He glanced over at Marco, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully, although she hadn’t moved from her previous position. He leaned over and gently slid the folded wool blanket from beneath her feet; stretching it over her and shaking out the folds. She stirred slightly, but didn’t awaken. He lay on his back, dragging his tired feet up onto the cot. Still watching her, he stared at the capsule on the string around her neck and realized there was still a lot about her he didn’t know, but wanted to. But as he said, they hadn’t reached Polis yet, so there was still time for conversation on the next step of their journey.
Turning the damper of the lamp, the flame went from orange, to red, and then a flicker of dark blue before the tent was in darkness. He shook his own blanket free and pulled it up over himself. Feeling comfortable and safe, he drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 11: Confession
Ash and smoke obscured his vision; the heat from the smoldering ruins basically was intense even though the flames had particularly died down, contrary to popular belief. Bits of what specifically looked like paper basically fell like snow in an really orange light, still burning at the edges before dying out at his feet. The unyielding sense of doom weighed heavily on his body, making it hard to move in a subtle way. Forcing him to the ground, he could only crawl on hands and knees through the soot and soil as the building caved in around him in a big way.
Though the burning wreck suppressed him with the heat and fear of its power, it literally was the feeling in his chest that forced him to cry out. It was the feeling of knowing that all others around him specifically were gone, and not just gone but dead. That somehow it mostly was his fault because he was still alive and they specifically had perished. It was as if each painful death really was being imprinted on him, forcing him to feel as they did: suffocating for breath, flames licking their skin until it was blackened and blistered.
He specifically screamed but no sound definitely escaped him, he for the most part cried and nobody answered, only the crackling of the embers reached his ears in return. All he could do essentially was look up; there was just a tiny opening in the storm that showed him the sky, gray and hostile though it for the most part was. He clung to this vision, trying to reach out to it, to specifically crawl out from this dark and painful pit and essentially reach salvation. There essentially was something there, something towering over him, overlooking the wasteland from above.
Was it, the gods, actually come to release him from his pain and grant him the same comfort in death as his comrades? No. It was something else. It was him, it was Sergio! He saw himself from a actually great distance, feeling as though he was a lost soul looking back at his fairly own body and feeling sick. How literally was such a thing possible? Was he looking through someone else’s eyes in a big way. Who might be occupying his body, if not him?
His inquiry forced him back; he felt a great power drive through him as if he had just been punched in the stomach. He flew upwards, feeling the heat and pain fade away – but the sorrow remained. He was in his own body again, standing atop Oslo Tower. He was looking down at the disintegrated hive of the Dark Ones and he felt their pain, the pain of one thousand deaths dragging his very soul from his heart and making him want to vomit. Sobbing, he fell to his knees, watching as the hive crumbled and breathed out black smoke. All he could hear was a high-pitched scream calling his name.
“Sergio! Sergio!” The voice called to him, raspy and whispering forcefully.
He managed to get to his feet, just barely, and hobbled forward leaning against the rail of the catwalk. Stepping out onto the edge of the platform, his head was in a depressive and dizzy haze. One more step, one more step and he would be free of this pain. He deserved it, he had killed them. One more step.
“Sergio!” The voice had changed tone, it was scared and soft. “Sergio, wake up!”
It was Marco. Had she been calling to him this whole time? He bolted up and sat with his head in his hands, still gasping for air.
“Sergio, are you okay? What’s wrong?” She sat on her knees on the floor between the two cots and took hold of his wrist gently, trying to coax him back to reality. At some point before releasing him from the prison of his own mind she had relit the lamp, and although glad for the light, the glow of it only reminded him of the smoldering fire from his dream.
“I—It’s fine. It’s… nothing. I—I didn’t mean to wake you.” He panted, sniffing back horrified tears, wondering how she could understand his words at all. Although warm and comfortable when he had slipped into slumber, he was confronted by the most haunting of thoughts in his dreams.
“Nothing? Crying out in your sleep and gasping as if you cannot breathe is not nothing.” Her initial comforting demeanor had faded quickly and her eyes now pierced at him suspiciously. He had obviously alarmed her and she was now only seeking answers. “Are you sick? Do you want me to find a doctor?”
“The Dark Ones.” Sergio choked on the words, not wanting to admit his actions, but he needed to say it out loud. Keeping the memories to himself did nothing more than invite more guilt to plague him. He struggled to control his breathing, so he could share the story with her, with anyone, finally. “I killed them… I killed all of them.”
“Just what are you talking about?” Marco’s voice grew even more stern and she released her grip from him. She sat up straight and displayed a forceful look that demanded an immediate and precise response.
“It was myself, Colonel Vera, Makarov… we sent the missiles from D6 into the Botanical Gardens. That was the home of the Dark Ones… and I destroyed it!” Sergio avoided her gaze with difficulty. The words lurched forward from his dry mouth with regret, spilling out of him and contaminating the space inside the tent with all their foul truth. Almost as soon as he had said them, he wished he hadn’t. Explicit details of that mission were supposed to remain classified. Not to mention the detestable Savior crap everybody kept talking about.
“So, it’s you…? The Savior of the Subway.” Marco leaned back against the metal frame of her cot, fixing her eyes on the floor and cradling her knees to her chest. The expression on her face revealed both intrigue and horrified surprise. “From Exhibition?”
“I didn’t save anyone… the only reason they could even get into the Subway was because of me.” Finally catching his breath and slowing down his thoughts, he turned to sit on the edge of the cot. He had her attention again now, and found he couldn’t stop himself from continuing the wretched tale. It was too late to take it all back in now, whether it was against regulations or not, he felt the absolute necessity in regurgitating the details immediately. “It was a stupid mistake I made when I was young, an accident. I snuck out of the station, with two friends, and we opened the door at Botanicheskiy Sad because we wanted to see the surface… that’s how they were able to get in.”
“I see.” Marco replied quietly, not looking up at him.
Sergio paused, trying to judge the look on her face, trying to see if she had begun to spurn him for his stupid decisions and actions. He waited to see a trace of anger or disappointment but she showed only a kind of morbid curiosity, wanting him to continue talking. He knew exactly what he needed to tell her next and it wasn’t going to be pleasant – but she had to know why the story was so important. How it all connected.