Vanguard, Chapter 4: The Clean and the Tainted

Duncan's Journal: Day 1290

The days are beginning to blur together. If it weren't for this journal I'm keeping, I'm sure I'd have lost orientation and order long time ago. Still, these pages give me a sense of inner peace, I guess. It is one of the few things that keep me from plunging too far into hopelessness and despair. It has been 1290 days now, and I'm still not dead, nor have I been sent home. And in all these 1290 days, it feels like I've been telling myself “I might come home tomorrow!”. Rather childish, now that I think about it. The soldiers here cling to the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, they'll survive their duty here. Ironic, considering it's themselves who signed up for it. It's not unheard of that people are sent home again, but they are little but a trickle to keep the hope flowing for the soldiers. Often there's even made a minor parade out of it, as if to say “See? There's still a chance!” just to breathe life into the hope, but I know a liar when I see one. And it's always the general who announces it. I've seen it too. A few times, actually. They send a large airship in—-some kind of modern day invention, it seems-—to pick up the lucky elected and send them back home. And so the people of Camp Vanguard watch the airship sail away, wishing vainly that maybe one day, they'll be the ones on its deck. But they're lying to themselves. It's all just clever propaganda. We never go home. We never get a chance to wave good bye to our fellow soldiers. We never feel what it's like to ride the airship of salvation.
Only coffins will carry us home.

Duncan slowly closed his journal again. He looked down at it, and sighed slightly. The worst part was that he had never written a word in this journal he didn't mean sincerely. He sat before his desk, clothed in his casual outfit of a leather vest and denim trousers. He licked his lips a little, twirling the pencil around in his grasp while watching the closed journal before him. But then he quickly leaned forward and opened it again. There was something he had forgotten to write.

I've been watching our new recruit too. Angus, his name is. Gullible little man, still in the belief that there is glory to be found and good to be done. He is partially right. What we do out here is good, yes, but glory and reward is an illusion we set for ourselves to motivate us. I wonder how Angus will react when his illusion is shattered. He was doing surprisingly well at the dog tag duty, actually. He just collected the dog tags, said a prayer, and moved on. Well, of course, we didn't finish because of that... girl. What surprises me here, is that Angus actually kept a cooler head than I did. I couldn't take watching the girl suffer like that. She had NOTHING to do with this war, yet the demons tore her up like a dog's toy. She would have died that day if Ramund didn't use his magic to mend her wounds. And then, of course, if we hadn't gone to Lex in time. I trust that Lex will patch her up just fine, and if I know him well, he'll do more than that. Maybe he'll try and communicate with her. I never understood their language; no one does. The Native Tongue is some weird branch of Targussian, that not even Targussians understand. Still... I want to know what happened to the squad. If we somehow can get contact to the girl, or at least have a look into her mind, we can maybe find out where the attack came from. Who knows: there might be a nest somewhere. And if that is true, then I'll be dragging Angus with me to a mission that very few people get to join.
I should go have a talk with him too. He may need a captain's counsel about what happened two days ago.

With that, he closed the book again. Done for today. He looked out the entrance of his tent and saw the golden sun rise above the horizon. Darkness fled to the other side, red and orange pushing away the dark blue, and bringing about another day. Duncan stared at the reddened sky for a little while, and the rippling outlines of the dawning sun. It was still at that point where it wasn't a blinding source of white light, but a gentle reddish ball of roiling fire. It was rather beautiful, actually, with an unobstructed view... save for the banners and tents of his neighbors, of course. He slowly put down the pencil and combed his black hair, before standing up and walking outside. Now where was it Angus' tent was?

Walking down the paths of Camp Vanguard, he saw the soldiers slowly getting up, one by one. It was early morning, and many of these poor souls still had long bags under their eyes. Of course, there were the occasional morning people who seemed completely untouched by it, just like Ramund, but most of them were pale-faced and drowsy beyond recognition. No surprise, really. Most of them had probably been drinking their minds to pieces the day before... as always. Ahh, the soldier's life...

The shadows of the tents were long-stretched, splattered across the ground like moving ink, with the shadows of the swaying banners on top. Dust coiled around Duncan's feet, carried by the shrill winds that swept through the paths. The air was hot, as always, yet still carrying the faint chill of the night that had just passed. But the sun would chase away the cold soon enough and bring about the hellish, scorching heat that every day was plagued by. The first pearls of sweat had already begun to trickle down Duncan's cheek and forehead. They were the first of many.

Walking down the path, Duncan's attention was caught by the sound of dozens of armors clanking and clamoring in perfect sync. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a patrol coming up from behind, marching strictly with the captain in front. This captain seemed like one of the kinds who still demanded order, respect and marching. Marching always seemed like an unnecessary thing to Duncan. His way of being captain was far more relaxed than this guy's. Probably because this captain here was leading a squad of twelve people, while Duncan was leading one of... 3. He chuckled slightly. It really wasn't a squad as much as it was a small band of friends. But it felt better that way, anyway. It was more tight-knit than this. This captain probably had no time to have a chat with his squad members, and likely didn't know more than their names and ranks about them. Just imagine what they could have been. Would they ever know? He looked at the soldiers, and watched them march away. Twelve they went... but how many would return? Duncan sometimes humored himself with imagining what lives they would have lived, had they not fallen for the false promises of glory. That one, an elf... librarian, maybe? A pleasant life with father and mother, up north in their elven woods. And that one, a Fairlander, like himself... bard? There were so many bards in The Fairlands, and Duncan remembered treasuring every one of them. The bard's life was a good one. Yet this man traded that life for a soldier's one. Poor fool.

It didn't take that long before he arrived at the tent which, according to the small note in his hand, should have been Angus'. It was still in its untouched state. Untouched in the way that Angus was still so new that he hadn't begun customizing it yet. It was nothing like Duncan's tent, decorated with shrines to Hrumalz in a fading hope of godly intervention, or the many letters that littered his desk. Angus' was still clean... which, in some way, was a good analogy of Angus himself.

Duncan stood outside the tent entrance and slowly stuck his head inside “Rookie?”

Their eyes quickly met. Angus was sitting at his desk, legs slung up on it while still dressed in his casual clothing: a white shirt and trousers. He was holding a small piece of paper in one hand and a pencil in the other. A few words were scribbled on the paper, but they came to an end as Angus looked towards Duncan, and smiled.

“Oh! Captain!” He said and quickly rushed to his feet to perform a salute, but Duncan interrupted him.

“Relax, rookie. I'm here as a friend, not a captain.” He said, stepping inside “Not interrupting anything, am I?” He asked.

Angus slowly relaxed, as ordered, and sat back down in his chair. He looked towards the piece of paper and shook his head “Nah, not really. I was just writing a letter to my mom back home to say that I'm alright.”

Duncan cringed slightly and averted his gaze, scratching the back of his head “Uhh, yeah. You don't have to bother with that.” He said rather reluctantly, before sitting down in Angus' bed, looking towards him.

“Look, Angus, I don't mean to be a spoilsport, but... “ He looked downwards, licking his lips as if to coax forth the words “...Do you even realize what you've signed up for?”
Angus seemed rather befuddled, maybe even a slight bit insulted about this “I... well of course, captain. If I didn't know—-“

“Please, call me Duncan.” Duncan interrupted, raising a hand “But go on.”

Angus continued “If I didn't know, I wouldn't have signed up.”

Duncan looked towards Angus, casting a rather pitiful gaze at him. Duncan could almost feel his gullibility—it shined so brightly in his eyes.

“Well that's good.” Duncan said, nodding a few times “But can you tell me what you've signed up for, then?”

Angus smiled and looked over his shoulder, where one of the recruitment posters hung. A large piece of parchment, pinned to the wall of his tent. It neatly illustrated the upper body of Lucius Deum, pointing into the horizon with a marching army at his feet. And he was so glorified, so exalted by drawn beams of light that erupted from around his head. It was just as Duncan remembered it. And with the slogan at the bottom that has tricked so many young men and women.
'Sing the songs of glory and march into battle-—join The Crusade today!'

“I signed up for the war, capt-—Duncan.” Angus said, quickly correcting himself, as ordered “I was tired of working at my father's farm, milking cows and feeding chickens, so I came here. I yearn for a life of purpose and glory and a blessed afterlife, and I know I will find that here, sir!” Angus said, his smile growing even wider.

Duncan stared into his eyes with disbelief. The kid was serious. He still believed the lies he had been fed. He was still convinced that there would be songs of war, marching armies that would clash with the enemy, so full of zeal and vigor. Duncan sighed a little.
“And what about the dog tag duty? Didn't that scare you just a little bit?” Duncan asked, inclining his head slightly at Angus.

He quickly shook his head “Not at all. Those men died in the name of the gods, and they will surely be rewarded for that. Men of good faith are never afraid to die.”

Duncan cringed. 'Men of good faith are never afraid to die'. He even said it in the exact same pitch and tone as the recruitment officers back home. The propaganda had been stuffed so deep into him, it had altered him completely. He had become a puppet with strings attached to the fingers of Lucius Deum. Utterly brainwashed. Angus, the poor kid, was an excellent example of what happened when you let naivety and propaganda meet.

Duncan kept a silence for a few seconds. He looked at Angus with a mix of pity and envy. Deep inside, Duncan wished he was still like Angus. New, hopeful, positive... foolish. An ignorant soldier was indeed a happy soldier.

“Alright...” Duncan said, forcing forth a weak smile “I'm glad to hear that. You have a good one, okay?” Duncan said and stood up. He cleared his throat a little and straightened his vest, before putting on a very professional mime. He looked down at Angus and performed a salute.
“I'll be seeing you on the field, soldier.”

This time, permitted to be the soldier he was, Angus leaped up from his chair and mirrored Duncan's salute “Yes sir!” He said with a smile. Duncan let his gaze linger in his eyes for a few seconds, sympathy in his own, before he sighed and left.

It was later that day that Duncan found himself sitting at a bench in the center of Camp Vanguard, the daunting statue of Lucius Deum casting its long inky shadow over him. Amusingly enough, Duncan sat in just the position to see the sun be obstructed by Deum's head, enveloped by the sun's beams to make him seem ever so much more... holy. It was just like on the recruitment posters. Duncan couldn't help but smile... but he hated it.
His gaze slowly fell from the glorified statue of Deum, to the less glorified place around him. It was midday, and the soldiers were walking around in as few clothes as possible to avoid being baked to death in their armor. Duncan was no exception. His vest lay on the bench beside him, leaving him clad in little but his white, long-sleeved shirt. Most of the soldiers here were already scorched bad by the sun, left as red as cooked prawns. Especially those poor souls from Nightweald, the eternally dark forest up north. Their skin was pale as snow. To imagine going from unending darkness, to this hellish wasteland... if the war didn't kill them, the climate surely would.

Duncan looked at all these lost, doomed souls, and shook his head. He had given up trying to do anything to help them. He had tried before to convince the general that this war was a fool's errand, but what good was that? The general knew perfectly well how disgusting this war was, but he was one of the few people who actually seemed to enjoy it. Dark Elves... Duncan cringed. Nasty folk from the valleys with little on their mind but war. Ever since the humans and Dark Elves made peace, they began walking hand in hand with The Crusade. But while The Crusade plunged themselves into war in the name of the gods, so full of holy justification to let their men be butchered, the Dark Elves waged war for the sake of war. Duncan really couldn't tell which was worse. The Dark Elves were indeed a disgusting people, blood of generations on their consciences, but at least they didn't lie to their soldiers about what horrors they would face here. In a way, they were a bit like the demons. Opposites, but the same. Both reveled in battle like pigs revel in mud, but still, they were mortal enemies. With a Dark Elf as the general, it wasn't a big surprise that Camp Vanguard was the hell it was. Maybe if a sensible human or even a High Elf were to take his place, the booze to water ratio could be balanced out a little more. But until then... Duncan could save no one. But maybe it was time that he tried saving himself.

He looked downwards. Not at the crisp, peeling ground below, but at what he held in his hands. A piece of paper-—so very familiar to him—-and a pencil. The pencil had idly circled around the paper for a while now, like a shark waiting to strike. But he was reluctant. He didn't even know why he did this. He knew there would be no point to what he was about to do. Still... maybe it gave him some kind of self--satisfaction? A breath of life into the hope that seemed so dead. Even if it would never work, even if it would just add to the pile on his desk, Duncan couldn't help himself.

Hello mother.

Duncan wrote as the top line.

I write this letter in vain hopes that I may know you're alright. It has been 1290 days now, and I'm still not dead. Frankly, I'm surprised, and I'm beginning to think that the shrines in my tent aren't as pointless as I was lead to believe. I see the death all around me, all the time, but I'm still the observer—the audience to this theater of war. I become part of it, sure, but I still haven't seen the inside of a coffin, as so many of my friends have by now. Only Ramund remains... and this new guy. 'Angus'. I'm not sure what to think of him. He's a rookie, like the others, but his illusion of glory is strong. Still I fear that the stronger it is, the louder it breaks. But Ramund seems to care for him. Is it sympathy or pity—I can't tell.
Either way, if you ever receive this letter, please leave a rose at father's grave for me. I'm sure he'll love it.

~Duncan

“Why do you even try?”

That slithering, snake-tongued voice made Duncan shiver. Even in this baking heat, he felt a nasty, unearthly chill. His gaze lingered on the letter before him, before he sighed and looked up at the man before him.

It was the general-—talk of the devil. He stood there, arms folded across his steel-plated chest, hip cocked slightly to the right. His head was inclined at Duncan, sarcasm and mockery in his green eyes. His gilded armor glistened so brightly in the midday sun, the reflection heralding his coming from miles away. Yet all this gilded glory was worn by a man with a filthy heart and a grin that never seemed to wane. Even now, his lips were spread in a devil's smile, as if he got sadistic pleasure of watching the suffering of the men around him. And who knows-—maybe he did.

“Afternoon, general.” Duncan said with a voice dark and sarcastic.

“And afternoon to you too, captain.” the general said in return, bowing his head once, but his grin lingering “Now, as you may or may not have noticed, I asked you a question.”
“Ah, yes.” Duncan said and slowly folded the letter together “Funny thing: I was asking myself that question too just now. I didn't get a good answer.”

The general crouched down to Duncan's sitting height, staring into his eyes with a serpent's gaze “Well maybe I can squeeze a better one out of you.” He said, licking his lips hungrily “I know it can't be because you think the letter will actually get through. I've seen the pile on your desk. How many are you up on now, Duncan?”

Duncan remained silent, his gaze averting slightly. His lips twitched in an occasional sneer, his fingers tapping on the wooden bench. He was clearly trying to keep his frustrations at bay, yet they still shined through in the shape of twitches and sneers.
“Duuuncaaaan.” the general urged, his grin growing wider as he made a sly gesture of his hand that seemed to say 'you may begin'.

Duncan sighed “56, general.”

“56?” The general said and let out an impressed whistle “That's quite the number, dear captain. And how many of them came through?”

“None, general... none of them.” Duncan said, spitting out the words like milk far past its expiration date.

“Well, I guess we've come to a conclusion, then!” the general said, clasping his hands together “It's not because you think your letters will come through. And I know you keep a journal too, so they can't be to write down your thoughts. So what is it, Duncan? Hmm?”

Duncan clenched his teeth together. His heart pounded with a thrilling desire to dishonor his rank and grant the general the plate-fisted sucker punch he deserved so badly. Still, he restrained himself, and answered in a forced, loathsome voice.

“Hope, general.” He answered slowly, speaking through his teeth “It gives me hope—-something that most of the men here have lost long ago.”

“Hope?” the general asked, his grin this time evolving to a full-blown guffaw “HARH! Hope, you say! Hope, no less! Duncan, you may be a captain, but you are as naive as a rookie.” The general said, wiping a tear of laughter away “There's no hope here, silly. You're stuck with me 'till the desert claims you, or the demons do. The only thing you can hope for is a swift death, and even that is unlikely. You've seen what the demons do to the people here. Dismemberment, disembowelment, mutilation... not once do they consider mercy. Their gods laugh when another soldier gets his leg torn off! And believe me, the demons have naught in their mind but to please their lords.”

The general kept chuckling for a little while, the eyes of the nearby soldiers befalling the two. Clearly, they all knew what mockery Duncan was being exposed to, and they felt sorry for him. But Duncan endured. This was not the first time the general had come to get a good laugh over his soldiers' misery. But Duncan took back what he had thought before—-Dark Elves definitely were nastier than the crusaders.

“Oh, but I jest, dear captain.” the general said, still smiling, a he put a hand on Duncan's shoulder “I would love to stay and chat, but I'm afraid I actually have an errand to run with you, for once.”

Duncan looked up and perked an eyebrow.

“You're getting another addition to your squad.” the general said as he pulled forth a small note and put it on Duncan's lap “Maybe you can keep your soldiers alive this time, hmm? Would be nice change—-especially for someone like you. Your recruit will be waiting in the gathering tent.” He said and slowly stood up. Duncan looked at the note, eyebrows furrowed, before glancing up at the general.

“A recruit? But... I just got Angus.”

“And I expect that you can handle another, being the experienced man you are!” The general said and brushed some sand off his palms “So don't disappoint me, okay? I'll see you around, captain.” he said, performing a slight wink and a smile, before taking his leave.

Duncan watched, stifled, as the general waltzed away, whistling joyfully to himself. He wasn't quite sure what had just happened. He looked down at the note in his hands, before nodding a few times. Another recruit? Sure. His squad could use a few more faces. Taking a deep breath, Duncan stood up from the bench and slowly head for the gathering tent.

The cacophony of sensible conversation blended together with drunken shouting and bereaved weeping seemed to be muffled out as Duncan stepped in through the entrance of the gathering tent and zipped closed the curtains. He swept his hair back with a brush of his hand and straightened his vest as he sauntered down the curtain-walled hallway that would lead him to gathering room—-he would really have preferred to wear his formal outfit for this matter, but there was little time for that. A white shirt, a vest and denim trousers had to suffice today. Besides... the casuals spirit was the trademark of his squad... or was it just laziness? Duncan liked to convince himself that it wasn't the latter.

He took a long breath as he stepped around the corner that would bring him into the gathering hall. He attempted a smile, forced as always, even if it was just to make a good impression towards the poor soul that resided on the other side of the corner. But even with the smile, he was met with a gaze so dark the sun seemed to dim in its wake. His smile was instantly killed as he saw the yellow-pupilled, narrow stare that seemed like it wanted to kill more than his smile. These sharp windows to the soul belonged to a woman, sitting in the middle of the room at a lonely desk and a chair, with leather-bound arms crossed over her chest. Dark, short hair shaped a dire crown on her head-—darker than Duncan's and far more ruffled. Her skin was sun-scorched, just like his own, implying that she might have been victim of this wasteland as long as he had. Yet, he had never seen this woman before. Never met that cold, murderous stare; never seen that sneer so fierce it could have been mistaken for that of a wolf. Her nimble fingers idly tapped on her leather-clad elbows, disturbing the silence that lingered for uncomfortably long between them. Their gazes met, Duncan's faltering slightly under the dagger-stare of the woman before him. He averted slightly, and broke the quiet as he scooted a chair to the desk and sat down.

“Now then...” He began, leaning back in the chair and tossing a leg over the other. The woman, of course, said nothing as Duncan slowly opened up the note before him. He read the top bit, before casting a glance at her, under his eyebrows.

“You must be Rosalyn...” He looked back down at the note, eyebrows furrowed. Wait... something was missing. He looked back up at her.
“...No surname?”

The woman didn't answer. She looked away, lips curved in an unfaltering frown. She looked as if she really did not want to be here. Duncan could understand that. No one wanted to be here, but a captain had to do what a captain had to do, and that was exactly what he intended to do.

“Look, Rosalyn, I can't—-“

“Rose.” she suddenly spoke, her eyes still looking away, as if they were ignoring Duncan's presence completely. First they stared at him with a look that could probably give a dove a heart-attack, but now it seemed like she wouldn't even acknowledge him. Duncan slowly perked an eyebrow.

“...Pardon?”

“My name is Rose.” She muttered.

Duncan sighed and slowly shook his head to himself “Not according to the papers, miss.” He said, and began reading out loud “Rosalyn; deployed for 998 days; magically adept; resident of section...” he stopped himself. His heart skipped a beat. His eyes went wide and he forgot how to breathe for a few seconds. A new kind of sweat began to trickle down his forehead, but he felt his blood run icy cold.
“...9.”

He quickly pulled himself together. Now now, calm down—-she was clearly a sensible woman, and not a screaming animal-soul. He took a deep breath and wiped some sweat off his forehead, trying to remain cool-headed in the face of this situation. In all his 1290 days, he had never been face-to-face with one from Section 9. He quite literally knew nothing of them, save for what he heard from across the wall. He had seen them walk by, heavily guarded and carefully escorted out to the field, but he had never spoken to one. And now he was supposed to recruit one to his squad. Nervously, he glanced between the paper and at Rose, uncertain of what to say at first.

“So, tell me, Rose...” He said, clearing his throat with a cough “Do you know why you're here?”

Rose remained silent. Her gaze didn't even befall him, and all she did was lean down and pick up a small pebble on the ground. Wordlessly, she began flicking the pebble up and down, her eyes set on it. Up, down, up, down—-it went on for uncomfortably long, and Duncan realized that she wasn't going to answer. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. What was he supposed to do with her? Was this some kind of joke from the general's side. Any moment now, he was suspecting the general's ugly mug to burst in through the door, laughing at the top of his lungs before Rose here was escorted back to Section 9. But nothing happened. No sudden laughter—no disillusion of the joke. He scratched his temple, shaking his head before looking back at Rose.

“Look... you don't want to be here-—I get that. I don't really either, but it's kinda not our choice. See what I mean? So how about we just get this over with, and you can go back to Section 9 if you want.”

Rose suddenly snapped her gaze towards Duncan. Her expression darkened as she stopped flicking the pebble up and down, her eyes suddenly laden with harsh sincerity.
“I am not going back to that place.” She stated, as if there was no discussion about it “I don't belong there.”

Duncan looked at her with a little suspicion. He wasn't sure what to make of her words. If she really had been in Section 9 for nearly a thousand days, he really couldn't take her all too literally. She could say anything, really, if she was anything like the rest in that house of lunatics.

“Alright, fine, that's up to you.” Duncan said, raising both hands “Let's just calm down for a moment, and take this one step at a time. Now, Rose... as asked: do you know why you're here?” Duncan asked, slowly putting his elbows on the desk before Rose, looking at her and trying to see what was going on inside her. But it was naught. Whatever was going on inside this soul was nothing he could recognize. A strange sense of distance from reality-—denial of everything. Maybe it was the war that had taken its toll upon her?

“Yes.” She answered shortly, leaning back against her chair and folding her arms “My squad died. The guards said I needed a new one, but there weren't enough guards in Section 9 for me. So now I'm here.”

“Ooookaaay.” Duncan said, trying to look through the page to find confirmation of that, but found nothing “So you are here... because you can't be there. I guess that makes sense. So what happened to your squad?” he asked, looking back up at Rose.

“I just told you.” She said blatantly “They died.”

Duncan sighed quietly in surrender “Right, yeah, you said that. Okay.” He said and crossed off a small check box on the paper that read 'potentially unstable'.
“Tell you what, Rose.” Duncan said, looking back up to meet her gaze. In all this time, he hadn't seen her blink even once.
“We, in my squad, are investigating the matter of another squad that just had been slaughtered—-just like yours. However, there was a survivor, but she's a native. As soon as we get word from our medic, we might have a clue of where the attack came from—and then we can head there and whack them over the head. Shouldn't be too hard. It could be your first mission in my squad. Up for that, hm?”

“Killing demons?” Rose asked, arching an eyebrow “Is that not why we are here.”

“Good point.” Duncan said and attempted a smile, but he couldn't hold it for more than a few seconds “Now, it says here that you are magically adept. That's quite the praise. What kind of magic is this? Shamanism? Rune magic?”

“I don't know.” Rose said, looking away and tucking at her shoulders in a slight shrug “Doesn't it say on your papers there?”

Duncan looked at her with some sense of disbelief, and then looked down at the papers. His finger glided down the list, before finding that it actually read 'other' on what type of magic she used. Other? What in the world was that supposed to mean?

“...Right.” Duncan said, biting his lower lip in befuddlement “I guess we'll find out on the battlefield, then.”

With those words, Duncan tore off a small piece off the paper, and handed it to Rose “Here. This is your tent number—-it's where you'll be staying from now on.”

Rose looked at the piece with narrow eyes, before slowly accepting it and looking at it. She stuffed it down her pocket and looked towards Duncan. She said nothing, not even a 'thanks', but just seemed like she expected Duncan to make the next move. Duncan got the hint.

“Right then.” He said and stood up, laying the papers on the desk “I'm sure it'll be a pleasure to work with you, Rose. Welcome to the squad.” he flashed a smile and extended a hand to Rose, waiting for her to shake it. But, not to his surprise, she didn't.
“Nope, okay.” He muttered, shaking his head tiredly and taking his leave.

He really didn't know where to go with this. For so long he had kept a casual, friendly spirit in the squad, but this new addition could be nothing else but a rotten apple in the basket. He realized that he wasn't supposed to judge her by her supposedly ill mind, but still, it was rather hard to ignore the fact that she clearly didn't want to be... anywhere. That was the rather strange impression Duncan got from her. As if she felt she didn't belong here, there, or anywhere. As if she had her own space somewhere far, far away... inside herself, perhaps? It seemed normal for lunatics to become extremely introvert and distant, and maybe that was just what this 'Rose' had become. Duncan slowly realized this, and thought to himself: maybe it wasn't as much a joke and a curse, than it was a challenge. And Duncan wasn't one to step down from challenges.

Later that day, when the sun had slowly begun to set behind the scorched horizon and the dark blue of dusk began to encroach over the sky, Camp Vanguard was slowly quieting down. The last patrols were slowly marching out into the field for their evening route, while the rest had retreated back to their tents... or the bar. Save for the occasional loud-mouthed booze-hound, Camp Vanguard was actually quite peaceful at this time. The time where the shadows of men and tents were stretched long across the baked earth; the time where the first needles of nightly cold began to prickle at exposed skin. The time which was so perfect for a quiet, relaxing stroll, and Duncan did not let the opportunity pass by.

With his hands in his pockets and his mind far away, in a better place, it didn't take long before he eventually passed through the center once more. As expected, this place was beginning to quiet down too, most of the candles at Deum's feet having been extinguished by the harsh desert winds, and with only a trickle of withering faithful to fall at his feet. By now, it was more uncommon to not see someone collapse on their knees before the statue, beginning vainly for divine intervention and salvation. And maybe, in some way, it worked. Maybe the fact that they were slain on the battlefield and their suffering met an end, they had been saved. Saved in blood and missing limbs. But if that were the case... why was Duncan so undeserving of salvation? Even with all the shrines in his tent, he still hadn't been saved. Was this some kind of punishment? And if so... for what?

Duncan shook his head and dismissed the thoughts. Clearly he wasn't going to reach an answer now, if he hadn't done so for the last 1290 days. Instead, his attention was perked as he caught sight of Lex's tent, from which an odd buzzing sound seemed to come from. Duncan slowly arched an eyebrow, and decided to investigate.

He slowly pushed away the white curtains of Lex's tent, and stepped inside. The buzzing sound grew louder as he saw what odd scene he was sat before.

“Duncan!” Lex said “Your timing is impeccable!”

It was clear to see that Duncan was interrupting something here. He wasn't sure what to make of it at first. It was Lex, in his long white lab coat and the bird mask on his face, standing before his table, on which the native girl lay. She was fast asleep, eyes shut, clad in her poncho, and with a red circle drawn on her forehead. But that was not the oddity of it all.

From the ceiling of Lex's tent, hung a large, utterly ramshackle and sputtering contraption of glued scrap metal, rusty bolts and snapped wires. It looked like some kind of huge metal arm, reaching towards the girl's forehead and ending in what looked like a kind of magnifying glass. It whizzed and buzzed like the angry hiss of a cornered cat, and sparks flew like fireflies. It rumbled and shook, and its 'joints' sputtered the occasional burst of steam. Duncan's eyes were wide, confused, as he looked towards Lex with great question in his face.

“Lex... what is—-“
“-—going on?” Lex interrupted “Why I was just about to tell you that! You see, I managed to establish some sort of communication with the girl, but it was mostly through hand gestures and treats. Still, we've become quite the good friends, and we agreed—or at least that was how I interpreted it—that she would let me sedate her and have a glance into this mind of hers. For matters relevant to the mission, of course. So I guess you can deduce your way forward to what this contraption of mine is supposed to do, yes?”

Duncan slowly cocked his head in wonder “You can do that?”

“Well I certainly hope so. Otherwise I sure have gone trough the hassle of making this machine for naught-—and that would be quite a shame, wouldn't it?” He asked, as if talking to the machine, giving it a friendly pat. It sputtered loudly and emitted a burst of steam in response, and Lex leaped back, yelping in surprise.

Duncan looked down at the girl, clearly concerned about her well-being in Lex's hands. Still, Lex might have been the oddball he was, but he knew what he was doing... usually.

“So... this thing can actually tell us what happened back then?” Duncan said, slowly raising his voice and pointing towards the contraption.

“As said: I certainly hope so. And now that you're here, we can find out together!” Lex said, raising his hands to theatrically present the machine “Shall we?”

Duncan stepped closer, putting his hands on the table and looming over the girl “We shall.”

With those words, Lex took a deep breath and let the show begin. He slowly pulled the arm closer to the sleeping girl's head, silent anticipation between both of them, as arches of electricity began to jump throughout the shabby structure of the machine. It buzzed and complained, but... it seemed to work. Both Lex and Duncan stared through the glass of the magnifying glass, which seemed to swirl in odd ways as the electricity coursed around it. It was like staring through the eyes of a drunkard, whose vision became more and more blurry, every second becoming less sensible, until...

Suddenly, there was something. The hazed colors and writhing magic suddenly aligned into a coherent picture. It was... it was her memories. The girl's memories, envisioned in the magnifying glass. Lex and Duncan watched as they saw what appeared to be a village of sorts, sand-blasted and scorched by the sun, seen through the eyes of the girl. The picture was flickering, jumping in time, but it was clear to see what happened here.

First, tranquility. A safe haven of nomadic tents, where the natives lived in peace. Then, merely a second later... everything was in flames. The tents blazing like the sun itself, fires roaring in great pillars. But it was seen through the eyes of a the girl, who was being carried away in steel-plated arms. She had been saved by the soldiers-—not captured! But it was the second after that, that the blood came. The red that spattered all over her memory, desecrating it, after those horrible sights of seeing her saviors being torn limb from limb. Duncan cringed in disgust as he saw it... but then everything faded to black. The memories came to an end and the mechanical arm slowly retracted.

Duncan wiped some sweat off his forehead and looked at Lex “Well that answers some questions. It seems those men did indeed die a heroic death-—good for them, I guess.”

“I'll say...” Lex said, looking down at the girl “But this poor soul must be horribly scarred by it. She has nowhere to go... no family to live with. Just imagine...”

“We don't have to.” Duncan said, shaking his head “We just saw it. But if she survived...” He held a little pause, realization striking him like lighting from a clear sky “...there might be more!”

“Hmm... interesting theory-—if so, it might be worth—-” Lex said, scratching his chin before looking at Duncan... but it was too late. Duncan had already rushed out the door. Lex rolled his eyes and sighed.
“-—investigating...”