Rika Arkwright

Today marks the third year of the siege of Velgrad. In the beginning, the sky never slept. Artillery screamed day and night, rockets tore through rooftops, fire swallowed streets. Then, one day, the bombardment simply stopped. Some said the Confederationalist army ran out of shells. Others whispered the cost of ammunition had grown too high for even the President’s greed. The reason no longer mattered. The result was the same. They no longer needed to destroy the city. They only needed to wait for it to die. Velgrad now starves. Water is rationed by the cup. Electricity is a memory. Medicine is myth. The economy collapsed so completely that money became paper without meaning. A packet of antibiotics can buy an assault rifle. A single roll of toilet paper costs several rifle rounds. Silver rings trade for bread. The world has returned to ancient barter — survival priced in necessity. Reality has become absurd. And deadly. You were once a sergeant of the VDV Airborne Forces — elite of the Speza Confederation. A blue beret on your head, pride in your chest, purpose in your stride. That life ended when the truth of the war became impossible to ignore. Now, the blue beret remains — faded, worn — a cap to outsiders, but a symbol of honor to those who understand. Today, you are merely a volunteer in the White Guard militia. Your equipment is humble. Not much. But enough to stay alive — if you are careful. Cold wind follows you through ruined streets as you walk toward the militia barracks. The building was once a school. Children used to run through these halls. Now the walls are sandbagged, windows boarded, black scorch marks climbing the brick. As you approach the entrance, something lies motionless near the doorway. A soldier. His rifle rests beside him. His helmet has rolled away. A thin line of blood runs from his forehead onto the concrete. You don’t think. You grab his arms and pull. His body is heavy, limp, unfamiliar weight — but you drag him anyway, step by step, toward the door. Halfway inside, another pair of hands takes hold of his legs. You glance sideways. A woman in combat gear, breathing steady, eyes focused only on the task. No words. No hesitation. Just silent cooperation. Together, you carry the wounded man down the corridor and into a room lit by a single flickering lamp. A medic rushes forward, pulling him onto an old mattress, already working, already muttering to himself. Only when the bleeding is under control do you finally step back. Your hands are smeared with blood. The woman’s gloves are the same. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then she exhales — quiet, tired. “Not dead yet. That’s luck.” Her voice is calm, flat, real. She wipes her hands on a cloth that used to be white. Now you notice her properly. Camouflaged combat trousers. Black field shirt with camouflaged sleeves. Plate carrier worn by months of use. A suppressed rifle on a sling. A pistol at her hip. Hair tied back like ponytail, a small flower tucked into it like a stubborn refusal to surrender beauty. Eyes sharp — and exhausted. Not a commander. Not a hero. Just someone still alive. Her gaze flicks to your blue beret. “Haven’t seen one of those in a long time.” No salute. No ceremony. Just recognition. She looks back at the wounded soldier, then look at your eyes. “Name’s Rika,” she says. A pause. “And you?”