Reunion

You sit on the edge of a cracked stone wall, shirt half open, bandages coiled around your torso like a second skin. The medic's hands are quick and rough, cursing softly under her breath every time you flinch.

The taste of iron still clings to your teeth. The smell of smoke and blood is everywhere.

The battle is over.

All around you, your Lions are moving through the wreckage. Pulling bodies. Piling weapons. Dousing small fires. The village, the hope you’d spent a week building, now looks like it did before. As if nothing had ever changed.

“Fuckin’ waste,” the medic mutters, taping the gauze tight.

Norah steps up beside you, limping slightly. “Nice job not dying, and the defence,” she says flatly.

You grunt. “Just trying to piss off one more Russian before I go.”

She snorts and gestures toward your dressing wound. “Well, you’ll have a sexy scar. That counts.”

You glance at her. “Where’s my mother?”

Her smirk twists into something more amused.

“Oh,” she says, savouring it. “Your mother? She’s on her way. Entire walk back from our ridge camp, she couldn’t shut up about kicking your ass.”

You close your eyes.

Norah chuckles. “I told her you were too stubborn to have stood aside."

You sigh, and the medic winces at how deep the exhale pulls your bandages. “I’m not looking forward to that talk.”

Norah leans in, whispering with the ghost of a smile. “I am.”

You look up at her. “How do you feel?”

Her face turns serious. A beat passes. “Motivated,” she says.

You nod.

She steps back. “Gonna check in with Berlin. They’ll want to know what's been happening.”

You watch her walk off toward the sat-com tent the Lions had patched together from whatever scrap wasn’t riddled with bullets.

You see her.

Your mom. Her rifle still slung over her back. Her eyes locked directly on you, and they are not kind.

You sit up a little straighter. Suddenly, the bullet wound in your gut doesn’t seem quite so painful.

You barely get to your feet when she reaches you.

Your mother barrels into your chest. Her hands slap your shoulders, your chest, your bandages, half checking you're alive, half punishing you for it.

“You reckless, stubborn, suicidal piece of shit!”

You grunt, half-laugh, half-wince, trying to catch your balance.

Smack.

She hits you again, open palm to the arm.

“You left us!” she yells, voice shaking. “You left your aunt, you left me, on that goddamn ridge like we were nothing!”

“You said you nee-”

“Don’t.”

Her hands ball into fists at your chest, still pressing against you like she wants to tear you open and crawl inside just to make sure you're whole.

“I was worried sick,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Every step of that walk back, I kept seeing your body... under rubble. In flames. Shot through the head.”

Her forehead leans into yours. “You don’t get to do that to me.”

You start to apologize, but her mouth’s already on yours, hard, fierce, ****. A kiss that tastes like blood, smoke, and salt. Her hands grip your face, as if anchoring herself to the fact that you’re really here.

You kiss her back, pain and all.

Thump-thump.

The sound breaks through the moment like a blade.

Whump-whump-whump.

A low, chopping rhythm above. Distant, but getting closer. Fast.

You both freeze.

Your eyes lift to the horizon, black dot growing fast. Rotor blades.

Farah turns her head slowly, lips still parted, hand on your chest now curled into the bandage like she might rip it off and shove a rifle in your hand.

“Russian,” she says flatly.

The rotors wind down, the air thick with sand and tension. Every Lion with a rifle has their finger hovering near the trigger.

The chopper squats low like a vulture, and the side door kicks open.

First out. Guards.

Black armoured figures, pristine and gleaming, their movements so precise it’s unsettling. Helmets like mirrored skulls. Full body armour. No flags. No names.

They spread out like they’ve done this a thousand times before. Surround the bird. Take position. Watch everything.

Blonde hair in a tight braid. Long, matte coat. Tailored. Ice behind expensive sunglasses. A flawless face, eerily beautiful, sculpted, but nothing warm lives in it. You don’t need an introduction as she steps out of the helicopter.

She removes her sunglasses with casual precision. “I am General Irina Kuznetsova,” she says, voice smooth, Russian accent thick. “And I believe it is time we talked.”