It was years before the war when Balisk had been constructed. It filled the needs of traveling miners and their families, a home near the extracting points. It had been quite the hub in its day, a strange cross of nomads and merchants of the two countries, a small oasis in the center of the Durlap Desert.

That’s when life had been more peaceful.

With the hikes in demand of the emerald-like Augustian Ore and the heat of oncoming war, people left Balisk and left the desert. They went to the factories in Leighmond or back to the pastures and fields of Ruslavia to wait out the turbulent times. War erupted and industry increased from both lands to feed and supply troops. All but forgotten until recent, the desert towns become barren and dead, their wooden structures left to bleach in the suns high in azure skies.

Yet they still could serve their purposes. Life could still be lived in the old towns, Leighmond’s Superiors knew. They had ordered a creeping in, a subtle take over of the ghost towns, especially quite large Balisk. Rumors of deposits of ore left in storage in the settlement had made them act at once. Serving as bases in the desert, Leighmond expected an increase in their wins, but they did not think the battalions that guarded Durlap to counter them so quickly.

Balisk had burned then, but Leighmond had not gone home empty handed in the week’s struggle.

A lone traveler had passed the still smoldering town in his trek atop his Nobu. The long-legged dog like creature carried him past the devastation with no hesitation, for it was indifferent to a sight. The traveler saw in his eyes death, his hair stood on end and he hurried the animal along. Days passed in instants in a plane of nothingness.

The desert was like a white plate in front and likewise behind. The blue above offset it and the cool color kept him from insanity. The sky was calming, not like the everlasting sands and dunes or the heat-waves that played evil tricks. The man kept going into the horizon, drinking water sparingly, riding with heavy goggles down and collar upturned. The winds made the sands brew around him and each time they were upturned he winced.

Despite the exhaustion of his mind, he saw the base he so keenly had had his eyes on. The wooden masts sticking out of the sand, twisting barbed wire, they were there as warning but he only felt welcomed by their presence. The masts were thick, stories high, like pillars holding the sky up, fencing that could not be climbed. The barbed wire only stopped at one place, where guards were posted that only greeted him with a nod. The traveler was relieved that he was at base, a place where the desert battalions could call home.

A figure had been watching him from the open doorway of the largest tent, but they disappeared as he took time to tie up his stead and place down water. But his eyes, they watched, under a fury of reddish hair and the tinted surface of his riding spectacles.

The tent was on a foundation of wood that helped it stand but it still rustled and shook at the slightest of winds. It was intricate and had many different rooms to it, supported by light weight metal rodding that could be folded and transported at a moment’s notice. Colored the tint of sand, it would be impossible to bomb in such featureless land.

The traveler ducked into the tent and was comforted by shade and cool and it took him some time to just adjust to it. He removed his eye-wear and undid his cloak and shook the sand from his hair. He was in the process of wiping it from his shoulders and had a finger in his ear when a large, older man came to another doorway in the hallway where he stood. The man just watched him regain his upright proper form before greeting him.

“Aye, sir, who ya be after?”

The traveler didn’t know quite how to answer at first. He just looked at the rotund, red-faced soldier in the doorway and continued to pick sand from his scalp.

“Ya shud wear a hat.”

“I don’t like hat-hair,” he answered. “May I ask your name?”
The large man instead turned into the room he’d exited with an open arm a-wave. The traveler promptly followed into the room, nicely furnished for being part of an over-hauled tent. There were fans blowing at all four corners, tables and large pillowy couches to sit on. Maps of the region on ever surface, held down by various containers of drink, he could assume at once they were not just ordinary soldiers.

“Sergeant’s room, sir. Will ya have a drink?”

The traveler dropped his bag in a chair and hesitantly sat next to it. “What did you say your name was?”

“Franz Haddy, me friend.”

He took the offered drink from the man and looked down into its clear depths. “You’re a sergeant, eh?”

“Righty-o,” Haddy answered, chuckling as he finished his drink. “One of our country’s best, if I don’t say so me-self.” He began to pour another, quietly. “Yer Henry Marx, aren’t ya?”
“Well, yes. How did you know that?”

He only chuckled and sat across from him, tending his drink and smiling. “Ah, I can sense these things. Yup. So are you here ta see Mr. Johnsy? Man’s been popular lately. Somethin’ must be brewing. Aye… between Balisk and the reports comin’ in from Leighmond… A man can’t sleep. Ya know how it is, eh Henry?”

“Oh do I know how it is,” he began, only to look back up after a sad look had crossed his face. “No, no… I’m not here to see the General.”

Franz Haddy sipped, and then just downed the entire glass, putting it down hard afterward and blinking his drooping eyes. “Ooh, I see… ya know, I figured ya come ta see one of two people. Just couldn’t figure which one. Aye, aye.”

“Right. You have it then,” Henry said, standing then. “Are you he who I hear so much about? We’ve gotten a lot of reports, but things get exaggerated by the time they reach mainland.”

“Ooh…” Haddy chuckled to himself once more. “Then I was right on me second guess. Yer after the Whirlwind then?”

“Yes, yes I am. So are you he?” He asked, an obvious bit of excitement in his deep, adult voice.

“Ah… hah…” the sergeant took another drink. “Are ya nuts, sir? I’m as slow as they come. Could never… rip an uzi across a playing field wit such… such force. Down men so insane-like. Play wit fire. I’m no legend.… No, no Mr. Marx. You’ve got the wrong man.”

“Hmm…” was what came from Henry’s mouth then, with a look of thought crossing his face. “Then where can I find this bloody genius? He and I need to talk.”

Haddy laughed real loud next. “Boy ol’ boy… when ya said your reports are fucked wit, ya weren’t kidding, eh? Well, well… Mr. Marx.. I hate ta be the one ta tell ya, but ol Whirlwind’s battalion, our finest ‘Ragged and Tagged’ men…” He suddenly laughed again and said something under his heavy breath before continuing. “Our friend’s next door have em under lock and key at friggin Nulstrum-“

“Dear God,” Henry interjected, his eyes full of worry. “Have you formed a rescue yet, Mr. Haddy?”

“Na boy, they can’t be helped,” Haddy mumbled, a sigh deep in his throat at his next breath. “That place reeks of death. Seen it wit these own eyes of mine... Long ago.” His form was slouched now, he looked like an exhausted old man, not at all like before. “It’s on the border, so we can hope they’ll escape. Aye, won’t be long, I’m hoping. The 36^th doesn’t stay gone for long. Soon enough, they’ll be marching over that dune yonder. That one, right there.” He pointed out a clear-netted window to a hump curving into the sky. “With their sergeant leadin’ the way, like it always have been.”

He was quite before drinking something again. Henry stood there and tried to imagine a tired and especially ragged regiment of soldiers walking right up the dune he saw. “You said they march? Where are their vehicles?”

“We don’t have that kinda shit up here, Henry. They’ve got two Nubo and their backs.”

“Must be… extremely hot.” Henry was perplexed by that and just glanced around. “I’m sorry if I seem over inquisitive, but how many sergeants are assigned to this base? Can’t be more than 20, right?”

“Ah, 20?” Haddy laughed. “Try 5. They’ve only picked off one of us in all me days here, and he was replaced. Darn bloke was a friggin’ idiot. No one complained.”

Henry wondered just how many drinks Haddy had consumed. He seemed to drink the whiskey like water.

“Well, sir. I can offer ya to stay here and wait it out… but who knows how long it’ll take. The Whirlwind may be rumored to be brilliant, but no mortal can walk through 7 inch concrete walls. They’ll be out eventually, but it’ll take awhile…”

With that, Franz Haddy leaned himself back and proceeded to sleep off his drunken state.

Henry sat for then. And he waited.

* * *

Lianne Schmidt was only 14 years old when she had first donned her heavy pants and protective cloak. Everything had been so new, so scary back then. Her mind had fumbled to keep up with every new experience. She’d come to soak up all that she’d been taught and hadn’t missed a beat since she’d began her service in the 36^th Battalion so many years passed. Time had passed. The blonde girl was nearing 20 and had much more on her mind than other young adults her age. Lianne had risen from common foot-soldier to captain, second in duty from the sergeant. She shared this duty with another, and together, the two of them had been watching from the narrow slits cut into their concrete bunker for hours.

There was a slightly fresh breeze against her face, which was comforting, an escape from the stale, musty prison they were kept in. Aside from the small gusts of air, it was very humid and her sandy jacket did not aide in that, nor the flapped, protective hat that covered her ears and neck. It was pulled down over her eyes, eyes that were focused on the barren and gray camps. Her sight traveled along each muddy puddle and dirty stone wall and then back again.

Besides her stood Darren, waiting patiently as she did. He wiped some sweat from under shoots of chocolate brown hair before returning his fingers to his chin. His other arm lay rested on the wall, to keep balance.

“What exactly are you two waiting for?” Thick-headed Rob asked, sitting among the others, all squeezed into the bunker together.

“Guess you could say we’re waiting for a chance to kill,” Lianne answered, her worried eyes hidden beneath her goggles.

“Hm.”

“You asked,” Darren mumbled, as they both stood above the others on one of the two double beds. He shook off a bit and dirt and sand rained down in the dim light. Afterwards, no one really said anything and they continued to watch.

“Sarge… sure is quiet,” Lianne whispered, eyes drifting back into the dark dank room.

“Sleeping,” Darren replied. “You still got that knife?”

“Hush,” she snapped. “Yes… but don’t speak so loud. It’s the only thing we have left.” Her eyes fell on a large storage warehouse farther in the depths of the death camp. “I hope Nike’s okay.”

“He will be. With enough planning we’ll have our stuff back along with our freedom.”

Lianne was chipping away at the old paint with her small blade, thinking deeply at what was to come. “The man hasn’t been through here in hours, Darren. Don’t you think we should just give in for the night?”

“We gave in last night. And he came. So he’ll come, alright?” He mumbled, turning back to the scene outdoors. “Well hello. What have we here?”

There was a pack of people, about four to his judgment, walking slowly through the main part of the camp, stopping every now and then to speak loudly to each other. It reminded Darren of some sort of tour.
“Bloody hell!” Lianne hissed. “Look at those jackets they’re wearing. A few of those men are Superiors, Darren!”

He confirmed it with just another look but soon his eyes widened. “But look there, at that taller one. Do you know who that is? Why he’s here?” His voice stretched through a peek of horror.

She didn’t even answer and below them, their fellow soldiers began to talk amongst themselves.

“Change of plans,” he chuckled. “But only a little. This will make us war heroes to the extreme. Create quite a distraction, if I do say so myself.” Darren paused and took another look outside. “We’ll be out in only a few hours… and Leighmond’s military will be in shambles, all in one swoop.”

“How utterly disgusting,” Mariel mumbled, trying to wipe mud from her needle-toed boots. “It’s so dirty here… why is it absolutely necessary to keep these pigs alive?”

“Common war courtesy,” Krieg muttered, moving his cigarette about in his mouth.

The prison camp was no apple of Ashton’s eye either. He looked at the death and winced, as any other. He was quiet about it though, and followed the man in charge of the place, simply awaiting what he’d dreamed of for months. Slaying the Whirlwind and keeping Leighmond’s troops on top had replaced other nightly thoughts of a past he’d rather not look back on. He didn’t want to see green, rolling hills taunt him night after night anymore. The small girl crying would have to stay dormant longer. Ashton winced as he stepped in a deep puddle and turned to keep up with the others, realizing he’d been in a trance once again.

“Az you can zee,” a blubbering man began as the young Superior caught up, “There iz no way ze dirty rat be escaping now. No worry, right Mista Wolfengang?”

Ashton just let it go. “Right.”

It had become foggy in the moments they were in the dark place, something that irked him slightly. Visibility cuts were never good, unless there was a planned ambush. A planned ambush where you were on the planning side.

There was a yell that echoed momentarily off the concrete walls and through the fog that made every muscle in the commander’s body go rigid. He awaited something but there was only the foreign man’s non-stop talking and Mariel’s little “um-hm” at the end of each statement.

“I am never coming back here again,” Krieg was saying to her at a whisper. “This place is creeping me out. I can smell the death.”

Mariel was watching Ashton. “I think we’re only here to satisfy a drunken dreamer’s fantasy.”

The yell was over and nothing else broke the calm. The commander turned back to the others, his sullen eyes on the dark ground. He wondered vaguely if the prisoners ever cried out in their sleep and tried to concentrate on what the foreign man was saying. Teachers had always told him to watch a speaker to help his short attention span, so he took to counting how many silver buttons were stretched down his bloated belly.

“19,” he answered himself, looking up to see the abundant fog and three figures walking calmly to their position. Ashton thought nothing of it until a sudden wind blew the fog aside and he clearly made out the trailing capes of three Ruslavian soldiers.

“I wonder how many meals he eats each day,” Mariel sighed.

“Enough to feed seven cows,” Krieg guessed, his form slouched and eyes dull to anything suspicious.

And on the foreign man talked, his voice getting so thick with accent it was almost past comprehension anyway.

“There,” Ashton whispered, his glasses misty with deposit from the fog. “There you are, Whirlwind. I know you’re after me, so stop stalling…”

“…Am I only imagining that he sees us?” Darren wondered, standing next to their sergeant. “The fool’s looking right at us. He does nothing.”

“Fear is the advent of hell,” Lianne growled suddenly. “and I think the devil is shaking in his boots.” She was wiping blood that was fresh on her blade, before handing it to the cloaked and goggled figure beside her.

Wearing the militia’s uniform of a long collar lined with ranking bars, sand-colored jacket and flapped hat, the sergeant took the offered knife and breathed heavy through the masking portion of the cloak. The steam drifted into the wind and all focus was put on Ashton.

“The advent of hell,” the sergeant suddenly whispered. “Good bye, Commander.” With that, the wind moved the figure’s long cloak in a single motion that was repeated as they fell forward into a charge.

The cape flapped next to Lianne’s head and she stood still as it was gone. “Good luck.”

“..Az I would be saying, ze Nulstrum is ze best in ze country. No worry, we will execute ze soldiers at a moment notice…

“Why is he still talking?” Mariel kept saying to herself, and only she took notice to Ashton’s lips as they formed a silent message that would not come out of his mouth.

“Get out of the way…”

Krieg turned to momentarily escape the foreign man’s lecture. “Commander, haven’t you heard enough?” He half begged. “We know that they’re here, so be done with whatever Malvich told you and let’s-“

There was almost no noise as Krieg backed away and a shining knife plucked itself into the back of the foreign man. He would still have been talking, too, if it had not cut his spine. He stood erect for a moment before the Whirlwind, tattered cape swooping behind, stood atop his soldiers and rode him down as he toppled, landing with a dead and blood-splattered thud into the wet earth.

Mariel squealed.

At once, those goggles gleamed Ashton’s dim reflection but he did nothing and stared right back into their cold depths. The dead man continued to gush blood over the boots of the sergeant, who would not take his sights from the commander until Mariel cried out once more. It shook the Whirlwind’s attention and at once the figure dove into Ashton.

He was ready and countered against the blood-smeared blade, taking step to his adversary’s dance. His own long knife held up against the swift slashes he was pitted against. Around in a circle, the two sparred before circling each other and squaring off again. Ashton was grinning wildly, something neither of the other two had seen. He was passionate at each swipe, daring the strong figure to continue on. They fought for some time, neither besting the other and Ashton continued to chuckle to himself at each movement.

Both his assistants were fearful but watched, like they were watching a gruesome bull fight of sorts. The commander was certainly bull-headed enough, in fact, but the scene impressed Mariel and she nodded along with him.

“The Commander is fighting a ghost. But he’s winning, eh?” Krieg laughed.

His confidence blaring, he knew no boundaries. Also a worthwhile duelist, he had studied every aspect of the sergeant. How he stepped and shifted out of the way. He saw how the figure always fought strongly on his right, his position tilted a bit, never straight. Knowing his chance, Ashton used his free hand, swung from the left side and cracked it to the side of the Whirlwind’s head.

That simple.

“Every great man has his weakness, Whirlwind. Too bad you’re as mortal as the rest of us, huh?” Ashton laughed, a heavy boot in the center of the sergeant’s chest. Reaching in his long jacket, he pulled out his hand gun. “But that was a lot of fun, if I do say so myself.” He aimed it at their face. “But enough is enough. You will pester my troops no longer.”

“NO!”

Lianne erupted from the shadows and Ashton glanced up in time for Krieg to pull out another gun.

The Whirlwind thrust up as much as possible from under his boot. “Lianne!”

They both only watched as red ink spilled over the dead canvas of earth at the sound of Krieg’s shot and Lianne smacked into the ground on her face. After the fall, there was silence, until Ashton blinked, looking down, eyes hard in confusion. In a single grasp of his hand, the hat was lifted and the strap of the goggles snapped in his trembling fist.

“Heh,” he chuckled, looking down into angry blue eyes of a mud-smeared feminine face. She was breathing hard under the masking cloak, staring at Ashton with a burning, crazy hate. Her fox-colored hair was dark with sweat now that the fighting was over. It all reminded him vaguely of a trapped wild animal. She even growled at him but did not struggle now that she was caught.

Ashton just continued to laugh to himself, just as insane as her at that point.

Lianne moaned ad rolled before pushing herself up, just as Darren came to collect her, fear in his dark eyes. There was no calm from the young women, and even as he helped her up, she thrust in the other direction.

“Kill him! Kay, dear lord! Get up and kill him!”

Darren put his arms around her tightly and wrestled her bleeding form from getting anywhere near the Superiors. She was fighting him and continuing to yell. The scene made Ashton snuff and flick his hair back.

“Ain’t this a scene?” He mumbled. Keeping his grip hard and unwavering, he jerked the dirty, angry woman to her feet. She didn’t even look like the picture carved into his mind, the one that happened to make him fear the Whirlwind. Now, that image was ruined. He didn’t quite know what to do now, besides clench the back of her neck hard to hold her up and await a possible attack from the other two figures in the fog.

“Get the hell away from here!”

Darren scooped up Lianne finally, as her blood loss lead to weakness. He obliged their leader, as he always had and fled the area, the cold mists swallowing him up. With their removal from the scene, Krieg lowered his weapon and Mariel looked over.

She trekked to Ashton’s position like a curious cat. When her eyes landed on the girl, she was in an obvious state of unpleasant shock.

“Who’d a thought something like this?” She mocked, flashing her eyes at him. “The man who haunts your dreams is actually a little girl. How wretchedly embarrassing.”

But Ashton said nothing. He was dead in the eyes and frowning, trying to hide his winded breath that moments before had had him so riled up. The idea hadn’t quite sunk in, that was until his rage peaked and he threw her back in the mud, raising his gun to her once again.

It was Mariel’s turn to chuckle at the woman barely sitting up in the mud. “Commander, you must have very little heart to be able to shoot a girl in the face.”

“Shut up, she’s the Whirlwind. I will kill her!” He spat, pulling the trigger as Krieg appeared at his side.

The bullet made a splatting noise in the mud behind her shoulder, due to the slight distraction.

“Well yes, of course. Eventually we’ll kill her.” He glanced over at Ashton. “But don’t you want to have a little fun first?”

The Superior of Leighmond’s Military stared at the downed sergeant, still breathing hard, sprawled at his feet. He made no expression at first but then smirked, handing Krieg his muddy gun. “You have a point. I guess.” He blinked hard. “I’ll see you back in Murdock; Krieg, Mariel…” he stared down. “… Whirlwind.” He scoffed. “You’ll hopefully be cleaner as well.”

She just snarled.

With that he turned and walked, pulling up the collar of his coat and disappearing into the mists. Without much thought, Ashton turned the Whirlwind’s blade in his hand, taking a glance down at it as soon as he was out of his assistant’s sights. The blood was thinning now over the beaten silver that caught each bit of light on a different facet of its surface. Fine craftsmanship, he could tell. He wiped it off and his thoughts again darkened, to a place where children played in a field that burned.

At once he shook his head and grabbed it with a free hand. The prison camp was not where he wanted to be. It was giving him illusions. On top of that, death bothered him, the blood on the knife made him sick. It was like a stab to his being, much like Mariel’s persistent, slinking flirting or Krieg’s fidgeting. The feeling was nothing like what he had experienced, taking a look into the unmasked face he had just seen. A strong wave of interest had crossed him, something he had once thought forsaken within him.

Ashton remembered something then.. the Whirlwind’s eyes had sparked it.

A little girl playing in a wagon.