00: Prologue

        “What doesn’t get better by chance gets better by change.”

        - Some yoga website

        Marine Corps Sergeant First Class Emmett Byron approached the Major as advised: slowly, confidently. The Major sat on the shoulder of the toppled statue of the chief justice of North Korea’s Central Court. Surrounding him were his Phoenix, his commanders. They were all grinning, reveling in the victory, all but two: Battalion Specialist Blake Turner was not smiling, largely due to the fact that his jaw had been shot off in the Tokyo counteroffensive, and the Major was not smiling, largely due to the fact that the Major never smiled.

        As Byron approached, the only person in the vicinity not wearing the stark colors of the Phoenix Battalion, he could not help but feel foreign, even though his entire company and many soldiers of the Marine Corps of the United States occupied the shattered streets of Pyongyang.

        Among the Major’s Phoenix, he recognized the soldier called “Pops.” This wasn’t hard, considering the old soldier’s physical mass and former status as Phoenix Battalion commander. He also recognized the Phoenix lieutenant called “Legion,” a swarthy woman with orange hair and an exposed exo-skeletal spine that somehow made her even more attractive, at least to Sgt. Byron.

        His steps were slow, measured. He held his head up, and he was careful to make eye contact with the orange-clad paramilitary faction. As though stepping out in front of a crowd, he pierced the Phoenix Battalion’s inner circle.

        Major, sir! he rehearsed internally.
        “Major, sir!” he tried to say aloud but croaked.
        “Major, sir!” he finally managed in a voice that was sturdy, if a bit shrill.
        The Major, who was nursing a cruel shrapnel wound in his right cheek, turned to face him, silencing the giant Pops mid-sentence with a glance.
“Major, sir!” Byron repeated, standing at attention. “General Maecht has instructed me to notify the Major that we’ve detained a POW, sir!”

        “Taking prisoners is a part of war, soldier,” the Major replied, in a voice that was beyond anyone’s years. Looking around, he added, “I’d say this prisoner is rather fortunate, all things considered.”

        The sergeant glanced nervously at the Major’s retinue. Soldiers, but not part of the Corps or Army, the Phoenix Battalion were mythical among the Allied forces participating in the invasion. They moved with and between militaries of the Alliance with impunity, and represented the first boots on peninsula soil. And, unlike their enlisted counterparts, every soldier in the Phoenix Battalion was a “MOD” — a man-machine hybrid.

        “Major, sir, perhaps it’d be best if I could deliver the remainder of the general’s message in private.”

        The Major’s silver prosthetic hand fell away from his face — taking with it a red wad of gauze — to reveal a spider’s web of deep, fresh wounds. The cuts degraded even further the wreckage that had already been the Major’s face. Looking at the gauze, the Major sucked his teeth irritably. “There are no secrets among the troops you see here, Sergeant First Class.”

        With a gulp, Byron delivered the remainder of the general’s instructions. “You’ll find the captive in the general’s quarters, sir.”

        “General’s quarters, you say?”

        “The prisoner was caught when your team toppled the Communications Ministry. She appears to be a Sodang officer,” Byron continued, referencing the North Korean special forces unit. “Sir, the intel this captive supposedly possesses is for your ears and your ears alone. He — the general, that is — says you’ll know what to do with it. General’s explicit instructions.”

        It was then that a strange expression swept over the face of the man many of his peers credited with crushing North Korea’s Special Forces. The expression was almost boyish behind the trauma and betrayed a seemingly authentic curiosity. The Major leapt down from the statue and approached, his metallic arm creaking as it swung at his side, his boots grinding on the grey debris of what was once North Korea’s Ministry of Justice building.

        Despite his best efforts, as the Major’s immense presence and horrible visage came to bear down on him, the Marine sergeant could not help but quail a bit.

        The Major, clearly recognizing his discomfort, placed the heavy metal hand on his shoulder. His expression softened, as though his face was not in shambles, as though the pain he must have felt didn’t matter. “How are you, soldier?”

        “Sir, I don’t follow, sir!”
        “Don’t look beyond the obvious, Marine. How are you?”

        The question, though simple, banal even, stalled something in Sergeant Byron. Tokyo and the horrors he’d seen, the horrors that stole his sleep. He tried to enunciate how he “was,” truly, in what people believed were the final days of the war, but found that the words carried with them emotions that he could not and would not burden the Major with.

        “Forget it, soldier,” the Major said after a moment, as though reading his mind. “Our general was wounded — concussed, to my understanding. Any updates on his status?”

        “General Maecht, sir, was medevaced and is on his way FOB Liberty. The men are praying, sir.”

        “Do that,” the Major said dryly, slinging a bloodied tarpaulin poncho over his shoulders. “Pray.”

        The Major, blood still dripping from his face, dispersed his unit with a series of harsh commands, never once using their God-given names. As he strode past, hand resting on that odd blade he carried, he paused. “Fret over the things you never had control over later, soldier. Mourn your brothers and sisters for now and revel silently in your own survival.”

        Sergeant Byron saluted, but the Major had already passed, his poncho leaving behind it the smell of death and fire.