10 Days After Initial Deployment
I suppose it should have crossed my mind when I took Adil's side mission that an organization vindictive enough to be terroristic wouldn't have cowered meekly after one of its officers was both killed and ridiculed in the streets. I should also have realized that any number of bystanders would be able to point to one of the school's buildings as the source of fire once the Islamic State asked and made its customary threats. It would only be a matter of time before they sought their twisted form of restitution.
Of course, this thought hadn't been registered as I proceed with my morning schedule. Changing into my school uniform, I allow the television to deliver the news broadcast on current events. As I flip through channels, I find a low budget station based out of Syria. I attempt to listen to what is being said, but I realize that it is in the local language, and I have no idea what they are talking about as I am only able to follow the seemingly misleading pictures. I flutter through channels and surprisingly enough find the American station I had listened to back in the mainland. I head over to the bathroom to brush my teeth and have the dampened audio run as a surround sound.
After completing this task, I head over to my closet, humming the Kalinka tune that had been stuck in my head. The prolonged movement of clothing and song blocks out most of the television's sound, but suddenly, something interesting pops up, and I look over. I pause for a second while buttoning up my shirt in awe of the bizzarity of the headline, and listen into the broadcast.
"We are now receiving more information on Russia's interference in our election..."
The reporter's voice is shaky, as if making an accusation without real evidence that could be called out for fraud at any given moment. I pay this little mind though, as I had already heard enough. I burst out laughing at the stupidity of the statement. Us? Influencing your election? We have enough troubles of our own; you don't need to attribute any political problem to our nation.
I sigh. Russia is once again being used as a scapegoat, one that the entire world could point a finger at while diagnosing a geopolitical issue. I look at the bottom of the screen and realize the time. In a flurry, I power off the television so I can head out.
I sit in geography class, trying to focus on my work while a cluster of students at the back of the room tries to console one of the French girls. Evidently, she transferred here from the same school as Allen and is having a hard time accepting and moving on from his death. Her crying occasionally flares from sniffles and squeaks to outright sobbing, and I steal beseeching glances at the professor, wishing he'd shut her up or at least make her leave. I can't focus with all that noise behind me.
She can speak English, I know. It's the universal language of this school, allowing students and staff from across the globe to communicate. But for now, she refuses to use anything but her and Allen's native French. I can't understand her because of that, but I recognize that she interchangeably calls him Allen and Safa. I work up the nerve to walk out, electing to instead work in the library.
As I stroll through the empty hallways, I am hit with a feeling of Suvorov. Somehow, something so insignificant, like a hallway that isn't even the right color or size, manages to stimulate such a strong sense of nostalgia. I chuckle and shake my head as I turn to enter the glass-paneled entrance of the media center.
I lay my books sloppily on a circular wooden table and lazily pull out a chair with my leg. Plopping down into the seat, I hear something that breaks the illusion of home. Something that could only be heard here, in a war-torn nation brimming with in-fighting between regimes, terrorist groups, and "freedom fighters" that disguise themselves as either of the former.
The crack of an AK.
My geography classroom is located on the far side of campus, so I wouldn't have been aware of the insurgents' storming of the front buildings had I remained. There would also be no way of knowing that what gunfire sounded merely served as warning shots. Now closer to the conflict, I take initiative to check on the scenario located on the doorstep of my base of operations. I dash out of the library and towards my dorm room as the remainder of the students hide in the corner and turn out the light.
As I reach the door, I realize that I had forgotten my keys in the room, but had conveniently left the door unlocked. I lunge under the bed, opening the specialty-fit case that contained the Chronos alongside my rifle and an adequate amount of spare magazines.
I load the weapon and stuff the remainder of my ammunition into my pockets and bag, as I figure that there would be a long, drawn-out conflict in the minutes to come. Running up seven flights of stairs with the jangling of loose rounds and the sling of my rifle echoing off the concrete walls, my heart stoops. Perhaps I had felt some connection to this place. Perhaps I had a small soft spot for its students, and if not for that, perhaps for the location and the familiarity of the building layout.
I reach the top soon enough and dispel this thought. Leaning my weight towards one side of my body, I burst through the simple metal doors leading to the roof. From the ledge, I can spot a number of IS soldiers lining students unfortunate enough to be outside at the moment the insurgents attacked. I deploy my bipod and activate the Chronos before I begin to lighten the magazine at the enemy force.
I am careless and, quite honestly, rash in this effort. Though I have every advantage imaginable in this situation, I rush my shots and don't account for whoever has already been hit; a number of students are hit by the stray bullets as well as damaged by collateral ammunition passing through the hostiles.
As the last man falls, I deactivate the Chronos and grab my bag, shaking out the contents onto the dusty roof. I withdraw the current magazine and chamber a fresh one. A few minutes pass without much activity. A few administrators rush outside to tend to the wounded and move the remainder of the students into cover. I sigh and stand, grabbing all of the magazines I had previously rushed to extract.
BOOM
The pressurized mines I had set many nights ago explode in real time, causing the destruction of two old generation Soviet BTR-70s. I gasp and reactivate the Chronos to allow time for returning to firing position. One of the commanders overseeing the event must have noted the previous incident and had reported this to be hostile territory. From what I can imagine, a small army of insurgents is heading out of Palmyra, pushing into Syrian-reinforced land.
The battlefield lays silent for a moment before my phone receives a text-message notification, causing me to spring upwards and nearly kick it off the roof. I bend over and pick it up, inspecting its newly scratched back. Unlocking it allows me to view the poorly scheduled text notification.
According to the sender - who is none other than my ally Adil - the Syrian army had been holding off a large wave of hostiles for the past hour but had been overrun. Most of the enemy vehicles had either been incapacitated or destroyed, limiting the possibility of an overwhelming force of mechanicals. However, the threat of an infantry invasion of school grounds still pertains to the schedule, and I ought to be a bit wary of enemy movements. As I put the phone down, I notice a group of hostiles assembling before the school gates. I grin and lay down, adjusting the magnification of the scope.
I activate the Chronos once more and allow the overconfidence of the soldiers preparing to enter the sniper zone overflow; little do they know, I see them, and they are effectively dead. I rapidly pull the trigger six or seven times, each bullet hitting its mark professionally. I chuckle and congratulate myself for a job well done. It occurs to me then that I could make this game so much more fun than it is currently. I once again disengage the function of the Chronos and allow for a bit of hostile movement into the environment.
Upon the intrusion of an entire platoon of IS soldiers, I slow time and open fire, blowing through two magazines of ammunition. I repeat this process three times without as much a change in protocol. These people never seem to learn.
As a new squadron of insurgents rolls in, I reach over and mistakenly grab a fairly light magazine. I pull the trigger and hear a click, then realize that I had stupidly loaded in an empty magazine. I withdraw it, and, in frustration in my frenzy, I chuck it off the roof. An enemy soldier sees the magazine fall from above and makes notice of my scope catching a glint of the sun's glare. He points directly at me and my position begins almost instantaneously being suppressed by heavy automatic gunfire. I scramble backward and look for a new magazine.
I realize that I had only brought half a dozen extra. I am out of ammo and am soon to be overrun.
Refusing to give in, I dig through my pockets, suddenly remembering the half-empty magazine that I had stored during the intermission between the first and second waves. I reach for it and load my rifle. A second explosion resonates through my ears, and looking back toward the gate, I see that another BTR-70 had blundered into my mines. I laugh uncontrollably for a second before a shoulder-fired rocket hits the side of the building I am situated atop.
The roof noisily slants outward as the structure collapses, and I begin to fall. In desperation, I activate the Chronos, but quickly realize the futility of this action; the Chronos cannot break the fall of the user thanks to the user's ability to surpass the limits of time. I tumble off the roof, off the catwalk branching out the second floor, and then onto the ground two stories below.
I cough blood. Though I still am moving in quickly in a slow-motion environment, I realize that I am about to be overwhelmed by hostile troops on the ground. I reach to grab the rifle, but it is just out of reach and my body refuses to stretch any further. Before I know it, the soldiers are already standing virtually on top of me. With the wooden butt of a gun, one smacks my face, creating a swelling pain intense enough to knock me out.