George Waters was a busy man.
On the day he successfully sniped Duke Windermere with his artillery, he was awarded the Order of the Red Banner by Comrade Commander.
"—In recognition of his distinguished service, the Order of the Red Banner is hereby conferred upon him today."
"Thank you!"
The day he received that medal—a red flag inscribed with a revolutionary slogan—he felt a joy so profound it was almost lethal.
Thanks to this feat and the subsequent decoration, he was promoted to Sergeant and appointed as a Platoon Leader.
However, the event that truly marked the greatest turning point in his life was something else entirely.
"Comrade Waters... I've been having nightmares lately. Would you... would you mind staying the night with me?"
"What? Sure. I understand. Let's do that, then."
When he entered Evelyn Brooks's home, he quickly realized something was very, very wrong.
"Um... Evelyn, why are you locking the door?"
"Still haven't caught on? Well, I suppose that's why you didn't notice all the moves I was making until now."
"What do you mean by that, Evely—"
He was shoved unceremoniously into the bed, and the two spent a night of heated, revolutionary passion beneath the blankets.
Have you ever heard the claim that the mating of a rabbit ends in two seconds?
Though George was a Cautus, he did not possess the speed of a mere rabbit; naturally, he lasted much longer, but he nonetheless discharged his cannon at a rate far swifter than the average adult male.
He initially managed to endure thanks to his innate physical constitution, but he ultimately could not overcome the sheer stamina of the Feline woman. At a certain point, his mind clouded, and he slipped into a faint.
"Hehe... Yesterday was wonderful, wasn't it?"
"...Yes. It was very good. But my lower back is killing me..."
"It was good? Then let's do it one more time. Come here!!!"
"Stop, please, no more...!"
When morning finally arrived, he found himself greeted by a radiant Evelyn twitching her fluffy cat ears, a dull ache in his waist, and the realization that his innocence was gone forever.
And since this had happened in the quarters within the military station, the news spread like wildfire through the ranks.
"Comrade Platoon Leader, you and Comrade Squad Leader must have worked incredibly hard last night. The noise coming from her room was... hoho, quite something!"
"Dammit... I thought he was a fellow lonely soul like me... Comrade Squad Leader turned out to be a deceptive romantic! You traitor!!!"
"Get married! Get married!"
"Everyone else wants it, so shouldn't we? What do you think, George? It's good, isn't it?"
"Sure..."
And so, at the remarkably young age for a Terran of twenty, he entered into a covenant of marriage.
It was only one week after their first night.
"Here, take this leave pass. It's for thirty days. You've had your wedding, so you ought to rest."
"What? Comrade Battalion Commander, please! Cancel my leave, I beg you!!!"
"Ayy! Don't be like that, man. Modesty is one thing, but you take the kindness people give you. I'll be off. Enjoy your honeymoon with your wife!"
"I'm actually going to die, Comrade Battalion Commander!!!"
Thus, his thirty-day leave began.
He privately translated 'leave' as 'the days of being devoured by his wife,' but in the eyes of the public, they were a match made in heaven—a handsome young couple who became the envy of every household.
It was during those days.
"Hmm... we're out of food. Honey, could you go out and buy something? I have to finish this needlework."
"Got it. I'll be back."
He stepped out of the house to run errands.
"Hey James! A bit more to the side! Line it up!"
"I'm telling you, it won't be level then! Look closely at the shape of these bricks!"
The moment he stepped outside, he saw construction workers everywhere.
Birmingham was in the midst of massive reconstruction.
It was only natural since the battle had ended just days ago, but because so little time had passed, the sight still felt surreal to him.
Yet, despite the devastating damage southern Birmingham had sustained during the great battle, the district seemed more vibrant than ever.
"Phew... glad our house didn't get flattened that day."
He continued making his way toward the market.
Suddenly—
The People's Representative of the street he lived on, who was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, shouted at him.
"Oh! There you are! Our war hero."
"Ahem... please don't call me that, it's embarrassing."
"I call you that because I want to, man! Don't you know neighborly affection? You even have a beautiful wife... I'm jealous."
The man then pulled a small booklet from his pocket.
He held it up for George to see.
"Hey, do you see this? Take a look at this."
"Hmm... hold on. I only learned the basics of literacy in the army. I don't know the difficult words yet. But there are pictures, so I think I can get the gist of it."
"Tut-tut! Reading the words is much better than looking at pictures. Ahem! Fine, I'll read it for you."
The People's Representative cleared his throat a few times and began to read aloud.
"This is an official notice from the State Planning Committee of the Central People's Committee. I shall read: 'Starting today, currency reform begins. Citizens holding Imperial currency should visit their nearest administrative office or bank branch to exchange their money for Soviet Rubles. Ration cards will be issued by your local Soviet.' That's all."
"That's simpler than I thought. But where should I get my ration cards? I'm just out on leave from the army."
"Ah, then follow me. Since I'm the People's Representative of this district Soviet, you can get them from me."
"Understood."
They entered his building, where the man produced several sheets of paper.
"You have a medal, so it looks like you get extra. These are this week's ration cards issued in your name. Calculate the quantities for yourself."
"This uses the Gallic metric system instead of the Victorian one, so it's a bit confusing. Let's see... 1kg of cabbage and tomatoes, 4kg of bread, 400g of salt, 100g of sugar, 1kg of chicken, and 600g of salted pork."
"Correct. The pork is likely thanks to your medal. Either that or your over-quota performance. Well, be on your way!"
"Yes! Thank you. Have a good day! Oh, can I exchange these Rubles here as well? My wife told me to buy food."
"Normally, you shouldn't, but... well, I'll just have to swing by the district office again, so I'll exchange them for you this once."
"Thank you! Thank you so much!"
With an envelope filled with Rubles and ration cards tucked deep into his coat, George turned his steps back toward the market.
Just as he reached a crowded shop, a middle-aged female merchant in an apron raised her hand and called out to him.
"Hey, there! Comrade Soldier! Come over here for a second!"
"Are you talking to me?"
"Yes! I feel like I've seen your face somewhere... Ah! Your name is George Waters, isn't it?"
"Haha... yes, that's right."
"I knew it! I saw you in the newspapers. You're the war hero who sniped the enemy general with that massive cannon! To think I'd meet such a hero today.... I have some good chicken in today, so I'll throw in an extra one for you."
Taking the bag with the chicken, George clasped his hands and bowed his head.
"Thank you very much, Ma'am."
"When you have children, be sure to bring them by! I'll give them some sturdy apples!"
"Children... we're not... quite ready yet...."
"Oh, posh! You don't 'prepare' for things like that; they just happen in a sudden moment. Anyway, bring them when they arrive!"
George hurried out of the market, escaping the laughter and jokes of the people behind him.
Everywhere on the streets, Infected and non-infected children played together, and citizens who had just exchanged their currency were awkwardly fingering the new Ruble banknotes.
Glancing up at the banners hanging at the market entrance, he read the slogans:
[One for all, and all for one!]
[Drive out the old currency and transform the era with the new currency of the New Age!]
George murmured softly to himself.
"...I can still remember the King's face on the Imperial bills."
At that moment, a familiar voice drifted from behind him.
"Waters! You're George Waters, right?"
At the familiar sound, George turned around.
In his sight was a young man with somewhat disheveled hair, still wearing his winter uniform.
It was the face of a comrade from the training camp whom he hadn't seen in a long time.
"Oh, Ryan?! Where are you stationed now?"
"I've been redeployed to the front. Down south by the river. I lost a finger during the last battle, so I rested in a rear medical unit for a bit before being sent back out. Well... as the medic said, the finger grew back just fine! That doctor really had skill. A green-eyed Feline... ah, what was her name, Kal'tsit?"
The smile faded from George's face.
"I heard... the south is still contested."
His friend replied as if it were no big deal.
"That's why every moment of rest is precious right now. Besides, we're mostly just mopping up enemy remnants, so it's nothing major. I got a two-day pass to see my family and stopped by specifically because I heard about you. You've become quite the celebrity since becoming a hero, haven't you? Your name was splashed across all the papers. The Hero of the Red Army."
"That... that was just luck. And 'Red Army'?"
"Yeah, didn't you see the paper? Our military's name was changed in the Constitution. It's called... right, the Red Army of Workers and Peasants. Some call it the Red Army, others call it the RKKA."
"I haven't seen the papers because I've been a prisoner to my wife.... To be honest, this is the first time I've been allowed out of the house."
"Pfft! You! If you let your wife control you now, she'll have you gripped until the day you die, you know?"
After a bit of laughter and joking, Ryan hesitated for a moment before speaking quietly.
"...Actually, strange rumors have started circulating at the front. Rumors that the war might end soon."
"What?"
"A friend of mine who joined the People's Commissariat for Foreign Affairs told me this. The enemy might launch one last offensive, but it seems the royal court in Londinium doesn't really want an escalation with us. The problem is that final offensive."
George was lost in thought for a moment.
The war wasn't over yet.
The leave was sweet... or was it? Regardless, the leave was pleasant, but he felt as though his duties were already beckoning from the shadows.
"I thought they'd leave me alone since I'm a newlywed... you don't think a recall order is coming in two days, do you?"
Ryan gave a bitter smile.
"Nah, surely not. Or... maybe? Well, we'll find out soon enough. Stay healthy, George. See you back in the army."
"Yeah. And... watch your back."
As his comrade vanished, George picked up his shopping bag and headed home.
Worker's slogans echoed through the streets.
"Safety, good, good, good!"
"With the Spirit of April!"
But his friend's words wouldn't leave his head.
'It's not over yet.'
He stood before his front door and opened it.
The moment he did, he was greeted by Evelyn's bright voice and twitching cat ears.
"Honey, you're back? Oh... is that meat? Perhaps tonight, just one more time...?"
George instinctively clutched his collar.
"A-aaack!!!"
Once again, his blankets billowed.
It was summer.
**************************************************
The sound of iron wheels grated against the worn ground.
Amfielice looked out the carriage window before dropping her head.
Inside the wagon, the cold bite of iron shackles dug into her wrists, and a dusty wind brushed against her face.
From somewhere came a suffocating scent, a mixture of ash and the metallic tang of blood.
"Birmingham."
A guard spoke curtly.
At those words, Amfielice's eyes trembled minutely.
Only a month ago, this city had been the target of 'liberation' for the Allied Nobility Army, and the forces of the nobility—including her father—had been bombarding it.
But now, Birmingham had become the capital of a new nation.
The heart of a new world.
And the stage for her execution.
The wagon stopped near a square.
Guards hauled her and other soldiers of the noble army down.
As she stepped into the square, the roar of a raucous crowd and the shrill sound of whistles flooded her ears.
Hand-painted slogans were plastered across the massive walls.
"Proletarians of all worlds, unite!"
"Execute the counter-revolutionary elements!"
Beneath the banners, five nobles stood in a line against the wall, hands tied behind their backs.
Aiming at them was a firing squad wearing red armbands.
"Charges! Agitation for counter-revolution, massacre of civilians, and wartime collaboration!"
The voice of an officer, wearing a military cap of mixed blue and red, cut through the air.
The crowd answered his words with boos and curses.
"Kill them!"
"My friends died because of those bastards!"
"Tearing them apart wouldn't be enough!"
The officer nodded at the crowd's sentiment.
Then he shouted to the execution squad.
"Ready!"
There was a three-second silence.
In that moment, Amfielice felt as though her heart had truly stopped beating.
The next shout snapped her out of the trance.
"Fire!"
- Rat-tat-tat-tat! -
A volley of gunfire.
The five nobles crumpled, blood spraying as they fell almost simultaneously as if dropped from a height.
The crowd cheered.
Children shouted, and some people wept tears of joy.
For Amfielice, it was terror.
For Amfielice, it was a shiver of dread.
And for Amfielice, it was reality.
Amfielice unconsciously bit her lip.
Blood trickled from her delicate lips.
But she did not lick it away.
'Soon, it will be my turn to stand there.'
She thought.
She forced her trembling legs straight and closed her eyes.
She could not yield just yet.
As the daughter of the great Henry Windermere, as the new head of House Windermere.
I will maintain my dignity until the very end.
I will not scream, nor will I beg.
Yet, her fingertips were shaking.
The fear of death was a primal dread that no one could escape.
"Hey! Are you trying to show the prisoners this kind of display? Don't you have any tact?"
"M-my apologies. I will rectify this immediately."
"Tch, whatever. Just do better next time. Next! Follow me. Move!"
An officer barked.
Only then did Amfielice open her eyes again.
Watching the dust settle over the bodies of the executed, she thought.
I am still alive.
With the premonition that she might one day share their fate, she took a step forward.
Without even knowing where she was headed.
She arrived at... a prisoner-of-war camp.
"We've scoured through the testimonies and evidence, and nothing shows you've committed any war crimes. Your father, on the other hand..."
"So... are you going to kill me?"
"Huh? No, no, no?! Kill you? Why should a daughter inherit the sins of her father? We don't practice collective punishment here. You're free to go. Well, follow me."
The iron gate opened, and Amfielice walked down a narrow hallway under the soldier's lead. The walls had been freshly painted white, but the lingering stains and dust in the corners spoke of the building's age.
Her wrists were still bound in steel handcuffs.
At the end of the corridor, a nurse was waiting.
"This way, please. We need to perform a check-up and complete the ration registration procedure."
'Check-up...? Ah, they must want to record my health status before the execution.'
Amfielice thought to herself, nodding with a mask of indifference.
Upon entering a small exam room, the nurse removed the handcuffs, had her wash her hands, and began a basic medical check using a stethoscope and a flashlight.
She meticulously checked Amfielice's pulse, temperature, and pupil reflex before asking softly.
"Have you been eating well lately?"
"...I have no appetite."
"And sleep?"
"...It does not come easily."
"Insomnia, loss of appetite, and anxiety. It's alright, we have many people here like that. Medicine is a bit scarce right now, so I'll prescribe a herbal tea that's good for digestion and calming the nerves."
'Is this... a gesture to reduce my pain before the end?'
She wondered as she accepted a small pouch of herbs.
She was given a simple grey prisoner's uniform to change into.
The fabric was surprisingly soft and brand new.
Stranger still, the fit was perfect.
"Did they... prepare this specifically...?"
A chill ran down her spine at the thought.
'It means they won't insult me in my final moments. Should I be grateful...?'
After changing, she was shown to her assigned room.
Inside was a clean bathroom, and the shelves held communist texts like the Communist Manifesto and collections of newspapers like Pravda.
Huddled beneath a blanket on a firm cot, Amfielice looked up through a small barred window.
The guard post's lights flickered outside, and she could hear the faint sound of a bedtime siren in the distance.
'Everything is so strange... if they were going to kill me, they'd have done it quickly. Why all this in a place like this...'
She glanced at her fingertips.
The herbs she'd received sat on the table.
"If they really mean to kill me... why show such consideration...?"
Her hands shook.
'...Father... I am still keeping my dignity just as you said. To the end, like a daughter of Windermere…'
With those thoughts, Amfielice closed her eyes.
She had survived this day.
She had to be thankful for that much.
With that, Amfielice fell asleep.
The following morning. The POW camp cafeteria.
"Next!"
A bowl of soup, two slices of bread, a serving of pickled cabbage.
The food on the tray was simple, but it was warm.
Amfielice hesitated for a long time before taking it and looking around cautiously.
In the cafeteria, male and female prisoners of her age were sitting in small groups, eating.
They all looked like former officers or staff from the noble army.
Clean clothes, disciplined posture.
The intonation of their speech was different from that of commoners.
"There's an empty seat here."
At a woman's call, Amfielice turned her head.
She was also a prisoner and introduced herself as Lise Chrombel, a descendant of a noble family from southwestern Victoria.
Amfielice sat down tentatively. The others at the table were also prisoners.
"Isn't it strange, all of us sitting together and eating like this?"
"It's more than strange; it's unsettling. I think this is a form of psychological pressure under the guise of 're-education'."
"I... I like just being alive. At least they don't starve us."
Lise spoke with a smile.
"People say if you work hard here, you earn points. You can even do metalwork in the industrial zone."
"Points...?"
"Yes, points. If you earn enough, you can get a better room, or library access. They even... they say they pay a salary."
Amfielice stirred her soup as if weaving a web with her spoon before slowly speaking.
"...Do they really do all this before they kill us?"
The other prisoners looked at her and laughed awkwardly.
"Do you still think that? They probably won't kill us."
"But there was a public firing squad."
"A public execution? I didn't see one. That was likely... for those among the combatants who participated in massacres or killed civilians. Aren't you just... the child of a high-ranking official?"
"Exactly. I thought I'd be killed too, but they didn't. I think it's because I was tucked away in a rear transport unit."
Amfielice couldn't answer.
She was profoundly bewildered and confused.
Deep down, she still believed 'this is all a performance.'
Yet, the warmth of the soup, the softness of the blanket, and the casual way these people spoke were all too real.
'Truly... will they not kill me? Will I be able to survive?'
She brought the spoon to her lips.
The taste was... warm and gentle.