~William~
Jane steps into my view, smiling as much of a smile as she can muster. My eyes scan over my friend, making sure that she's not had any serious damage done to her. She still has her same small, curvy figure that she holds with confidence, though she stands a little differently now, as if her leg's been injured. Her clothes are dirtier and more torn. Multiple bruises line her stomach in a diagonal pattern. Her hair hangs in her face, as it always does, but the light brown strands seem limper. Her olive skin is stained with crimson and colored with bruises. There's a small hole in her shirt, in the middle of her left shoulder, that I know can only be made by a bullet. Her light blue eyes appear to be darker, more downcast, less lively. The smile on her face never reaches them.
Why didn't Nick tell me that the raid had been this bad?
"How are you doing?" she asks, stepping closer to my bed.
"I'm gonna kill Nick," I mutter. "I knew that the raid had been bad, but I wasn't aware of exactly to what extent of bad it was."
"I'm alright. You're the one who has third-degree burns."
"Jane, you got shot," I say. I suppose that this is why our friendship is the way it is. We're both strong-willed people who insist on taking care of the other before our own selves.
"I'm alive, aren't I? That's good enough for me." I sigh and nod, giving in. I just woke up and am too tired, as well as feeling too lightheaded, to have this conversation now.
We sit in silence for a moment, and I wonder if she remembers our last argument. If she's still considering going to the General and asking to be trained and let in. Or, even worse, go to the Commander and give him the petition she's been making and getting people to sign to ask him to evacuate the country, allow all of the Sick to die out here. The problem in that is there are Sick armies everywhere, not just in the United States. Of course, this information is to remain only in the hands of the military, so I can't talk her out of it with that argument.
"I'm sorry," she says, and my head snaps up. It's not like her to apologize out of the blue like that. "I never meant to get upset with you that day. I personally still think it's a good idea, but I know that you probably know more about this than I do, so I won't do anything drastic like going to the Commander." I nod. "Though I am still considering speaking with the General."
"Jane, I still don't think that's the greatest idea---"
"I can't just stay here, Will. I'm not gonna sit at home in the corner of my room and wait to be slaughtered like some kind of animal. I want to fight, or I want to leave." She's raising her voice now, and I hold my hands up to calm her down.
"Where will you go?" I ask gently.
"Probably State 03031845. I know it's a long walk from here---," I scoff at this; it'll probably take her at least a week to get there, "---but it'll be a better place to live. There are no raids, there are barely any people. It'll be perfect."
"What's wrong with 06011796?" I ask. I'm not letting her go. Not to 03031845. I'll let her go anywhere else. She can go to any of the other near-deserted states. But something about 03031845 seems a little too good. A little too deserted. A little too perfect.
Elliot suddenly walks over to us quickly, excitement on his face. "They found something!" he exclaims, completely ignoring the fact that Jane and I are in the middle of an important discussion. I'm about to scold him, but then I see the sparkle in his eyes, a sparkle that I thought died a long time ago.
I sigh and smile a little, shaking my head. It's nearly impossible to be upset with the kid. "What did they find?"
"I don't know, but it's something from the battleground we were at yesterday. Remember the place where the doors were?" I nod, suddenly intrigued. "Sergeant Warner and some of the others went in and found something that was like an underground bunker. It had several rooms in it, all of them equipped with emergency lights and nothing more. It was made of only concrete. In the largest room, they found almost three hundred pairs of shackles that were connected to the walls, as if the Sick were holding hostages or something. Anyway, whatever they're bringing back is from that room, and they're saying that it could potentially lead us to where they are now."
I hear a sharp intake of breath from Jane and hold a hand over my racing heart. I almost forgot that she was there. "Do you know what this means?" she asks in a breathy whisper, walking even closer to me and taking my hand in hers. I nod, suddenly perking up.
After two years of majorly losing this war, we may have information that will help 06011796 win its part of the war, and then we can help the other states.
Then we can fight alongside other countries.
And we can finally kill the last Sick robot in existence, taking back our world.
A laugh escapes my throat at the mere thought. One day, there's a chance that this nightmare may be over.
Today just may be the start.
I watch as four of our men come back, paired up into groups of two and walking towards us. They're carrying figures that look a lot like people. As they get closer, I can see that they're definitely bodies. Finally, the men stop walking and place the bodies on the ground, right in my viewing range.
The first body was tall in life, probably about six and a half feet in height. It has on a torn black shirt and jeans, but no shoes. Its face is scarred badly, the most noticeable scar running from its hairline to its jaw. There are also marks on its wrists, probably from the shackles. The most noticeable thing about it, though, is the fact that its head was bashed in, probably with some sort of gun. The blood-serum has coated its black hair, half of its face, and part of its arm. I can see it glistening in the sun. The weird thing is the amount of actual blood running down its face, near its right eye. It appears to have more actual blood than the normal Sick soldier does.
One of the men kneels down and sticks his hand into the mess of blood-serum and brain. I suddenly realize that he's trying to identify the Sick bot. I catch sight of the small stick in his hand reading and registering information before a blue hologram pops up in midair for everyone to see.
Its name was Mikko Mustonen, and it was thirty-two years old. It was, of course, a bot for almost a third of its life, and it had been a Sick soldier for all of that time. The most interesting thing about it is that it hat attacked other soldiers in its squadron and was considered a rebel and dangerous.
The second body has been too badly burnt to even attempt to check, so we all turn our attention back to the thing that used to be Mikko Mustonen.
The next thing that they check it for is a portable radio transmitter. Every Sick soldier has one. The only downside is the fact that the transmission usually dies along with the soldier.
As they pat it down, the men notice that the transmitter was knocked off of the uniform when it died. Yet, when they check for any signals on the uniform, the machine keeps detecting something.
Finally, they find a second transmitter embedded into the skin of the bot's chest. It had carved a small hold into its skin to install the transmitter.
The transmitter is blinking blue instead of green, meaning that it has a recorded message instead of someone on the other side. One of the men tears the small object out of the robot's chest and holds up the thumb-sized piece of equipment as he activates the message.
"It's been five years," says a deep voice with a heavy Finnish accent. It sounds like the speaker, presumably Mikko, is whispering as quietly as possible out of fear. Not sound can be heard in the background. "We're still here, though. Nobody knows who---what---I am, and I intend to keep it that way. Besides, I plan on contacting someone soon. It will be to the advantage of everyone in here when I do. Unless you're hearing this message now. It means that I am dead and we are still here. I just hope that what I---what we---have done here lives on." The message cuts off, and everyone is silent.
Jane and I look at each other in disbelief. I think that we're having the same thought.
Either Mikko was a Sick spy living amongst humans in that room, or the Sick has kept many Rogues under our noses for almost as long as the war has drug on.