almost stood up to rush back, but Singer reflexively pulled him down. Largely because of Singer, they managed to remain unnoticed.

Looking back towards the camp, they spotted Neruz breaking down, true to his traumatized persona, and then making a run for it, crying all the while. A guard tackled him.

"Shit," crapped both Jack and Singer. Just then, whoever looked like the commander started shouting orders, and within a minute, a small army of patrols trooped out of the foliage and combed the jungle. The patrols passed by them—if any of them had bothered to look down at their feet, they'd have spotted the pair. After the patrols passed, Singer made an effort to make their camouflage more professional. They were going to be stuck there for a while.

* * *

"Don't go there."

"Hey now, it ain' weird 'til ya make it weird."

"We've been stuck like this for hours and I'm still not used to it."

Maintaining a 5-foot minimum personal distance was the least of their worries. There was a crescendo of gunfire not long after the patrols came out, but it had long died down. Through the breaks in the canopy, the sky teased a pleasant orange, beckoning them to come home. Such a sky could never pierce the thick canopy flesh, turning the jungle floor into its own green abyss, and Jack and Singer hid in its crevices.

A patrol stopped right beside them. "I thought I heard some voices from around here," one of the soldiers said. Flashlights waved over where the pair were, and at times, the beams flashed by their eyes. "You sure?" "I've got better hearing than you, trust me."

Their radio blared.

"Bravo 2-4, move 100 meters west and confirm Bravo 2-3's whereabouts," so it said.

"This is Bravo 2-4, roger— "

The radio suddenly screeched. The soldier holding it ritualistically hit several buttons in annoyance, but it wouldn't off. "Dawson, fix it!" "I'm trying my best, sir!"

The tone finally cut out. He must've turned it off.

"Dawson, run communications. Tell HQ we've got suspected activity in this sector, and we're moving to 2-3's last position like they said. And take that thing back with you and have it checked out—everyone else, NVGs on! Let's move out!" he ordered.

The squad's flashlights turned off all at once, and they left the runner behind. Meanwhile, he didn't budge. It looked like he had trouble getting his nightvision gear working.

The moment he took off his helmet, bushes and leaves rustled to make way for his body as he dropped to the ground. In his place, a figure emerged. It was almost like a moving bush, but it soon stopped, and seemed to look directly at them.

"Parasol!" a familiar voice hushed.

"Frill?" Jack replied.

Singer hit him across the back. They were lucky it was actually Frill, and it wasn't the enemy checking on his comrade, whose first name might have coincidentally been Parasol—Singer knew someone like that, so it wasn't funny for him.

"Frill, what—what?" Jack's words stumbled over each other.

"Kill enemy, yes?" she replied. "Easy."

She looked over her shoulder and whistled, and shadows came out. Men and women moved past them, with not a single crunch nor rustle in their footfall. Jack took a moment to confirm, but they were indeed armed with bows. He looked at Frill and she, herself, was also an archer.

Neruz mentioned something about them in his travels. He met Boiler Nomads—those who routinely traded in dyes, herbs, and exotic natural compounds that could only be extracted from nature with some knowledge of the chemistry involved. There were all sorts of such nomads, each specialized in what they gathered and traded. They maintained mostly peaceful lives, trading in towns or with whomever they came across.

Frill must be one of them—he thought. Around them were even more, and they all came for war.

* * *

She had already scouted the entire perimeter and memorized the layout of the jungle encampment to the best of what she could observe. Before her friends had even come, she had single-handedly thrown the camp's southern perimeter in disarray, with the aid of a device a kind traveller not long ago offered her, one that he called a "jammer". She understood now why that traveller entrusted such a thing to her. She, of the Signal Nomads, traded not in products, but in their services. They taught their kin the art of war through information and deception. They fought by manipulating not only the enemy's five senses, but their sixth sense of truth and direction.

She had enough information—catching even a surprising glimpse of Neruz—and now it was time for action.

* * *

Among the Reorganization's sub-commanders, Maj. Ravager was the one with the most jungle fighting experience. They employed him when it came to border scuffles, and he, in turn, employed collaborators from both Parasol and Azerkal. Control of the border was critical to the Reorganization's plans, and he never intended to lose out. To lose here meant losing the Reorganization's trust, and thus, the Reorganization's favors. He needed their power.

A year ago, the Signal Nomads turned down his request. The price of their employment was often steep, but also often worth it. By his calculation, employing an entire chunk of the whole clan would guarantee operational success. He was prepared to offer money, weapons, land, and even favors from the Reorganization—gaining all these things together was enough to create an independent Nomad state. Those Signallers were never known to take sides, thus he thought, "They have no reason to turn me down."

Turn him down, they did. The basis wasn't clear. "The council declines" wasn't much of a reply. It was an unprecedented request on his part, he knew that. Afterwards, no amount of diplomacy gave him a passable outcome. Since it came to that, he knew that once the operation went underway, opposing factions would end up employing their own Signallers, and they would oppose him, in turn. That would have been fine if he were also able to employ them the same, but he was blacklisted. With that, the Signal Nomads were a guaranteed threat. With that, he gave the order: "Wipe them out."

Two months ago, the operation went underway. "Bandits" slowly cut off communications between the border guards and their home cities. Spies, hidden amongst the refugees fleeing Azerkal's civil war, were set upon sabotaging long-range communications posts and equipment. One month ago, some 3000 men were sprung upon the Signal Nomads, and after massacring them, took over the whole border.

For there to be survivors was within calculation. For the survivors to seek revenge was also within calculation. So why, then, was this battle so hard to fight?

Frill drew her bow, and after a smooth release, the arrow quietly joined the silhouette's neck.

* * *

Jack and Singer trailed behind the Nomads' quiet offensive, hoping to find Neruz and scoot out of the place. It was a strange sight to see someone, dressed all tribal-like, wearing nightvision goggles with a bow drawn. Some of them had crossbows, and others still had rifles. The ones with guns weren't shooting—it seemed that the plan relied on getting as close as possible to the encampment and getting the enemy in range of their arrows.

It wasn't long before a scout ahead got spotted, and an exchange of fire occured. With that, the southern perimeter was sure to be alerted. Frill blew a two-tone whistle, and the others echoed that sound. The nomads fanned out from their column, and they began moving in small teams, leapfrogging between trees and natural cover.

"We're only here to get Neruz, right?"

"Righ'."

Unconsciously, the pair followed Frill. She stopped, turned around, and looked at them. Those nightvision goggles sent a chill down the pair's spines. That there was an arrow nocked on her bowstring didn't help. "Why follow?" she asked.

Jack and Singer eyed each other, mentally in agreement that Frill was the most commander-like allied entity in the immediate area.

"Uh… help?" Jack managed to say. He covered his mouth and bowed his head in embarrassment. Frill tilted her head.

"Ey—missy Frill? 'member that old guy back when we all first met?" Singer explained. Frill nodded. "Yea, y'see, he's sort of—"

He pointed in the direction of the camp. Frill paused for a moment, but seemingly having understood him, continued moving on ahead. The pair followed, but they weren't sure if this was an implicit agreement that she would help, or if she was just satisfied with the explanation and went on with her own agenda. Whichever the case, they were content to have more allies by their side.