Distortion

“Where could it be?” Lauren, leaning heavily on her right leg, stood in the middle of one of the testing rooms, pressing and pressing the module locator button, but there was no response. “Should’ve made it a beacon, not a beeper,” James tried to lighten the mood between them, but Lauren answered with a cold stare. He swept papers off a desk, looking underneath them. “Looks like you.” “Where?” The girl looked at a sheet that had fallen to the floor. She crouched down to pick it up. “That’s me.” “Two thousand nine,” Barnes jabbed his finger at the numbers. “You look the same.” “I can see,” Lauren, gripping the sheet tightly, couldn’t tear her eyes away from her own black-and-white photograph. She sat on the edge of a table, glancing over the sheet. “That bitch has been using me for much longer.” “What does it say?” James tried to take the document from her, but the girl crumpled it and tossed it into a pile of old furniture. “Doesn’t matter,” Lauren looked around for other documents, but none of the papers were useful. “You know we’re on the same side, right?” Barnes followed her into the corridor, moving into another office. “I’m not sure anymore,” the girl pressed the button with increasing desperation and froze when she heard the familiar beep. “Not sure about anything at all.” “Found it,” he showed a small module, pulling it from a drawer. “Hear that?” Lauren froze, listening to heavy, muffled footsteps in the adjacent office. She stared at the large mirror on the wall, coming to an unpleasant realization. “We’re being watched.” She barely finished speaking before the glass shattered into a million glittering pieces on the floor. A massive silhouette forced its way through the breach into the room—heavy boots struck the floor like iron on stone. Lauren scrambled aside, grabbing the edge of a table, while Barnes instinctively shielded her with his shoulder. “You said this was a dead base,” James clenched the module in his palm, stashing it in his pocket. “I said it *looked* dead,” Lauren hissed, drawing her pistol. The mercenary rose to his full height—broad shoulders, a mask with darkened glass, and a long machete in his hand. His breath echoed dully in the filter, merging with the flickering light of the emergency lamps. The mercenary lunged forward. The first strike was aimed at Barnes: the machete scraped across the table; Barnes grabbed the arm and pulled it down, but the man snarled, kicked him in the chest, and sent Barnes crashing into the wall. Lauren opened fire, but the bullets merely sparked off the mercenary’s body armor. “Just great,” she muttered, rolling behind a cabinet as he charged toward her. Barnes was already up, pushing off the wall with his back. His fist smashed into the side plate of the helmet, cracking the visor. The mercenary jerked but didn’t fall—instead, he grabbed James and hurled him across the room with full force. Wooden furniture splintered into pieces. Lauren emerged from cover and drove a knife straight into the seam between the armor and the neck. The mercenary roared, turned, grabbed her arm, and twisted it so hard a joint cracked. The girl gasped from the pain for a moment, but, dropping to one knee, kicked him in the groin—even though the padding softened the blow, it was enough to make him stagger. Barnes got up again, wiping blood from his lip. He glanced at Lauren, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if giving permission. Barnes’s movements became sharper, heavier—the familiar rhythm of a fighter who couldn’t be held back. He tackled the mercenary from behind, locking his neck in a metal grip. Lauren, wincing from the pain in her body, picked up the machete lying on the floor and forcefully drove it into the slit of the damaged mask. A moment—and the body went limp, collapsing right at their feet. “He’s got Tower-issue armor,” Barnes, breathing heavily, nudged the body with his foot to make sure it wouldn’t get up. “The question is—how many more,” Lauren cradled her hand against her chest, trying not to show how badly she was shaking. She glanced at the mirror, now smashed to smithereens. Inside the wall, cameras, wires, and empty sockets were visible, as if someone had been watching them until the very fight. “Let’s hurry,” she pulled up her hood, retrieving her fallen pistol. “If one found us, the others are already on the way.” Barnes nodded, and together they stepped into the corridor, leaving behind a body that would smell of scorched metal and blood for a long time. Lauren dragged behind, not feeling her hand, which hung from her wrist like a hot bundle of bones. “Just get out of here—and that’s it,” she whispered quietly, climbing the familiar steps. “And then what? It’s all over?” James smirked, holding the rifle close to his body. “If you break a hard journey into easy stops, even life seems brighter,” she smiled sadly. “We get out of here—we rest. Screw the fact that we have to fly to Moscow next and everything will go to hell again. The important thing is we finished here.” “Since when is it 'we'?” “Just be glad I don’t drown you while we’re swimming back to shore.”