The General

Your boots hit the ground like war drums, each step shaking loose the adrenaline that still thrums in your veins from the tank kill. Past the collapsed buildings, the scattered bodies, the holy ruin of the mosque. The square fades behind you. The screams and cheers and chaos smear into background static.

All you can see is him. The Russian General.

Your mom cuts ahead of you, flanking left, moving like liquid through alleyways and collapsed fences. She’s silent, all shadow and fury, her pistol already drawn. You nearly lose sight of her—

And then she disappears.

You keep moving, breath burning in your lungs, vision locked on the General as he stumbles through a broken courtyard on the edge of the village.

You’re almost there.

Ten meters.

Seven.

And then—wham.

Out of nowhere, a blur of olive skin crashes into the General from the side. Your mom tackles him like a panther, slamming him to the ground in a spray of dust and gravel. He lets out a pathetic grunt, the air ripped from his lungs as they both roll violently, your mother ending up on top, a knee crushing into his ribs, pistol pressed under his chin.

You slide to a halt just feet away, chest heaving, eyes wide.

The General coughs, his lip bleeding, breath ragged. His eyes dart between the two of you—fear now fully replacing pride.

Your mom looks up at you. She smiles. A dark, satisfied smile. Pressing the muzzle just a little harder under the old bastard’s jaw.

You stand on the still-burning shell of the tank you took down with your own bloodied hands. The metal groans under your boots, flames licking at the undercarriage. The smoke stings your eyes, but you don’t blink.

In one hand, you hold the collar of the disgraced Russian general—his uniform torn, face bloodied, pride shattered like the windows of the bombed-out mosque behind you. He kneels at your feet, coughing, gasping.

You raise your free hand high in the air.

The square is full now. Villagers with rifles too big for their arms. Lions limping, blood-soaked, missing pieces. And yet, standing.

You speak, voice raw, hoarse from smoke and shouting, but loud enough to carry across the square.

“This man thought he could own you.”

You yank the General’s collar, and he stumbles forward on his knees. A few of the villagers raise their weapons instinctively. You don’t stop them. You don’t calm them. You let them feel it.

“This village,” you shout, “is ours now. No flag but Zahiriya’s. No command but ours. No gods but the ones we choose.”

Cheers erupt—not clean, not uniform. A messy, primal release.

You let the General slump forward, defeated. Someone throws a torn Zahiri flag onto the tank. You catch it and raise it above your head before planting it into a crack in the tank’s chassis, letting it flutter in the heat and smoke.

The cheering fades as quickly as it rose.

Reality settles in. You see it in their eyes. The clean-up. The bodies. The wounded. The children still clinging to the dead. Victory doesn’t taste like triumph.

Someone behind you coughs. Someone else sobs.

Your men begin the work—not because you tell them, but because there’s no one else to do it.

Rifles are lowered.

Blood is washed from stone.

You jump down from the tank, boots hitting ground soaked in smoke and memory. Your mom finds you in the crowd—blood smeared across her cheek, her eyes full of fire still simmering under a calm surface.

You nod once.

She nods back.

The village is quiet now—quiet in that eerie, post-slaughter way.

You and your mother drag the General between you down a narrow alleyway, past a crumbling bakery and a house that still smells faintly of smoke and dried herbs. It's far enough from the centre of town that no one will hear what happens next.

You kick open the door to a small, single-room house. There's an old rug, a cracked lantern, and nothing else but peeling walls and a dusty window that barely lets the moonlight in.

Perfect.

The General groans as you shove him into a rickety chair and tie his wrists behind the backrest with a fraying electrical cord. You knot it hard, tight, until he winces. Your mom doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. She’s already checking the corners of the room, the doors, her pistol.

You lean down until you’re face to face with him—his lips swollen, one eye purpling, breath coming ragged. You can smell the vodka sweat coming off his pores. Whatever arrogance he had when he walked into this country with a flag and a firing squad, it’s leaking out of him now.

“Name,” you say.

He grits his teeth. “General Yuri Tsvetkov. Serial number—”

Your mother punches him. Not a warning. Not a slap. A straight shot across the jaw that sends his head reeling back against the wall.

“Try again,” she says flatly.

Blood drips from his lip.

You squat in front of him, eye-level again. “We don’t want numbers, General. We want answers. You’re not a prisoner of war.”

He breathes out a slow, ugly laugh. “So... what? You’ll beat it out of me? ****? The rebels before you tried. You’re no different.”

You smile thinly. “No, we’re worse.”

Your mom kneels beside him now, one gloved hand resting gently—almost affectionately—on his shoulder. “You’ll answer him. Because I know your type. You don’t believe in anything. You believe in systems. Orders. Protocol. You’re a bureaucrat in a uniform.”

She leans closer, voice a whisper. “And bureaucrats beg when the rules stop applying.”

“Why this village?” you ask. “Why here? It has no value. No strategic location. No armaments. Just families.”

He hesitates. Just long enough for your mom to reach behind her and draw her combat knife—not to use, but just to hold. Let him see it.

“There’s a network,” he finally says, words tumbling out in a cracked breath. “Old UN relay... beneath the mosque. Tapped into regional comms."

Your mother and you exchange a look. That explains the NGO solar grid.

“And now?” you ask. “What were your orders?”

“Hold the town. Monitor signals. Wait for reinforcements,” he mutters, swallowing. “Reinforcements were delayed.”

“Delayed?” Your mom echoes, voice low. “So they're on the way?”

His silence gives you your answer.

You stand slowly.

“Well,” you murmur. “Then we’ve got more company coming.”

Your mom grins coldly. “You’ll be staying with us for a while, General.”

“Hope you like Zahiri hospitality.”