?ovjek Snuje, Bog Odre?uje

[Mouxordia]

All was eerily quiet aboard the ship. Not even the distant hum of machinery was felt through Andrej’s boots, and it was quite unsettling; the breathing of the ship, her bloodflow and signs of life were essentially quieted. Purposefully smothered by her crew in order to avoid detection.

And Andrej hated it.

The man wanted nothing more than to pull into Cerštuva with his guns trained on any available enemy encampment and let loose, so filled with rage was he.

But that wasn’t ‘the plan.’

So his ship was chosen to be stuffed to the brim with soldiers, and tasked with sailing under no power to be as silent as possible in order to successfully deliver said soldiers. For what reason, Andrej didn’t know, nor did he care. All he knew was that his ship and his crew was being put in a very tough spot. It wasn’t that they couldn’t do it, it was that sailing under no power and allowing the ship to drift in with the tide was an extremely dangerous tactic. The Htjeti would be unable to maneuver and unable to turn her screws to move or counterattack should they be discovered. Or worse. They could hit a mine. In which case they would all be hosed.

And so Andrej had been unable to sleep, and now sat in his captain’s chair grinding his teeth and darting his bloodshot eyes all over the horizon. Twilight already made the man uneasy. Being unmaneuverable and immobile at the beck and call of the tide heightened that sensation nearly a hundred fold.

“Captain,” a voice whispered in the darkened bridge.

Andrej nearly jumped out of his seat. The fact that he’d been sitting frozen in the same position for hours on end was his only saving grace. “Yes?” he croaked, his voice crackly and raspy from not being used. A sudden feeling of thirst overcame him as he sat up and back in his chair and cleared his throat.

“I’ve brought you some midrats, sir,” the voice continued.

Reluctantly, Andrej tore his gaze away from the horizon. His eyes strained against the long shadows and darkness inside the bridge. But his brain had caught up with him and his stomach grumbled and his memory recognized the voice all at once. “Thank you, Oli,” he said, his voice still seemingly insanely loud to his own ears.

“No problem, Skipper,” Oli said, and Andrej could hear as the man leaned against an old powered-down console.

“Where do our charts put us?” Andrej asked as he stuffed some of the best-tasting bread he’d ever had in his life into his mouth.

“About 15 nautical miles out,” Oli said lowly, “We should be able to see the lights of Cerštuva soon.”

“Thank the stars,” he muttered under his breath. The journey through Hell was almost halfway over, and Andrej couldn’t wait for it to be done. "Notify me when we've reached our first waypoint. I'll be here." Oli moved for the door before hesitating for a brief moment, stopping on its threshold. Pausing in his chewing of stale bread, he turned his head a fraction toward the opening. "What is it, old friend?"

"Captain... Andrej... you should lay below and catch some rest. At least for a little while," Oli spoke, a tone of concern tinging his words.

Andrej took a moment to swallow his bread, then turned his head back toward the blood-red horizon. "No, Navigator," he spoke, a considerable amount of confidence in his voice despite the clear signs of fatigue, "My place is here. Lay below and keep an eye on our charts."

"Aye aye, Captain," Oli professionally replied. The two of them were friends, but something like that couldn't get in the way of their hierarchy.

Andrej leaned back in his chair, listening to the door being dogged shut, his eyes on the rapidly-darkening horizon.

 

[Mouxordia]

“Captain,” the hoarse voice of Andrej’s friend and ship’s Navigator Oli sounded throughout the creaking bridge.

“Navigator?” Andrej sarcastically replied, his fatigue and 37 hours without sleep starting to catch up to him.

Oli continued on to deliver his report, unphased by Andrej’s tone, “We passed waypoint one approximately one minute ago. Cerštuva’s skyline should be visible.”

“Indeed it is,” Andrej remarked, his gaze never once straying from the blood-red horizon, where one could now see the buildings in shadow, backlit by the setting sun, “Come and take a look.”

Oli stepped fully onto the bridge and looked out to the same horizon that had been gradually revealing the great port city of Cerštuva to him. Even at this distance, Andrej could see the crumbling structures reaching up toward the sky like broken and tortured hands. It was probably because the man was intimately familiar with the city and, although it had been three years since he’d been back to it, he was still able to vividly remember every block of his hometown. He could see both versions of the city superimposed upon one another; where the effects of war could clearly be seen by missing buildings, misshapen facades, and the twisted barrels of long-abandoned anti-aircraft weaponry.

There was a sniff to Andrej’s left, and Oli rubbed at his nose before moving toward the bridge’s door once again, his face a stone facade. “We’ll reach the second waypoint in 50 minutes, Andrej,” he said, pausing a moment as he stepped through the portal, “I’ll let you know as we get close.”

Andrej’s gaze ripped away from the battered skyline to see his friend go, his footsteps disappearing down the passageway. With a surge of newfound energy and anxiety, the man turned his gaze almost fearfully back out through the viewport.

There were some sympathizers that were supposed to meet and help them moor, delivering much-needed relief in the form of fresh manpower and rations, but Cerštuva sat as the last stronghold of the monarchies, still maintaining a stranglehold on both Mošo and Ordja through their respective slimy, filth-ridden fingers. Just the thought brought Andrej’s blood pressure up. Moreso than it already was. For centuries, both kingdoms fought one another, until a third faction rose about five years ago from the ashes of their continuous destruction. A rebellion. A single force united against both institutions. The people.

And for the past five years, the rebels have been wreaking havoc across both kingdoms, slowly driving the loyalist forces back. But they had made a wrong assumption about their thoughtless oppressors: relying and hinging on their hatred for one another and assuming they would continue to fight one another as they also fought the rebellion. Everyone had assumed that Cerštuva would become their tomb, and that the loyalists on both sides would be the ones to dig it for themselves.

They were wrong.

And so for the past two years they’ve struggled and bled and died block by fucking block, tearing the city to bits in the process. But tonight, though, would be the final push they needed to finally shed the shackles that sought to dominate and enslave them all.

At least, that’s what Andrej had hoped. The problem was that there were no more fickle people to turn from the loyalists’ side. Those that continued to fight did so with an unerring and quite frankly frighteningly ravenous turpitude and steadfastness that Andrej couldn’t help but objectively admire. But the man had done and continued to do his part.

With a subconscious and almost nervous hand, he reached forward to a small storage bin set into the very old and degraded console in front of him. Twisting the latch and swinging the small door down, he looked down at an old OP-12 Glasnik seated in a weathered leather holster. Grasping the pistol in his hand, he drew it from the holster. With a huff, he reholstered the weary weapon and slung the leather belt around his waist. Andrej was confident that he wouldn’t need it, but…

Just in case.