Hunted And Watched

They are hunting him. 

But only him. 

There is some comfort there. 

His ankle is sprained.

He can't move fast. 

But he doesn't need to. 

They sent a whole fucking platoon. He can't use his rifle. Either hold the child or use the rifle.

"Slow is smooth and smooth is fast." 

The Americans told him that. 

Many times. Stop saying that! FUCK!

Now? 

Hold the child. 

Slow is smooth. 

    Smooth

            is

                 Fast

His sidearm would give them away, too. If it even worked; he hadn't trained with it at all.

He trained with another one but not this one so who the hell knows?  

Mostly it gives him comfort now. He took exquisite care of it, the old thing he learned on the training range. 

Lean 

    Mean 

        Clean

 But not his one. It's rather a virgin. 

    To him, 

        Per se. 

It was Czechoslovakian and it chambered a 7.62×25mm Tokarev round.

A mean little bullet, to be sure. 

But also loud. 

Now was not the time to field test an untested weapon.

This is not a patrol like he'd evaded in the first years of the war.

Years Ago. 

God, ten years ago, wasn't it? 

No. 

He's not that old. 

Is he? 

They were hunting him. 

No.

Hunting the baby he held. 

That thought alone warmed his blood with anger. 

Just a baby! 

Why hunt a baby?! 

It was the quietest baby he'd ever met, let alone held. They don't cry. They don't screech. They hold as still as they can in the cold. 

And they shiver.

He opens his jacket and his shirt. It's not enough

He has a knife. A sharp quiet thing. He opens his shirt with it to keep the baby warm.  

He rolls his feet, heel to toe, slow, as their lights create long shadows, begging him to escape. 

Pleading. 

Please let us let you go. 

They know.

        Somewhere in themselves.

                    They know. 

 

Я̸̧̢̧̦̗̱̣̦̫͉̟͈͉̥̙̺̬̙͍̞͓͇̙͎͊̊̈̒̅͘͝ ̶̝̻̥̪̱̯̠̊̈́͛̅̒̀͆̓̈́̃͂̾͑̀̔͑͗͗̋͐̓͗̿͝͠͠в̸̢͓̟͕͙̘͇̙͚̩̲̓̽͆̍̈́͑͊̽̉̈́̔̽̇̍̅̓̋̐͋͊͌ͅͅӑ̷̛̻̗̺̱̬͎͔̟̖͉̟̖̜̪̞̜̞͓̣̗̙̹͇̼̥̱̦̬̞͔̜̝͚̬̙̼̲̯͇̆̇̽̿̄̀̀̃́̏̀̊̽̃͑̉̄̀̆̐͊́͋̐́̍͒͗̂̐̔͗̚͘̕͜͝м̴̨̢̡̡̛̞̩̪̺̘̩̺̼͇̪̫̯̖̩͖̺̞͚̰̪͖̟͓̖͙͓̖͓̯̪̥̰͐̎̉ͅ ̴̟̪̺̠͍̼̹̟̗̜̠̣̬̞̞̼͖͔̤͈̲̌̓̎̑̈́̋͜͠д̸̜͕̗̪͉͗̐͐͂̈́̈̒̉̀͆͛̀̇̾̓̋̂̈́̀̃̏̀̿͒̅̅͒̈́͌̚͝о̶̢̡̧̨̛̛͍̭̤͉̣̱́̀̇̐̍̓̈́̽͛̉̈́́̈́͊̿͊̄̍̓̒̋̓̃̂̆͐̄̓̒̈́͋̽͆̓͘̚͘̚͠͝п̷̨̡̨̥͓̜̰̗̞̖̲̣̤͔̱̯͍̭͓͈͉͌͑́̎̎̓̍̎̋̎͐̒̿̈́̈̓͗̃̔̈͊̓̂̽̀̌͐̋̐͆̃͗̀̀͌̒̃͆͘̕̚̚̕͝о̶̧̨̨̨̧̛̬̥͕̻̰̮̩̜̞̪̪͖͉̖͔̝͙̟̳̘̥̤̦̗̄̏̈̀̽̃̈́͐̔̐͛̌͜͝͠ͅм̵̰̼̟̞͙̖̺͍͋̂́́̐̈̓̓̀̒͊̈́̕о̴̢̢̨̨̘͉̖̪̮̲͔̻͔̗̫̯͎̜̲̺̱̙̰̪̺̻̗̬͌̀̌̑̀̀͘ӝ̷̧̨̢̧̨̡͇̬̝͔͈̼̼̖̪̤͓̦̼̞̝̹̝͕̰́̉̄̂͛͗͗̄̓̄͂̍́̎̿͗̿̋͑̓͗̈̓͒́͛́̾͛̐̄͗͐̐̈́͆̎̓̄͐̈̕͘͝у̶̢̡̛̛̛̜̱̣̜̦̱̥̹̫͎̗̫͍̣̻̼͖̖̙̗̰̭̟̥̖͔͉͍́̅̀̐̓͗̈́̓͒͒̍̈́̎͛̎͛̄͆́̍̿̓̒͘͜͝ͅ

The hell was that?! 

Don't speak. 

Don't breathe. 

He holds the child close. 

Why are they hunting me? 

Т̸̢̧̨̨̛̜̟̟̝̻̰̱̻̯̭̦̝̗͈̤̲̠̟͖̭̣̜̤̗̘̲͔̗̞͙̜͓̮͙̐̅͒͐̅̔͆̚͠в̴̰̜̤̘̺̩͔̹̜͚̣̠͓̼̱̓̉͐̀̎͊̑̇͗̇̇͜і̵̧̨̧͎̠͍͖̱̲̯͇̝̔͌̏̅̾̾̚й̸̘͚͉̗͍̪͉̗͕̳̼͍̪̥̱͔̤̀̕ ̷̨̢̨̨̨̨̗̪̜̯̼̦͍̯͙̯͇̳͙̥̠̠̞̪̹̤̟̰͉̥̖̹̫͖͕̬̗̟͚̤͕͌͒͛̏̚͜͜г̴̢̪͙̰̀̄̀͊̀̂͑͂̎͒̃̃̕͠͝͝н̸̧̡̢̣̞͚͙̱͔̭̘̣̳̜̩͈̳̘̝̬͂̑͛́̒͆̐͂͜͠͝і̵̧̢̨̢̡̨̨͇̻̺̜̻̹̳̝̹̞͓͈̭͕͍̭̱̣͖͇͈̾̑̊̂̈́͋̀͆̃̓̓͘͝ͅв̶̡͕̘͇̥̰̜̭̻͕̺̥͇̰͙̼̞̰͓̼͊̒͌̑̏̌̅̿͐͒͊͗̃̀͑͒̓́̾͑̅͒̚͜͝ ̶͈͎̟̲̅̿̍͑̐̅͂͊͗̽͛̋̓̓͌̄̀̓͂̌̋͐́̒̂̅͌̕–̶̨̢̧̨̧͍͔̱̱̫̬̣͍̦̬͚͉͙̺̻̳͖̥̩̘̮̜̪̜̺͎̟͓̽̀͒͋̏̌͒̏̈́̿̉͐̀̌̈́͐̽̋͗͑͊͑́͗̄̍̃͆̀̒̾͗͗̽͑̔̉̕͘͘͜͜͠ͅ ̸̡̞̩̯̙͉̻͈̼̦͉̭̼̺̺̱͎̭͂̏̈́̄́̊̓͘͜͜͝м̶̨̢̡̛̻͔̳͚̩̮͓͈̖͂͊͐̀́̉͐͆̈́̌̈́̊̿͒̎̎̎̽̍̂͆̍̓̌̂͒͊̎́̈̽͘̚̚̕͝͝͠о̷̢̡̧̻̝͚͓̺̗̥̺͍̪̺̯̪̦͍̣͔̲̮̻̘̥̩͕̰͔͔͍̎́̋͑͑̋́͂͆̂̿̆͛̉̂̊̈́я̷̛̛̯̑̓͂̃͒͐̉̓̇̂̌̋̈̇̊͊̓̈́́̈́͑̀̏́̚͘͝͠ ̵̧̨̛͓͈͉͓̘̙̩̦̟͍̺͔̭͑͋̌̐̀̿̃̓͌̆ͅм̴͓̳̹̳͙͗͑̊̀̑́̇̐̐͒̀́̌́̊̾̈͋̉̏̚͘о̴̧̛̰̞̯̼͇̦̫͚̩̟̺͔̳͎̟̘͉̮̰̖͕͔̮̭̻͉͕̥̼̼͕͈͉͔̀́̏̀͒̍̉̆̉̄̿͗́͊̐͊̽̏͘͜͜͝͝͠ͅл̵̡̡̧̨̡͈̘͓̯̤̰̯̰̱͇̦̜̲͓̗̖͚͇̙̬̼̞̥͙̠̰͙̮̯̑̄̐̍̏̌̏̀̀͌̏̿̃̄͗̂͐̅̓̅̓͛̐̿͒͑̋̂̒͌̔̃̈́͒̔͛͂͘͘͝͝͝͠ѝ̷̢̨̧̧̖͇͖͚͍̰͓̲̝̣̞͚̤̼͔͔̣̼̉̍̆̋̓̿͂͗́͊͌̉́̉̏̂͑̈́̏̑̏́̆̈́́̈́̔́̆̀̈́̌̂̂̕̚̕͘̕͠т̸̡͍͓̹̳̝͕̩͙͔͙̜͇͈͖͉̼͊̍̒͂̎̓͐̇̿̽̉̀̈́̌̓͒̓̆̀̕̚̚̕͝ͅв̴̡̨̡̝̝͇̻͍̪͖̦͈̺̘̭͕̩̲̞͙̈́̓͘а̸̨̢̥̩͉̳̞̯̫̳̖̱͖͔̹̞̻̭̝͔̫̖̻̤͖̱̲̘͚̺͖̭͖͖̩̤͍͗̃͌̔͊͑̌̉̔̃͒̍̉̃̾͒̈́͐̔͑͂̃̏͌͘͜͝ͅ

̵̡̨̢̨̫̖̬̱̯̺̮̹̹̫̪̣͕͔̻̞͕̯̩͆͑̏̈̇͛

̸̦̣͚̠̹̟͈͙̖͙̞̩̬͖͚̟̈́̈́͝

She strokes his bones. 

Carasese them. 

Warms his body from his spine first and makes his hands work in the dark and the cold. 

He feels no pain now. 

She says something true that he knew to be true. 

In an ancient way. 

Maybe he won't survive now.

But. 

        They. 

                Will. 

                        Pay. 

It is an evil thing. 

To kill. 

But sometimes.

It is necessary. 

He puts the baby down in the safest shadow. 

She will be safe.

The woman who speaks through vibrating teeth and rattling branches will watch over the baby.









В̶̢̧̡͙̯̤̼̟̦̠͓̰̩͔͇̠̖̟̤̦̠̭̯̦̻͇͓̼͉̓͂̊̓͌́͛̽̈̅̉̈͑͋̈́̀̂̈́̈́͘̕͜͠ͅͅо̶̨̧̡̞͎͇̖̖̮̠̙̘̝̺̭͇͕̜̤̫̻͖̙̞͈̹̪̘̖̩̪͚̼̳̱͙̋̆̒̍̇̑̇͊̐͆̈́̎̏̎̀̓͌͜ͅн̸̢̢̛̗̺̘̰̟̭̭̟̳̖͔̳̰͈̣͓̝̼̩̣͚̰̜̦̺͊͋͋̂͗́͐̅̐͂̂̽͆̐͋͗͑̆́͐͒̈́̍͗̈́̅̿̚̕̚̕͘̕͜а̸̛̛̩̔̒̔͂̏́̎̓͛̀͒̈́̈̀̃̽̍̿̀̋̌̾̂͘͠ ̴̛̛͓̽͗͗̒͒̀̑̆̀̆̋̾̓̃͛̎͋̈́̊͆̒̂̇̈́͗͑͒͛͛͐͆̈́̊̏̕̕̕͝͝͠͝Б̵̧̨̛̟̭̣̯̦͔͎̠͙̻̞̲̲̖͈̝̗͔͈̻̫̬̯͍̝̥̖̦͖́̈́̌̅̓̈́̽͂̆̓̓̓́̂̽͗͐̈́͑̆͛͑͊͌̃͘͜͝͝ͅͅӮ̸̨̧̨̨̥̩̺̘̰̹̦͚̜̙̱̜͍̯̮̮̠͔̝̝̄͜͜Д̴̡̨̢̢̛̛͉̘̪̗̰̖̞̹͈̮̪̱̣̞͓͇̪̬̳̙̖͖̪͖̣̼̭̖̱͚͎̰͉̥͙͇̠̹̌̏̔̏͗̐͋͒̈̽̑͐̒͊̃̆̆̄̂͘͝͠ͅЕ̴̧̢̨̭͎͎̥̩̗͕̻̟̟̙̞̯͎̲̮̝̳̣̺̰̗̹͎̭͉̥͚͙̲͕͍̦̝̂̌͋͑ͅͅ ̸̨̰̺̲͍͖̰̙͈̍В̶̡͙̜̜̣̳̞͕͎̙̺̤̙̗̲̥̝̝͕͉͉̙͙̝̙̩̒̅ ̷̛̞͍̃̓̀̋̽͋̾̄͑̎͛͆̌̈́͆́̈́̃̓̉̉̓̓̌́͑́̈́̓͑̌͘͝Б̸̛̤̗̱̟̲͈̗̗̠͉̣̣̲͋̌͋̊̀̀̋͊̎͒̽̿͋̄̎̈͋̓̄͝ͅЕ̶̛̭͌̈̀́͒̂̊̇͌̀͗̅͗̿͗̅̉̎͑͗̋̇͗̇́̓́͆́͘̚̕̚̕̚̕͝͠͠З̸̡̨̛̤̩̫̫̻̪͙̮̝̬̜͔͍̠̦͇̦͕͛̾̃̈́͆̌̌͛́̈́͐̐̎͌̔̈͆̄̉͛͗̅̈́̆̈́͜͜͜͝ͅП̶̢̪̣̮͈̣̱̽̊̒̍̉̀̈̉̍͒̄̐͛̉̿͝͠Ё̵̛̹͉́͐̿̒̈́̑̈́̈͌̈́̊̑̄̂̓̆̍͌͘̕Ц̷̨̢̟̪̩̪̘͇̞͎͔͇̱̝̻̦̺̲̖̣͉̯̟̹̃͐̐̋͗̓̉͆̅̐́́͛̅̀̊̆̑̓͆̑̈́̔̑̑̔͒̑̿̎̓̔͛͊̍̍͘̕̚͠͝͝͝ͅͅІ̵̨̫͎̪͈̣͔̜̦̲̯̮̬̬̥̳̜̔͒̇͗̈́͐̂̑̂͊̓̄̑̏̄̽̌͠

He is something new now. 

Something worse than a weapon. 

A concept. 

And they will pay. 

In the dark. 

He is healed of his superficial wounds. The ache is gone. His body is fine like he was eighteen again. 

No more pain. 

Not for him. 

How old was he before? Sixty? Seventy? 

He was old befor. 

And now something old made him new. 

She is of vengeance. 

She has friends. 

Across pantheons. 

She asks her dear friend. To give him some of her power. 

Ayelala, who knows much warmer places, to her dear friend from the colder places and adds her breath. 

His body steams now. 

In the dark the platoon sees something. 

Something. 

Like nature; like precipitation. 

Ayelala blesses him with vision as does her sister. 

Revenge. 

For Justice. 

For all your wrongs.

He. 

    Becomes. 

                It. 

It remembers being a "he" and then remembers how much it hated being "he" because "he" was hunted
by these men. 

It is fresh, new and strong. 

So it kicks low and hard breaking an ankle, and covers the soldier's mouth and takes him into the shadows. It says

Т̵͔̯̤͊е̵̊͜б̴̡̻͚̜̅̇͌̚е̵̮͔̟̯͗͂̈́́ ̶̪͓̄п̴̱̗̀̀̓̇о̸̞͊̊͋щ̷̳́а̵̢̺̂͐͝д̶̤͈̩̲̊̐́͝я̶̛̠̑̓̃т̴̧̫̬̞̿̓͐͂ь̵̹̇̔̀̆,̸̧͇̬̒̄̈́ ̶̖̫̠̔̓я̴̦̳̣͂͐̌͝к̵̡̭̲̅̋͋щ̸͈͕̲͊̿͋́о̵̟͊̉̄̓ ̴̟̮͈̩̀̓̇т̶͉̀͆̽̓и̶̜̩̌̀ ̵̧̕б̸͕͑͒͐у̴̯̝̰͒͝͠д̵̜͂̈͆е̶͎̔ш̷͔͇̍̿̓̚ ̸̖͂͒͋м̷͙̮͆͌̐͠о̶̫͕̑̅̐ͅв̵̞͙̼̀ч̵̞̺̾̂͜а̴͉͍̉̊̂т̵͍͊͛̈́̿и̸̡̠͗̉̇͘͜ 

And he nods. He knows that voice. And they made a mistake. Following him. Now it. 

Н̸̥̠͚̟̱͉̭̻͎̻̒̎̈́͑̇͜е̵̨̖̘̩̖̩̘̘̳̥̯͇̜͐͒́̽ͅ ̵̡̨̯̞̳̲̣̖̯̯͉̎з̵̜͐͛̌̓͗̀а̸̡̳̞̱̟̠̼͇̰̩̻̐͛̍̊̀͆̅̀̈́̓̎̚̕͠ͅп̶̡̛͙̩̳̲̳̫͕̼̄̈́̉̓͆͌̋͛̃̃͘ͅл̸̻͇̹̰̣̹̝̘̙̞̠̈̉͊͂̀̃̽̚̚͜͜ю̸̪̝̹͙̠͖̄̀̄̓̇̋͗͋̈́͜ͅщ̷̧̛̛̛̤̺͓̜̠̮̝̰́̏́̓͒̑͜͠у̷̡̛̹̺̳̃̇̾й̶̡̼̦̳̬̭͇͙̞̣̦̭̬̊̃̏̽͋̏͒͑̽͂̍͆͐͆̽̒͝ͅт̶̢͓͔̥͙̗͓̻̫̿̿̀͝ё̶̛̮̱̞͖͙͂͛̀̇͂̏̃ ̴̧̧̇͂̄̓̏̒̐̔͜͝о̷͕̲̱͙͔͚̑͊͐͐̍̀̑̄̏͐̔̔͠ч̷̥̝̱͕̑̓̋̂і̷̼͈̱̤̳̲͇͑̾̉̉̿̏̈́̂̉̓͆́͘,̴̨͓̱̟̩̣̪̮̭̯̉̓̊͊͂͜͝ ̶͓͇̥̦̏̑͑͑͂͒̆͝б̶͚̬̈̎̍̊̕̚о̴̨̹͓̺̪̰̙̠̭͇̰̻̣̥̖͇̆̍͋̅̽̾̈́̒ ̶̡̢̞̐̊̂̂̉̄̒͝͝ͅв̶̢͎̝͉̼͐̽̽́͛о̸̪̋͛́̈́̇̄̈́̅̅͊ͅн̷̬͓̦̖̂̄̐͒̅̑̓̂̅̄̒͂̚̕͠а̶͖́̾ ̵̦̮͈͉̼͕͇͉̍͒̑̃̉̌͜ͅп̸̨̙̳̝̝̩͕̩̼̦͑͑́̃͊̆̓̄͌̚ͅо̴̨͔̲̟̼̩̤͍̲̹̓̀͂͐̂͋́̕ш̵̢̡̧͔̩̺̣͙̯̤̼̅͜ͅͅͅл̷̨͎͙̥͚̱̝̤̼̘͍͗͐͗̈́͊̿̏̉̒̆̓͗̓̕͝е̸̤̬͕͖͊͑͐̄̇̐̀̂ ̴̡̢̯͚͎͚͔̳͖̗̖͚͕̱̏̽͒̃̓̉̄̄͑͊̕̕͝͠в̸̖͚͉͚̥̮̰̝̬̺̈́̈́̈͑͒̕а̴͔̝̙̐с̸̧̙͎̀̄́͛̒̒̇͂̈͂̓́̈́͘͠͝ͅ ̶̨̢̜͔̤̠̻̲̰̯̻͕͐̎͌̈́͌у̸̨̡̨̨͚͚̣̬̟̪̫̪͉͚̦͂͒̃̄̍̌̉̍̓̔̚̚͘͝͝ ̵̧̩͉̫̣̝̩̗̭̞̏̓͛͛͒̌̊͒̍̇̾͊̈́̕͠п̶̙̘̹̍̄͒͛̐̈̅̂͐́̾̉̏̈́̕е̶̜̥̰̠̥͓̄̈́̉̓̈̋̿̀̎́͒̈̇̚͝ͅк̸̡̠̣̫̳̹̹̩͈͍̰̩͖̰̣̙̾͌͐̇̅̌̎́̉̆̉͑̓̒͘͜͝л̷̧̹̗̗͉͔̝̮̤̺̺͈͓͕̂̿̌͑͐̇͘͜о̶̢̡̡͈̫̖̲̞̫̣̥̩̣͇̪̪̞̉̃́́,̴̨̧͉̫̞̙̠͍͔͖̙͈̳͖̅̽̄̌͒̿̓̿͐͌̏̒̎̍͝͝͠ ̶̢̳͖̘͉̳̥̱̲͎̘͉̮̙̈̊͊͑̉̒͒̀̅̈́̆̇̉ͅя̷̡̢̫̦͇̥̥̲̊̐̋̓̑̑͜к̴̧͍͚͇̺̭̎̔̇̏̅о̸̺͓̯͔̅̋̈́̓͠г̸̡̧̛͎̳̝̤̬̼̙͚͔͕̔͐̉͋̓̚͜͝о̶̨̱̺̭̝̺̯͈̪̞͍̀͊̃ ̸̺̟͈͖̐̈́̑̈́́͛м̷̨̦̳̲̙̞̖̱̳͙̥̊͐̽͌̓͋̌͘̕͜͝͝͝ͅи̶̡̧̟͍͓̱̻̱̻̝̠̣͓̜̾̐͆͒͊̏́̓̕̚͘ͅ ̶̢̱̺̾͜͜й̷̬̣̼̾́͑̀̃̃͘ ̴̧̢̩̟͙̯͓̞̯̩̳̞͉̈̎̑͌̈́̈́̂͘͝ͅн̵͍̻̖̱̠̭̀͋͂́ӗ̷̧̨̱͓͎̪̝̘̀͊̉̇̽͜ ̵̝̬̤̫̩͚̹͗̉̽͐̍͑̏́̈́̀̚ͅӯ̵̬̻͒̍͗̐̃̋̅͠ͅя̷̧̧͓̼͓̹̤̭̖̥͖̩̈́̈́̑̒̍͗̋̄̈́̌̏̓͠в̴̫̩̱̟̙̦̮̹̖̥͒̌̉̅̓͛̉̏̃̒̓̆̕͝ͅл̶̛̰͉͎̜͑̓̓͛̋̌̍̋͆͌я̷̛͈̣̝̖̭̯̰̯̘̯̂̎̆͒̂͋̒̀͒̓̐̐͛͠л̴̱̟͕͍͙̣̟̝̜͓̜̋͘и̶̧̝͔̥̜̣̘̝̉͛̑̒͛͝ͅͅ.̸̼̀́́͐͗̌̉̃̏́̓͋̑̕̚



Whatever it is now, it is annoyed. 

T̷e̸l̵l̷ ̵m̶e̴ ̴y̶o̴u̴ ̵u̴n̸d̵e̴r̵s̶t̷a̶n̵d̸.̵ ̵

He's taken aback. 

U̴̥̦̞̤͗̉̓̓͠ ̵̢͇͎͈̞̜́̇̏͊̆̋̿̈́̅̉͐͌̀̎͘N̷̛̦̱̓̓̈̾́̇͋̇̓̏̓̚ ̵̧̛̥̫̟̖̥͎̍̊͆͊̉̆͋̆̇Ḑ̸̭̫͚̹̪͉͎͉͕͙̈́͂͌̈́̏̆͛̀̄̓́͒̄̉͘ ̷͓̦̖͔͍̪͎͇̲̩͔̙̩̯͛̑͐͋̒̎͗Ë̵́̇͘ͅ ̴̢̨̢̧̯͕͓͇̹͖͇̓̕͜R̶̨̳̹̬̝̬̟̩̔͂̀̊̓̆͊̎̽͗̈́̾̚ͅ ̸̢̼̣̳̮͉̦̪͖͔͖͚͓͚̬͒̈́̈́̃͐̎̊̍͊͌̂̎̓̃͌͜͝Ś̴̡̡̧̼̦͉̳̪̪̥̈̑͜͜ ̶̪̗̮̫̺̊̐͐͝͠Ţ̷̛͍̼̦̗̩̪̖͕͋͋̀̏ ̸̧̡̬͉̠͎̮̏̾̉̿͘̕Ä̴̛̛̛̗̯̻͚̋̑́́̊̋̋͆̕̚ ̸̨̧̙̭̘͇̺̯̦̮̠͙̰̭͈͇̠̎̊̊̅͝͠ ̴̢̡̭̣͉̙̲̤̭̘̯̪̙̾̀͆N̶̢̢̬͚̞͎͖̯̖̘̦̞̟̝̭͑̎͂͜ ̶̧̼̲̣̞͓͚̹̙̟͙̍̊͐̌D̶̡̨̛̛̥͉̯̞̩̰͙̟̼̪̜̪͚̋͑́̓͆́̓̈̔̊͆͘̕̚͠ ̵̛̭̙̊̍̀͑̇͑̐̄̐̽̓̐̍̚̕͝
 



He nods. He's just enlisted. He's not a hero. 

Whatever it is, it it takes the rifle away and uses it like a demon. 

It moves in the shadows. 

Two goddesses clasped hands over him.  

And it is working hard to show mercy. The platoon is angry and scared. 

Four of them shoot twelve of them. 

It smiles. 

A smile that eats all light. 

The lights on their weapons stop working. 

It smiles again. 

It will be quick. 

It is justice, not torture. 

A few of them die crying but not for very long. 

It knows mercy. 

Б̴͔͖͉̥͇͇̭̣̄̊̆͌̋̍̄̃̌̅̀̃̑͗̓͛̐̏́̑͠͝а̸̨̡̢̼̪̯͔̩̩̖͖̖̜̠̖̞͇̭͉̮̣̯͗́̒͛͂̑̓̂̅̀͋͝ͅч̶̡̧̡̮̗̭̲̱͎̠̼̩̹͖̹̜̰͈̯̙̙͍͔͈͓͎̣͎͈̔̈̌́͜͠ͅй̵̨͓͉̦̺̼͎̜͔̭͚̫̦̞̼͐̒̎̀͋̏̓̍̈́̄̕ͅш̸̨̡̯̻̟̣͔̠͙̮̭͚̝͈͙͇̫̪̱̦̯̹̥̤̮͕̤̀̄͆́̈́̿͛̈̂̏͛́̓̓̈̍̒̓̉̍̈̋͜͠͝͝ ̷̨̡̠̟̹͓͍͖̟̠̗̣͉̬̘̻̭͇̱̝͉̮̬̞̗̒͂̈́̌̇̎̓͌͋̀̉̆͗̎͗̊̇̄͐͋̄̒͑̄̚͝н̷̞͈͙̽̽ͅа̵̧͙͇̘͉͉̖͇͚̯̼̲̱̟͙̀̑̿̊̆̾͌̏̃̒̊́̚͝ͅш̶̨̢̗̥͙͖̫̝̖͓̗̠̯̼͎̣͈̩̻͓̞̣̩͕̞͈̗̈́̇͗͝ͅо̴̞̝̙̬̪̪̤̜̣͎̤̱̬͎̩͓͋́͒̔г̶̢̢̨̛̪̗͎̱͍͎̖̰̪̲͔̰̘͈͍̭̺̦͛͋̏̓͐̔̉̅͊̅͛̓̾̑̀̍̈̍́̇̀̈́͐͐̽͋͌̓̃́̈́̔̀͛̏̅͂͘̕̕͠͝ӧ̵̢̧̡͙͙͙̦̹̯͇̗͎̦͕̯̹͙͍͖̹͕̼͔̭̜͍͓͔́̀͂̏͗͐̈̈͑͋̓̋̽͜ ̵̛̻͕̼̟̻̥͚̍́͂̏́̂͗̓̄͊̇̆͆̆̄͋̊͋̂̄́͐͑̈́͒̓̔̍̊̆͐͋̌̾̿̚͝ч̴̡̧̡̰̰̞͉̫̥̣̹̞͓̠̹̻͚͙̙͖̜̯̦͖͗̑̃͋̊̿̃́̈̀̓̏́̎͠е̷̢̧͇̺͔̤̱̖̼̜̥̰͕̱̭̤̲̯̜͎̭͉̪̯̣̭̟̺̭͉̞̙̠̹͖͇̬̺͒͊̀̏̃̇̇̆̃̅̌̔̆̚͜͜м̷̡̧̧͈̘̗͎̤͈̫̭̼̩̗̙̗̮̬̮͇̞̜̬̺̣͖̺̺̼̩͕̞͖̏̑̍͌̊̑̐̉̚̚͜͜ͅͅп̷̨̡̨̡̞̠̻̤͍̣̯͚̥̺̩̤̘̺̩͚͖̣̝͖̰̱͍͈͕̰̠̤̰̦̙̱̤́̄͂̊͛̔̽̑́͐̂́́̋̑́̇̈́̄̇̑̈́̍̓̈́̒͊̈́̋̈́̆̚͘͘͜͠͠ͅі̸̡̛̛̛̛͍̳͇̰̻̲̎̐͐̈́̋̇͑̐̾̒̔͌́̔̾̏͑̐́́̍̂̀͘̕͜͝о̴̨̧̢̛̟͈͍̤͉̘͓̺̟̖͍̩͎̑̄̓̎͑͆̄̾̍́́̈̆̄̃̂̈̏̄͛́̂͂̀̎̄̄̄̇̌̂̕̕͜͝͝ͅн̶̡̢̨̛̬̝͎̬̩̪̭̲̭̮̖̬̮͕͎͚̞̯͉̜͆̒̈́̾̈́̆̈́̀͌͐̇̿̀̋̐̇̇̍̃̽̋̽͌͘͜͝ͅа̴̧̢̪̗̗̲̙̺̥̪̇̅̈̐͗̐̿?̶̙̺̠̝͈͕̲̼̳̦̣̤̙̦̣̤̙̞̭̱͇̠̀͐̈́́̋̋͛̄͌̉̂̅́̈́́̉͐̎͘͜͜͠͝͝͝͝

It returns to the baby.

Its body steams even then and it picks the baby up to make them warm. 

And it is he again. 

The child is warm. He is safe. 

"Do you believe in justice?" said a woman. 

A beautiful woman. Powerful, strong, tall, large, with dark skin so perfect, so wonderful, the moon could only sing in its silence about how beautiful she was and sharpen her in its reflections. 

"M na-eme" He said. In language, he didn't know.

"If you will; we need soldiers, warriors, people who can do what needs to be done," She said, in a gentle voice. 

"I used to be... I was a doctor," He said. 

"Then please come with me, we need doctors more," She said. 

"I can't leave this baby," He said. 

"She can come with us," She said. 

And she smiled. A smile that brought all the light. 

"Could you hold her for me, just a moment?" He said. 

"Of course." She reached out for the child. 

He pulled out his sidearm, turned on his heel, put it on his temple, said "lekọta ya" and shot himself. 

She sucked her teeth and kissed the baby. 

"He wasn't ready yet, war does that to men," She cried a few tears. "He'll be back. It is nice though, he protected you, isn't it?" 

The baby gurgled and smiled. 

"We'll ask him to come back someday," She said. "We must first meet your auntie Baba," she laughed with a laugh that raised temperature "She makes wonderful toys, especially for those that would defend one so small and so sweet! We can imagine many things for you, but you must grow and grow up, you see? You are so quiet!" 

And the Goddess thinks about it. 

"Because you were born in a warzone," the Goddess cries. "Quiet helped you survive, you wonderful child, you are so good and so beautiful, what a beautiful child. Would you like me to bring him back?" 

The baby giggled and clapped. 

"Unfortunately you must learn to speak words," the Goddesss said. 

"Bahhhh!" the baby said. 

"Then we will bring him back."