The office was a cramped box, smelling of dampness and cheap tobacco. A table, two chairs, a single bare bulb under the ceiling casting harsh shadows. The officer gestured for Viktor to take a chair, but he remained standing, holding the revolver at his side, unholstered. The distance between them was measured. Not hostile, but not friendly either.

  "First, a name," the officer said. His voice was steady, like a man used to giving orders. "Mine is Major Clifford O'Malley. Call me Cliff. Yours?"

  "Viktor."

  "Just Viktor?"

  "Viktor Kenzaki."

  Cliff nodded as if entering data into an invisible file.

  "Alright, Viktor Kenzaki. Now explain what you are. And what the hell you're doing on my base at three in the morning dressed like a Nazi nightmare?"

  Viktor was silent, gathering his thoughts. Explain? How to explain madness?

  "They... took my girlfriend. To the Institute," he nodded toward the hangar. "Your board. I needed the coordinates."

  "'They'—who?"

  "A man named Ishikawa."

  At that name, Cliff tensed. He walked to a metal cabinet, took out a folder, and tossed it onto the table. Inside were the same satellite photos.

  "We know about this place," Cliff said. "It's not just a camp. It's a human processing factory. People don't come back from there. You think we wouldn't want to level it? But my hands are tied. Seventy kilometers deep into enemy territory. Command won't authorize an assault. We'll be accused of violating the mandate." He chuckled without humor. "Every day I sign reports on 'unidentified bodies.' And every day Command replies: 'Continue observation.' I've had enough."

  He focused his gaze on Viktor, and there was no sympathy in his eyes. There was cold calculation.

  "I can't send my people there. But you... you don't follow orders. Theoretically, you are an unofficial solution to my problem. But I need to know what I'm dealing with. What is this armor? And where did you get..." he nodded at the StG-44 on Viktor's back, "...a museum piece?"

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  "My grandfather."

  "And who is your grandfather? A Wehrmacht gunsmith?"

  "A biochemist. He worked for them. For the 'Axis of Innovation'."

  Cliff froze.

  "I see. So, it's one of those projects. And inside you... what is inside you?"

  Viktor looked at his steel hands.

  "The serum. The legacy. When I get angry... or when I'm in pain... I lose control. The armor..." he tapped a finger on the breastplate. "It's a cage. It keeps me from tearing myself apart."

  Cliff remained silent for a long time, studying him. He didn't see a boy. He saw a weapon. Unstable, dangerous, but a weapon.

  "Let's say I believe you," he said finally. "Let's say I even want to help you. But if you go in there alone, you'll be killed. And I will be indirectly guilty of a child's death. I'm not ready to take that sin on myself."

  "I'm going anyway," Viktor’s voice was firm. "With your help or without it. With you, I have a chance. Without you—I'll just die, taking a few bastards with me. The choice is yours, Major."

  There was no plea in his red eyes. There was an icy, absolute resolve. Cliff saw in them a reflection of his own burned-out rage.

  "You're crazy," he exhaled. But something resembling respect appeared in his eyes. "Fine. To hell with it. If you're going to commit suicide, you might as well do it right."

  He opened another desk drawer.

  "But first, let's get rid of this junk."

  He pointed to the StG-44.

  "Recently, a couple of idiots tried to break through our checkpoint. They had something interesting. Off-the-books weapons. Consider it a trophy."

  He stood up, walked to the gun locker, and took out an assault rifle with a distinctive wooden handguard.

  "AKM. 7.62 caliber. You can drown it in mud, and it will still shoot. And we've got more ammo for it than sand. Take it."

  Then he took out a pistol with a massive suppressor.

  "PB. Reliable as a brick. Perfect for taking out sentries."

  Finally, he pulled out an old night vision device.

  "There's no mount on your helmet. You'll have to choose: protection or eyes. That's the whole war, son. An eternal choice between bad options."

  He looked over Viktor's figure again.

  "Your armor... it squeaks. Can hear it a mile away. Go to the second hangar. Find an old man named Hans. Tell him I sent you. He'll grease your joints."

  For the next half hour, Hans, a stocky German with hands covered in oil, worked silently, grumbling something under his breath about "Mutter Gottes" and the "crazy major." When he finished, the servomotors operated almost silently.

  Viktor returned to the office. On the table lay a packet with maps and a radio.

  "Tuned to my frequency," Cliff said. "Don't broadcast unless necessary. But if the world starts falling apart... let me know."

  As Viktor was attaching the radio, his gaze caught a medallion on the major's neck. A silver eye. With six dots where the lashes should be. Viktor pointed at it.

  "What is that?"

  Cliff's face instantly hardened. He covered the medallion with his hand.

  "Personal. Doesn't matter."

  Viktor took the packet.

  "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me. Just get your girl back. And try to come back yourself."

  Viktor nodded, sealed his helmet, turned, and walked out, his figure dissolving into the twilight. Cliff was left alone. His hand clutched the medallion under his shirt. He had made his choice. And now he could only pray it was the right one.