the water in the vickers jacket steamed in the sudden quiet.

a figure detached itself from the german line.
it walked, its pace measured, indifferent to the churned earth and wire.

i gave it a five-round burst. the mechanics were perfect.
the bolt cycled, the brass ejected, the belt fed.

it raised an arm.
the tattered sleeve intercepted each round with a movement like drifting cloth.
the bullets ceased their travel.

my entire world was built upon the physics of the rifle bullet.
i was watching it being blasphemed by a gesture.
a lazy, dismissive gesture.

this was a rejection of the principles of the war itself.
our intricate systems of death were a language it refused to speak.
i looked at my gun and understood it was a relic.
i was aiming a museum piece at the tide.

re: incident report 8-k-44b, khabarovsk field trial.

the kami-7 unit experienced total systems cascade during infiltration phase.

catastrophic failure in the synaptic dampeners initiated feedback loop within the doctrinal compliance matrix. this corruption led to uncontrolled myomer bundle contractions across the unit's chassis. the optical camouflage field flickered before terminating completely, exposing the unit on a public thoroughfare.

major ota of the kempeitai witnessed the event and its containment by his personnel.

preliminary diagnostics indicate potential fault in the section 4-supplied neuro-mimetic processor. operational tolerances may have been miscalibrated for the khabarovsk climate. latent psychological instabilities within the host biomass remain possible. subject ishikawa's recruitment file showed full psychological compliance.

the major has requested all documentation for his report to the general staff.

aoki's voice was gravel. he pinched his nose.
"this is unit seven three two. project 'newt dawn'."
he winced.
"its designation is satoru."
a collective blink from the conscripts.
"tanaka, he's a giant salamander."
"he has anxieties. sudden movements, loud voices. a strong cough unsettles him."
"soothe him. that is your primary function."
"he eats artisanal silken tofu. daily. from kyoto."
"he refuses substitutes. the incident with hiroshi confirmed that."
a young soldier, ito, just stared, mouth slightly open.
"hiroshi received inadequate tofu. hiroshi expressed his displeasure."
"extensively."
"satoru likes nature films. specifically those without predatory birds."
"keep satoru content. your continued existence depends on satoru's fragile emotional state."
"any questions."
a long, defeated silence from the young faces.
"good. don't let him get lonely. or introspective."

kestrel adopted their designation when agency call-signs became personal. they wear a synth-leather overcoat, cracked but holding its severe silhouette from a forgotten directorate's dress code. beneath, a utility jumpsuit, once obsidian black, now patchwork grey from countless repairs and atmospheric leaks. their face is sharp angles and tired eyes, hair the color of static, pulled back tight.

every cycle, as recycler drones sweep the corridor outside their cataloging station, kestrel performs their observance. they retrieve item 77b: a 'cryptic solace' module meant to play algorithmically generated musical phrases for psychological equilibrium during deep cover. its chronometer is shot, sound emitters clogged with lunar dust.

kestrel cradles the cold plastic oblong, presses the worn activation stud. nothing happens. they hold it to their ear for sixty seconds, listening to absolute silence more profound than the station's groaning quiet. a ritual of remembered sound, longing for melody that once promised comfort.

the air in sub-level three stank of burnt wiring and wet concrete. under a collapsed rack of rusted tools, a sealed tin. inside, dozens of palm-sized cards. 'kodo-ha youth corps: pocket guide to enthusiastic seasonal manure distribution (winter trials).' each card showed stick figures with improbably cheerful faces demonstrating the 'correct motivational postures' for shovelling frozen slurry. one diagram detailed the 'optimal arc for patriotic particle dispersal.' requisition chits for thermal underwear (child-size, defective batch) were paperclipped to the title card. a faint, sweet chemical smell, like cheap ink and despair, clung to the paper.