A Secret Dispatch

Sophia sat in the armored car, her body pitching from side to side as they hit both potholes and artillery craters as they made a serpentine, weaving path through the streets. She appreciated the concern the driver had for her safety, but she felt quite safe until they made their approach back towards the front lines. She rolled her windows down as they passed the massive, rotating artillery batteries that kept the Stadtis at bay as to avoid shattering the glass. She tucked her head and held her ears as the massive mortars fired, 20 shells per minute each with another 20 firing in staggered intervals, until they were passed the firing lines. Here, the driver took narrow side streets as they were now in range of Stadti shells.

They drove through the middle of a bombed out apartment complex, the long abandoned structure wafting dust and debris in the lazy Fall breeze. Through the narrow, armored slits in the sideplate armor, she could see the desolation of bombardments passed. A small skeleton still clung to a stuffed Teddy Bear, the larger skeleton, whether father or mother she did not know, laying atop it.

Finally, he stopped. She quickly hopped out with a nod and made her way on foot back to the forward command post she was stationed at. She stepped over the desolate homeless and slid passed a small group of women being fucked ruthlessly in the alleyways by both soldier and scramp alike. A hand reached out to grab her ass which she sternly brushed away. She had a report to write.

Finally, she made her way back to the command center. She saluted the soldier at the door and ducked inside. She stole a glance into the troop quarters, unsurprised the see the fresh-faced girls coming to terms with the realities of life as their holes were filled by any and every passer-by. She turned the corner and returned to her private room, quickly opened the door and slid inside, and shut it with a loud thud.

She sighed. This 10' x 12' room was the only semblance of a private life she had. Still, duty called. Sophia sat at the desk, and started to hammer out her report.

"Subject shows much improvement. Suggested actions: regular entertainment, both musical and otherwise, of French origin to further his cooperative spirit." She paused for a moment. "Recommend sterilization; and prisoner exchange upon debriefing due to cooperation." She rubbed her forehead, knowing her recommendation would be ignored. The Stadti she had seen was destined for a bullet to the back of the neck and a shallow grave in the clutches of the KGB, but she hoped her report might make some difference. Sophia took no joy in needless slaughter. There were plenty of Fascists to fight. This man would never brave the Front again.

Sophia tilted her head, and a small smile crept across her face. "Subject can fluently speak both German and French." That might do it. They were in constant need of translators, especially to disseminate Propaganda behind the lines. She paused for a moment to wonder why she was spending so much effort to spare the man his fate. She had to admit that in the end, she felt sorry for him. He was young man, and brought up as a proper Stadtist. Still, she didn't detect the vile wickedness in him that infected so many from the Stadt. The fact that he was used by the Commissariate's most vile enemies and provided information that might help them root out their enemies was all the better.

She signed the letter, placed in an envelope with a Commissar's seal bound for the the Kremlin, and passed it to a courier. She took a deep breath, and sat back down behind her typewriter. Her fingers trembled for a moment before she clasped her hands and steadied herself. Her next letter was quite different. For one, it was written in the language of the Siberian tribesman, and then further obscured by coded language. For the very few who spoke it, it read:

"Commissar Commander,

I write to you with a most dire message. The KGB has in their possession what is almost certainly a true cultist of the Children of Rasputin. He claims to be a Stadti soldier held in the Red Square KGB bunker. He bore both the Cross and the Eye, indicating he is a true convert; though he claims otherwise. Malenko does not seem to realize just what he has." Sophia paused. The next sentence she wrote carried a certain risk. Up until now, her words might be intercepted and played off as inter-party competition. She steadied herself as best she could, but her fingers trembled.

"Orders?" was all she wrote.

She sat back, looking at the letter. She took a deep breath, and continued.

"Also, the Premier has implemented the Molotov Protocol. Shall I make contact with our friends?"

It implied disobedience. It implied ****. It implied treason. She looked to the door, to the corners of the room, and checked to see if any hidden wires were attached to her typewriter. Kruschev, for all his faults, had made sure that there was a **** buried deep within the Bloc to act as a check on the KGB. That **** was the Commissars. He trusted his old political officers more than the spies he outwardly praised and cultivated. He had molded the KGB subtly away from the Commissar's secret mission: to ensure the continuation of the Revolution, even if that meant defying the Premier, who at the time was Stalin himself.

Sophia folded it as if a normal letter, and stepped out of her room. She slid once more passed the throng until she reached the stairwell leading up to the surface. She ascended the dimly lit stairs, nodded to the soldier standing guard, and stepped onto the narrow bricks that served as an alleyway. She walked briskly for nearly twenty minutes before finding the drop location. A number of Desolates were near, but she paid them no attention. She quickly ducked into an abandoned post office, opened the "outgoing mail" slot, and slid the letter in.

She opened the door, and slid outside.

"Why, hello!" she heard behind her. Slowly, Sophia turned. The man was old, and in rags. She did her best to fake a smile as he stumbled toward her. He was already fishing into his stained trousers to stroke himself to erection. Sophia sauntered closer to him. Under Bloc doctrine, he was just as much entitled to use her as the Premier. She had to maintain appearances, afterall.