Cat’s Eyes

A short story about two female soldiers from the Communes’ Force Extraordinaire.

The story was originally written in German and translated using Deepl, so the translation may sound a little clunky at times.

1

She didn’t feel like she was waking up.

‘Breathe evenly, mademoiselle!’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She’s not used to it yet, Monsieur Commissaire.’

Marie barely noticed the voices around her. She felt Aveline slowly loosening her firm grip on her
arm. She felt the burning in her own veins subside, leaving only an unpleasant stinging sensation, as
if red-hot needles had been inserted into her veins and were now cooling down. She felt a rough
cloth brush across her cheeks and knew she must have been crying, but … she couldn’t quite
understand why.

She opened her eyes.

‘Mademoiselle, how many fingers do you see?’

The blurry spot in front of her turned into a delicate right hand. When Marie answered, her voice
sounded hoarse. Had she been screaming? ‘T-Three, Monsieur Docteur,’ she replied, looking up at
the wrinkled face. She knew she couldn’t have done that before. To recognise the fingers. She knew
that this should depress her, even plunge her into despair, but … it was as distant to her as a fading
nightmare.

‘We’re hunting today…’

She felt no fear.

I’m different again.

‘That’s right,’ said Aveline, sitting next to her, leaning against the cold, slippery masonry. It was
kind of strange, Marie thought. In front of her, countless men and women crowded together, shyly
trying to keep their distance like a flock of children, but staring at her at the same time. She heard
the crowd murmuring, whispering and swearing crudely, one even dared to make the sign of the
cross – oh dear, if Monsieur Commissaire saw that! – and somewhere further back, someone
vomited with a retching sound.

No respect, no reverence.

It is a simple necessity, the Madame at the Office de Recrutement had said.

Marie looked at the crowd of soldiers in front of her. They were all so pale. Their skin was patched,
stitched, and bandaged like their uniforms, and adorned with secret lucky charms such as decorated
bullet casings. The thick coats barely kept out the cold, let alone bullets – except their own, mostly
because the coats were dyed a pale blue like the sea on the coast. Many had shaky hands and most
were alone, hardly knowing each other, for these soldiers came from the remnants of an entire
battalion.

‘Two hundred and seventy-one,’ she murmured.

The rifles were as different as the people holding them, from this or that decade, only the bayonets
all came from the same new factory. She also spotted a large machine gun and comrades carrying
the steel ammunition cartridges. But it wasn’t much, in terms of weapons and ammunition, and
people on top of that.

‘It’s all a simple necessity,’ said Marie, and it was difficult to tell whether she was just forming the
words in her head or with her voice. So she preferred not to think about anything anymore and just
imagined pictures and feelings, the market square at Fevre on the Anniversary Day, music from an
accordion and bell-like laughter, the sound of hundreds of footsteps on the cobblestones, the smell
of sweets that were never available because of rationing, a sky more blue than grey, gentle breezes
blowing strands of her long hair in front of her eyes and how that tickled, the burning in her chest
when she had danced and was completely out of breath but really happy, the faces of all the people
she had seen there… but it didn’t work, it never worked. The people were like dolls. All their voices
were just a subliminal noise.

‘Marie?’

She blinked and a smile played across her face. ‘Yes?’

Aveline had put an arm around her shoulder. ‘A bit harsh, isn’t it?’

‘I feel fine. Nothing hurts.’

The Monsieur Docteur was still with them, adjusting his glasses before making a few notes on his
tin clipboard. Marie looked past him and watched the Commissaire step out of the crowd. He wore
a neat officer’s coat and, to Marie, he was always the same – this person, this type of person.
Everything was carefully rehearsed. Next to her, Aveline pressed herself up against the wall. She
exhaled audibly, and warm air rose in clouds to the ceiling.

‘Monsieur Commissaire. Monsieur Capitaine,’ Marie’s superior greeted the two men with a salute.

‘We are ready.’

‘It’s about time, Mademoiselle Oeil-de-chat,’ said the Commissaire, and in a loud voice trained to be
like a sabre, whose sharpened blade cut down any unrest like annoying weeds, he announced:

‘Volontaires. LISTEN!’

The murmurs and whispers, the sickly coughing, the disgusted retching and the conversations
further back, the echo of all these noises, fell silent after only a few seconds. Marie found this
impressive, and the word also passed her lips, forming the conclusion.

A moment of silence.

‘It is time, comrades! At this moment, the troisième armée is advancing on Poindures to break the
royalist siege and bring this battle of battles to a swift end. Behind us lie months of deprivation and
loss, but despite everything, we are still here and ready to give our lives for the Commune!’

‘Vive la commune!’ cried one of the officers, raising his fist.

And everyone repeated the cry, because that was what they had been taught to do.

Marie couldn’t help but applaud afterwards.

Everything feels so good.

‘All pelotons to their positions!’

When water splashed and Marie got a few drops on her face, she realised again where they were. A
sewer. Only the lanterns they had brought with them provided light, and yet everything was as clear
to Marie as if it were a cloudy day in an open field. She could see the details in the bricks that had
been used to build this place, and where the ceiling curved into an arch, she could even make out
the brickmakers’ mark, while in the lower areas it had been worn away by water and time.

‘I wonder if the bricks up there will ever be worn away like that?’ she wondered.

The soldiers hurriedly trudged and waded to a metal ladder not far away or followed the sewer
system to other possible ascents. The soldiers checked their rifles and put on tough faces, as if
trying to suppress any fear by freezing their facial features. The routine tapping of ammunition
pouches filled the tunnel.

Aveline appeared before her.

Marie looked into the pair of unnatural eyes.

God didn’t create that, she had once heard an old woman ranting on the side of the road.
And she remembered that Aveline had replied that the First Directeur Sance himself had declared in
a speech that God had forfeited any right to act in this world. That had been the day Henry had been
hit.

‘Torn to shreds,’ she remembered, wondering if she had ever uttered the word before because it felt
so strange to say.

‘Oh, Marie,’ Aveline’s voice. ‘Do you see stars or me?’

Marie blinked and tilted her head thoughtfully to one side, and there was this echo of the radiant
world, then she tilted her head to the other side, and there was Aveline and the stench of the sewers,
which quite rightly made her feel like vomiting.

‘You, Aveline. And sometimes both.’

A sigh.
‘Keep both eyes on this world, or you’ll soon only see the next.’ She pointed to her eyes, and there
was a sternness in her tone that was clearly feigned. Aveline couldn’t be stern, but she tried anyway.

‘Nouval always said that.’

‘That’s right,’ Aveline pulled her to her feet with both hands. ‘And where is Nouval?’

Marie thought about it, memories flashing back again. ‘Dead. Shot in the stomach. Since Cambrai.’

‘Does it hurt?’

She shook her head.

‘Me neither, and I don’t think it will come back.’

‘Upstairs and no unnecessary words!’ they heard one of the sergeants say. Soldiers were hurriedly
driven up the nearby ladder. The commissaire was with them and patted each one on the shoulder
beforehand. ‘For our community, comrade,’ he repeated endlessly, yet always in a tone as if each
time it was meant only for this one man, this one woman, who was looking up into the darkness of
the night with a deathly pale expression, while icy coldness streamed through the opening into the
underground.

‘Mesdemoiselles.’ Marie looked past Aveline, who turned slowly.

‘Monsieur Docteur?’

‘The captain gave you the watch?’

Aveline nodded. ‘Marie will take it,’ whereupon the army doctor’s eyes turned to the smaller of the
two women. She saw in his eyes that he would have preferred to see the watch on Aveline, and she
had to purse her lips to keep from saying the thought out loud.

Time is running out.

Aveline had said that yesterday.

Her tone had been indifferent, merely stating a fact.

The euphoria was gone. As suddenly as every spark of warmth when you jump into ice-cold water
without thinking. A blow, a shock. It hurts, Marie wanted to say, but she felt frozen.

I’m scared.

‘… Mademoiselle?’

She blinked, looking at the doctor in confusion.

‘Are you taking the time?’

She fumbled for the appropriate coat pocket and tapped it. ‘O-Oui, Monsieur.’

‘Good,’ he nodded, as if he had to confirm it to himself and had thus done his duty. Then he picked
up his lantern and made his way back to the infirmary, where only those who were dying remained.

The air there stank of inflammation, decay and faeces.

Nevertheless.

Marie watched him go. Her lips trembled, her vocal cords urged her to say something, any reason
why she had to go to the infirmary. Away from here. Her heart pounded with panic, blood rushing in
her ears like a raging waterfall. A coldness settled in her stomach, spreading to her knees in a shiver.

‘I…’

Hands grabbed her, pulling her around.

‘Close your eyes.’

She stared at Aveline with wide eyes.

‘Close. Your. Eyes.’

Marie obeyed, not because there was an inherent demand in Aveline’s almost monotonous voice, but
because it was easier to do what others told her to do. She closed her eyes and clung to the warmth
of Aveline’s hands on her shoulder.

‘What is your anchor?’

‘F-Fevre… on the anniversary.’

‘Tell me about it.’

And she did, telling her about Fevre, about the market square, about music and dancing, the smell
of pies in the air, the colourful garlands and the sky that was more blue than grey. Marie felt the
wind in her hair … back then she had had longer hair. She tasted delicious food … back then, there
had still been good food. She talked and Fevre became more and more alive, and she had only been
there a short while ago.

Then she opened her eyes.

The sewer with its red brick walls, so smooth, so seamless that it felt like it had been poured when
her hand slid over the masonry. Voices reached her, soft, loud, men and women, simple soldiers and
the Capitaine himself. Each one was unique, with deep and high nuances.

‘Does it still hurt?’ Aveline looked at her.

Marie took a deep breath, feeling a little jittery. ‘No. Not at all.’ She thought about what had just
happened. The Marie in the corner had pushed her way to the front. She searched for the bad
feelings, the panic, the fear, thought about the terrible things, thought about how everyone in her
squad except her and Aveline was dead.

‘The others were more experienced than me, but they’re still dead,’ she said, voicing her thoughts.

‘You’re just lucky, Marie,’ Aveline patted her on the shoulder.

She nodded because it was true, she had been very lucky.

‘Newbies don’t usually survive as long as I have,’ Marie said proudly, because she felt good again,
because it was best to be Marie in war when Marie in the corner wasn’t so long ago. She rocked
back and forth expectantly until Aveline pressed a short carbine into her hands.

‘Only the well-armed citizen is a true Commune member,’ Marie recited from a recruitment poster
she had seen on a weekly board, simply because she wanted to say something.

‘And well-armed citizens only shoot on command,’ replied Aveline, loading her weapon.

Shortly afterwards, the Commissaire waved her towards the ladder with a hasty gesture. There were
no encouraging gestures for those who didn’t need encouragement. Marie climbed up into the night.

2

The cool air tasted thin and dull, as if the fires had consumed too much oxygen and enriched what
little remained with dry dust and ash. She flinched as the heavy iron hatch closed with a groan. The
noise made everyone gasp and pause, only Aveline’s gentle nudge prompting Marie to look around.
It was night, and the cloud cover was patchy like a cloth torn by shrapnel. Nevertheless, it was dark
enough that even to her eyes, all colors were just different shades of gray. And where it was too dark
even for that, in the lowest window cavities of the coal-black facades surrounding the hidden
backyard, the white noise flickered unusually strongly within her. It was as if her brain couldn’t
accept that there was nothing to see. White dots danced wildly before her eyes, forming flickering
patterns that assembled into shapes that… She shook her head and took a deep breath of the dusty
air, forcing herself to concentrate.

“I don’t see anyone,” she said finally.

Aveline nodded. “No one here, Commissaire!”

“Come here, both of you,” a sergeant called out in their general direction, and Marie guessed that he
and everyone else could only see limited things in the darkness. Good. Then the same applied to the
royalists!

No fighting. Just hunting.

That’s what they used to say when there were more of them.

The courtyard was littered with broken tiles that had been swept off the surrounding roofs or had
fallen when a roof truss collapsed. Marie felt like she was playing a game, placing her feet carefully
so as not to step on anything that would make a noise.

The Commissaire was surrounded by his sergeants, some of whom looked even worse than the
ordinary soldiers. Bandages covered half their faces, arms were splinted, and a woman spat a
mouthful of blood on the ground.

Those who want to lead must suffer, Sance had said.

And the commissaire makes them suffer.

The circle opened up a generous gap for them as the stocky captain finished explaining the tactical
situation of their unit. Even as he did so, the first shots could be heard in the distance. Tentative, like
the first faint gusts before a thunderstorm. Then he turned to the two night eyes and his gaze shifted
constantly between her and Aveline, because in the darkness he probably couldn’t tell them
apart.“As soon as the gun battery at the old citadel has been taken out, give the signal, Oeil-de
chat.” A heavy signal pistol was handed over, which Aveline accepted and carefully stowed in her
belt next to the hand grenades. The captain turned back to the commissaire and officers, throwing a
“ Leave now” in their direction.

They left the backyard before everyone else and plunged into the desolate ruins of the city. More
and more shots rattled through the gloomy canyons of rubble and echoed in the winding paths that
led through this accusatory landscape. Marie didn’t know why Poindures was the way it was, why it
had been crushed under grenades. The city was no longer able to tell her, just as a skeleton rotting in
the forest of death would not explain to her why it had ended up there and not somewhere else.

There were not even any facial features left on which to read horror or fear, only a skull trampled
into the dirt, on which not even moss grew.

Beyond the burnt-out facades, Marie could see the old citadel, its remains clinging stubbornly to the
small hill that towered over Poindures in the eastern part of the city. Lights multiplied there as
Marie heard the stuttering staccato of a mitraillette emptying its barrels a few streets away. Like
Aveline, she moved like a cat, barely audible and always scurrying along the edge of the night.
They followed a narrow alley, and every door, every little window had been kicked in and smashed,
revealing completely empty rooms behind them. Whether it was rotten mattresses or broken
cupboards, wooden dishes or dolls, if anyone found anything, it was burned during the long winter
nights at the latest.

“If you suffer another relapse, I won’t be able to help you,” said Aveline at the end of the alley, her
gaze scanning what might once have been a street.

Then I’ll be Marie in the corner again.

“That wouldn’t be good,” she pursed her lips. “By Sance.”

Aveline gave her a hand signal before darting out of the alley with a few quick steps to a pillar that
protruded like a broken bone from an almost perfectly toppled brick wall, as if the wall had
shattered like a wave against the iron-reinforced concrete piece. Marie had her weapon at the ready
and searched the ruins for a telltale muzzle flash or shadows, but no shot was fired.

She lowered her carbine and hurried over.

“Belle ran away back then, that’s why,” Aveline recalled, her voice subdued and, above all,
unimpressed by the rising noise of battle. Marie knew that sitting idly in the corner hurt her terribly,
that thing with Belle. She also knew that at some point it would never hurt again, not because of the
past, because she didn’t have much time, but because of what they had done to her.

Just like Aveline.

They crossed the fallen brick wall. Aveline pointed to a multi-story house that looked as if the war
had preserved it as a vague memory, like a shadow in the corner of the eye, to preserve at least a
hint of what had once been in Poindures.

“Quiet now.”

Marie raised her weapon again, her steps slow and careful. They entered the house. The air was
stale. The interior had been stripped of everything that gave it character. Even the wallpaper had
been scraped off the walls, and Marie thought of the quartermaster with his list.

If he found wallpaper, he would stare at it and record it as a daily ration.

They crossed several rooms on the ground floor and a breach in a wall that led directly into the next
building. Marie’s gaze constantly searched for wires from booby traps, because Henry had been torn
to pieces because of them.

We learn from those who have died, whether for good or evil, Sance had once said.

They stopped in front of a sloping wall. Marie tilted her head back and watched as the facade of the
house, held up by whatever it was, came to an end and merged into the cloudy night sky. Not only
windows formed holes in the depths, but also breaks in the wall itself, and Marie wondered if it
would even hold her weight.

She swallowed nervously.

Go away, she said in her mind to her other self.

Henry was still gasping for air when he was riddled with shrapnels.

Nouval fought for his life for days with a wound in his stomach.

So how long will I have to suffer if I break through and fall into the depths?

Unfortunately for her, Aveline signaled her to climb up first. Marie forced herself to keep quiet,
because it was an order, and the Marie she wanted to be knew that orders were important. She
shouldered the weapon and set about climbing the wall. Her hands searched for unevenness,
protruding bricks, and window sills.

It’s not that hard, she reassured herself.

But that’s not me.

It’s the concentrate, she knew. The mixture of chemicals and Blanc d’ange in her veins gave her the
strength her body no longer possessed. Not since she spent most of her time sitting in the corner like
a dying dog.

Coldness spread through her.

“Without the concentrate, I am…” She bit her tongue.

Marie paused, hanging from a narrow window sill a few feet above the ground. She felt the edge
cutting into her palm—no gloves for those who can’t stand the cold. She felt the fear she no longer
wanted to feel, but there were no warm words for those who sooner or later would no longer suffer
fear.

And no release for those who seal their fate with the first injection, she thought.

She hoisted herself up a little further, despite her trembling hands, and looked into the window.

Even her cat-like eyes could only see a few feet inside and found only the shadowy outlines of
branching doors next to a hallway. Her gaze shifted and did what Marie, with her fear of heights,
should never do.

She looked down.

Everything here leads to death.

Belle had said something like that.

That’s why she had tried to run away.

Not from the war. She had simply looked for another way.

Marie closed her eyes for a moment and let the white noise wash over her. Flickering dots danced
around and she imagined a day that was more blue than gray. The most beautiful day she had ever
had in her life, and on the evening of which she had been told that she should now write something
down.

Who do you want to be?

And for her, it had been more a question of who she no longer wanted to be, because that person
had let herself be killed.

“Go away…” she blurted out and opened her eyes again, feeling the cold fade away. Without
stopping, she climbed to the top and found herself on the sloping roof. The building had crashed
into the hillside where the citadel and a smaller neighborhood were located. She pulled the carbine
from her back and gestured to Aveline that she could follow.

While Marie waited, the sun rose, howling.

A false sun.

A flare burned flickeringly in the night sky. Cascades of red light fell on the ruins and the people
inside them. Shattered window panes glittered like thousands of eyes awakening all over Poindures. The hiss of the burning chemicals drowned out the gunshots and screams for a moment as the flare
slowly sank toward the ground. The roof tiles creaked ominously as Marie threw herself on her
stomach to avoid being spotted in the glaring light of this deceptive sun.

Then a tremor.

The sloping roof, the tilted walls, and finally the air itself seemed to start moving with a deafening
bang as the first howitzer fired. The first tremor quickly gave way to the next as a shell detonated in
the ruins about a thousand feet away. Marie breathed slowly while Marie in the corner screamed in
panic. It felt as if the house was coming to life, it moved so much beneath her. At the edge of the
roof, tiles crashed down in a clattering avalanche.

“Wait,” Aveline appeared behind her, also lying on her stomach.

Another tremor, another bang that made Marie flinch.

The shooting in the city subsided, but outside… Marie couldn’t help but turn her head slightly and
look to the southwest. Flashes of light in the gray landscape. They were advancing toward the city,
the troisième armée, indeed. Marie was surprised, because commissaires liked to lie to everyone to
boost morale.

The false sun set between the ruins.

“Keep going!”

Marie jumped up and followed the middle of the roof with long strides. There was clattering and
crashing, and the ground seemed loose more than once. When the next flare lit up, she and Aveline
were already off the roof and seeking cover behind a pile of rubble. They had managed to evade the
royalist forces without any problems so far, but from now on it would be more difficult.

“Now we hunt,” Aveline’s eyes glowed red in the flickering light of the flare

3

The citadel stood atop the small mountain, and there was only one road leading to it, flanked on the
right by bombed-out villas. The royalist forces had cleared the rubble to the side of the road facing
away from the mountain, creating a wall of debris. Marie and Aveline crouched there for cover as
another flare rose above Poindures. The reddish glow shone over them, illuminating what remained
of the upper floors of the old villas. Peeling paintings of long-gone dukes and their lackeys, a worn
statue, and a single crooked shutter that creaked with every thunderous boom of the howitzers. In
the distance, falling roof tiles clattered and crashed onto the streets, and walls collapsed with a
rumble.

Darkness returned.

“Keep going.”

They ran along the street, always staying at the edge. Only sometimes could Marie look down at
Poindures between the rubble. Muzzle flashes everywhere, the rattling of guns echoing in their ears
a tiny moment later. The Volontaires must have scattered, probably using the dust from the
collapsing ruins to their advantage. But what Marie saw beyond the outskirts of the city on the
horizon made the fighting in Poindures seem like a peripheral event. A veritable thunderstorm with
flashes of light every second, and somewhere there was a fire, evoking memories of an inferno
consuming the world.

The gate soon came into view. Marie only managed a quick glance before a high-pitched whistle
sounded and red light poured over her again, the shadows dancing in the wild flickering of the
chemical flare and growing longer and longer as the light projectile sank toward the ground.
Tremors followed the thunder of the howitzers.

The area in front of the gate to the old fortress was lit by white lanterns that cast a glaring light,
almost painful to Marie’s inhuman eyes. Right by the gate were the emperor’s mercenaries, taking
cover behind sandbags filled with rubble and earth. There may have been other ways to reach the
battery, but each additional volley from the battery decimated the ranks of the Communards.
Aveline explained the plan, and when Poindures fell into darkness, Marie hurried to the other side
of the street and waited.

Her heart was pounding.

Not from fear.

The blood rushed in her ears with excitement as another false sun rose. Marie forced herself to
breathe more slowly, inhaling deeply, tasting the powder smoke in the air, the dust, and believing
she could detect a hint of iron, of blood. She listened to the violence of war, the thunderous artillery
near and far, bringing rumbling earthquakes, the whistling of bullets in the lower town, and yes, she
tilted her head back, the noise of howling engines above her, appearing and disappearing in shy
shadows between the wisps of cloud.

Her finger wrapped around the trigger of her weapon.

Then night fell again, as if the war itself were shattering time.

As Marie rose, the first bang sounded. One of the white lanterns emitted a high-pitched hiss, so
piercing to the ears that even Marie gritted her teeth. Gas streamed from a hole in the thick glass
casing, and the spot flashed and crackled before the light died. Marie fired at the second lantern and
fired again, while Aveline, just a blur to her left, held down the royalists.

Instead of slowly burning out, the white lantern burst.

Marie’s existence degenerated into a series of snapshots.

Isolated images that burned into her brain like the Blanc d’ange in her veins.

The rows of gabions filled with dust-dry earth and fragments of the city. Men behind them.

Mercenaries in long coats. Muzzle flashes from vaguely aimed shots. Roars, screams so close and
yet so far away, like a voice carried across a raging river. Aveline in these impressions, which lasted
a blink of an eye and an eternity, like a sharpened scythe in a wheat field.

Marie felt the stock of her carbine hammering against her shoulder.

And with each hammering, new images came, and her hands and fingers were like separate beings,
her first knuckle pressing the trigger, shot. Her hand pulled the lever, a shell whirled out steaming in
the cold, a cartridge slid over the tubular magazine into the chamber, her finger pressed the trigger,
shot.

The images came faster and faster, leaving less and less time to comprehend them.

Marie saw the insignia of the royalist soldiers falling before her, coughing up blood, spitting,
convulsing, and singing in agony as they died. Fanged dogs and wolves set in soft brass, enough for
these simple soldiers, and even a griffin, a mercenary leaning in the passageway to the fortress,
clutching the silver badge, his eyes long since frozen.

“Seven,” Marie said.

“No, eight,” Aveline corrected, reloading.

Marie took over, leading the way into a side passageway, into the wall. The passageway was only a
hundred steps long, then the wall was broken. A soldier. Marie fired. And as he fell to the ground,

Marie fired again because he had dropped, only hitting him in the shoulder – now he was dead.

They came back out into the open.

It stank of burnt gunpowder, almost replacing the air they breathed. Marie saw casings, as long as
her legs and wider than herself, piled up and still glowing from the heat. Directly behind them, the
massive barrels aimed low, the two howitzers. A huge hole in the fortress wall allowed the guns to
fire into the city.

A flare burned in the sky.

Screams and shouts, artillerymen groaned as they aimed the heavy cannons under chemical red and
bright white light. The fall of the gate still undiscovered? No. She spotted an officer sending men in
that direction. Just a side note, but soon there would be more.

The first howitzer fired.

The hill shook under the impact. Masonry collapsed here and there, a brick falling just a few feet
from Marie. Aveline signaled to her and she stood in front of her, feeling the heat from the barrel of
the carbine her superior was resting on her shoulder. She felt Aveline exhale, felt the heat in it, the
fire of concentration.

We don’t fight.

We hunt.

The gunner of the second howitzer on the other side of the courtyard fell over. Marie heard Aveline
eject the empty shell, pull the lever forward with a jerk, and a second shot rang out. The battery
commander. He only flinched, possibly uttered a curse, spun around, yelled, and rushed for cover,
crouching low.

“Bad,” Aveline’s voice was focused, toneless, emotionless.

Night returned once more.

Aveline took the lead again. Marie fired at the white lanterns in the courtyard while they kept to the
edge, covered by rubble, crates, and all kinds of material that the Royalists had brought up the hill
over the past few weeks. Lanterns burned out with a hiss, one burst with a bang, and others swung
wildly, resisting the bullets by luck and chance.

They took shelter behind a steam car, its boiler cold, its steel lifeless and covered in mud. One of
the lanterns had been burning here just moments before. Marie realized her mistake too late. Blanc
d’ange found its way into her body with her next breaths. Not concentrate. Perhaps not even pure,
machine-washed cinium. But it was too much. Like a corrosive carpet, it clung to her tongue and
nose. It stung. It burned. It tasted terribly disgusting.

It hurts!

Marie in the corner scratched at her, not wanting it.

White dots flickered in the corner of her eye, twitching like insects, while the contours of reality
flickered as if they were drawn on thin paper and ready to tear. Marie squinted her eyes, had to
sneeze and spit. A rushing sound in her head. Pressure against her forehead, as if someone were
pressing against it with their bare hand from the outside.

“G-Go away…” Marie gasped.

A volley from a machine gun brought her back to reality.

The bullets drummed dully on the metal of the car.

Sinking to her knees, she found herself again. She saw Aveline, her coat collar pulled up over her
mouth and nose, throwing a hand grenade. Her gaze was determined, clinging to something, tears in
her pitch-black eyes. The grenade flew, and while someone shouted a warning that Marie could only
recognize as such from the panicked tone of their voice, Aveline pulled her to her feet and with her.

Once again, her existence seemed to consist only of silent images.

She saw the sprawling courtyard, partly in shadow, partly in bright light, so that her eyes,
overwhelmed, could only make out everything indistinctly. There were silhouettes of bodies,
motionless and lifeless, running with long, pointed limbs, all coming in her direction.

She didn’t know when, but Aveline let go of her.

She continued to run after her.

Suddenly they were inside a building, the walls dreary and crisscrossed with cracks as thick as a
thumb. Tables and sleeping bags filled the rooms, maps and documents were piled up against the
walls, and it smelled of urine and blood, porridge and the powder from fired artillery shells. To

Marie, it looked like a house that didn’t know whether to burst or collapse.

Marie ahead again, Aveline reloaded.

An Royalist, a shotgun, a bang, the shot missed. Shot sifted into the wall, but a small piece of lead
cut into Marie’s calf. She fired back. The man retreated behind a corner. No time. Keep going. Keep
going. A staircase. The pain came. Glaring, then throbbing.

I can still walk.

Time slowed down with every step. They found a room with a heavy door and a desk full of files
and papers. In the corner was a cot, which seemed luxurious compared to the thin sleeping bags of
the soldiers on the ground floor. A shelf made of sheet metal pipes stood inconspicuously in the
corner, holding a few books and more files.

“The battery commander’s room,” Aveline noted.

Marie nodded, breathing heavily, closed the door, and closed the bolt. Her gaze wandered to her
wounded leg, but in the red glow of the nearest flare in the sky, she couldn’t tell what was blood,
mud, or just fabric. She wondered why the concentrate kept away fear but not pain.

“Stay by the door,” ordered Aveline, who pulled out her last hand grenade. She stood next to the
window, which had no glass, ensuring that it smelled no better inside than outside. Men were
shouting in the courtyard, some in pain, others giving orders, and Marie could also hear voices
inside the house.

“There are many more than we were told,” she said quietly.

She felt uncertain. She tried to push it aside and clutched the weapon tighter as her thoughts turned
to counting the remaining ammunition. There wasn’t much left.

The damn red light faded.

Marie blinked, adjusting to the darkness as quickly as she could.

Aveline pulled the pin from the hand grenade with a clicking sound. The fuse emitted acrid smoke. She took a swift step toward the window and paused. Marie frowned, opening her mouth to say
something.

Light.

Bright, glaring. A shot rang out, drowning out all other noise at that moment. Aveline’s silhouette
appeared against the white light, as if the radiant world, as if what called to her when she got the
concentrate, had descended to earth. She appeared to her like an angel, truly beautiful and tragic at
the same time.

The part of Marie that wasn’t blinded rushed forward. Aveline dropped to the floor, more shots
whistled over her … and the hand grenade rolled next to her, still emitting acrid chemical smoke.

Marie kicked the explosive toward the door and threw herself behind the heavy desk with Aveline.

The detonation left a ringing in their ears.

Tons of paper fluttered off the table.

The massive piece of furniture itself shook under the force of the explosion, while plaster and dirt
rained down from the ceiling.

Then silence.

Until Marie heard something scraping across the floor. She looked up. Aveline pulled herself toward
a wall, leaving a trail of blood behind her. Marie caught a glimpse of a torn hand, torn fingers, and a
palm that was almost split in two. A painful stab in her chest. She closed her eyes, imagining
something that was more blue than gray, until Aveline’s voice snapped her out of her concentration.

“B-By S-Sance,” she blurted out.

Marie crawled toward her, her right leg throbbing with pain.

“T-Time’s up,” said Aveline, and at first Marie didn’t understand until she saw Aveline’s eyes. They
were frozen. The black pupils were like two frozen brushstrokes in a sea of snow. The concentrate
had stopped working. “A b-bit unfortunate that it happened just as I was standing at the w-window,”
she said with a pained smile.

“H-How much can you still see?” Marie’s voice was quiet, stifled by it all.

“L-light and dark,” Aveline’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. She pressed her torn hand
against her stomach. There was blood everywhere. Her good hand fumbled for the pockets on her
belt, searching for bandages. “Marie, you have to…”

Soon it will wear off for me too.

She would be blind, like Aveline.

She would be Marie in the corner, here of all places. Fear pumped through her body with every
heartbeat. As if all the fear that the concentrate had held back was now being released in one fell
stroke, all warmth drained from her body and mind. She sat here, at the highest point of the ruins of
Poindures, surrounded by enemies who rightly sought revenge. Yet she was the Marie who hadn’t
wanted any of this.

She was just a pale girl of nineteen winters, her broken eyes tear-stained, her black hair streaked
with dust, and everything about her trembled and shook, finding no rest, no peace, because the
situation she found herself in could only end in a terrible death.

And it was all her fault.

If she had been braver back then, if she had believed in a future that she could build with her own
hands, it would never have come to this. Instead, she had always done what was simply necessary.

And her community had recognized that she had no talent, no will, no charm, no beauty. So one had
to apply to all, because according to Sance, all things had to have a purpose, and what noble
purpose was there in bearing the suffering of those with a higher purpose?

I’ve been dead for a long time.

She clenched her fists.

Go away… it won’t change anything anyway!

A void spread through her until a hand took hers.

She blinked and found herself back with Aveline, who was holding her hand and whose eyes were
as lifeless as Marie felt. She knew that the Marie in the corner had left. There was no point in
staying here anymore. Fear only helped if there was a chance of rescue.

There hadn’t been one for over a year.

“Marie?”

Aveline’s coat was soaked with blood, her voice weak. She smiled wearily.

“Stars or me?”

And she tilted her head to one side and then the other, testing.

“Just you right now.”

A sigh.

“They’ll be here any minute,” Aveline reminded her and quickly explained the plan, at the end of
which Marie quietly made her way to the bookcase. Sharp splinters were stuck in several books, and
several folders had fallen out, scattering their contents across the floor. Marie sank to the floor
against the wall, ignoring the throbbing in her calf. They held both hers and Aveline’s carbine in one
hand each.

Voices grew louder outside the door, while the howitzers in the courtyard remained silent. They had
done their job. The voices in the hallway were arguing, the words incomprehensible to Marie, but
the tone of voice on one side was uncomprehending, on the other angry. Then a sharp command
rang out.

Something rammed against the oak door with a dull sound.

They probably think we’re dead or at least incapacitated.

BOOM, the door shook again, the hinges rattling.

The concentrate works longer on me than on Aveline. She’s had it too many times.

BOOM, and there was a threatening crunch in the undertone.

I’m a lucky girl, Aveline said. So it’ll work out!

With a crash, the door broke off its iron hinges and slammed to the floor, kicking up dust. Marie
held her breath. She relaxed every muscle in her body. I’m dead. It wasn’t a grenade, but three men
in royalist uniforms who stormed into the devastated room.

Their eyes darted to the corner, to Aveline, to Marie, to the desk, searching, yes, craving a single
telltale movement to make their nervous fingers twitch on the trigger. They had expected something
else, and for a moment, indecision hung in the air.

Then a word was spoken.

Marie didn’t understand it, but she heard the relief in it.

A relief that, albeit hesitantly, spread to the armed men. One laughed because they had worried for
nothing. More words were spoken. One of the men grumbled something and turned to her.

Marie raised her weapons.

She fired and hit the man who had turned toward her, who was wearing a coat with a black
bandolier over it, right in the chest. She fired again with the other carbine, but the weight of the
weapon and the recoil of the first shot, which transferred to her body with a jolt, caused her to hit
the next royalist soldier in the abdomen instead of the chest.

He screamed as the bullet pierced his skin, flesh, and hip bone.

Marie jumped up and pulled a knife from her belt. The last of the three opponents turned in her
direction, his posture still marked by shock and surprise. He was closest to the door. She twisted the
knife in her hand and lunged at the man. A shot rang out from his weapon before the rifle fell to the
floor. Marie tried to stab him from above with the blade.

In the carotid artery.

He caught her knife, grabbed her wrist, and wouldn’t let go.

The mercenary began to crush her wrist while his other hand tried to grab her throat. Marie gasped,
thinking she could hear every single bone crack. The pain made her vision flicker. But there was no
fear, no despair in her. She knew she was physically inferior.

And so she stopped fighting back. She allowed one hand to wrap around her neck. But she also felt
her opponent’s surprise. She looked into his green eyes and Marie thought they were pretty, as
gentle as a meadow on a day that was more blue than gray. She saw herself in his pupils, her
demonic eyes reflecting the red light of the torch, which flickered and danced and hissed in her ears
as it came through the window.

A disgusted word was uttered.

The man pushed Marie halfway across the room, crashing her into the shelf. The metal rods
collapsed on top of Marie with a clatter and a flutter, along with their load of books and folders. She
remained lying there, her upper body supported only by the wall. Her right hand was limp, the flesh
already dark blue and burning with pain.

That was it, thought the unlucky lucky Marie.

Although it was lucky to have gotten this far at all.

Aveline had said it was just a chance.

Marie watched the royalist soldier, the mercenary, the man with eyes that were made for peace
rather than war. Should she have shot him first? After all, this guy was quite a bit taller than her, so
it was no wonder he could crush her wrist just like that! On the other hand, a glance at the other
two, one dead and motionless, the other bleeding from his wound, revealed that she, Marie, was
generally the cause of the size problem.

She was simply small.

Then you won’t get hit so easily, lucky Marie.

A smile flitted across her face because Henry had said that.

Marie breathed in and out, trembling. Her gaze was still fixed on the Royalist. He took a step
toward her, having already picked up the short-barreled shotgun. The empty shell flew out and fell
to the ground with a clatter. With a jolt, he loaded the next cartridge into the chamber and took aim.

Marie felt that she should say something at the end and opened her mouth.

But what? He doesn’t understand me anyway.

The man exploded in a dazzlingly bright explosion.

Marie saw only white.

She felt heat.

And when this heat subsided a little after a few blinks of her eyes, when the noise of the explosion
faded, she heard the screams of her supposed executioner. With teary eyes, her gaze lowered, the
world still glistening and radiating blue sparks, she saw little of the royalist man flailing about. It
reminded Marie of a dance, of Fevre, until he threw himself to the ground.

It stank of burnt flesh and hair.

He turned back and forth, rolling a little in her direction, his movements slowing down.
Marie rose on shaky legs, holding her good hand over her mouth. The concentrate made even the
blandest meal taste edible, but the stench still made her gag. Her gaze shifted to Aveline, whose
hand holding the signal pistol had fallen to the ground. Smoke rose from the muzzle.

“Is he dead?” she asked.

The man was no longer moving.

He wasn’t burning anymore either, which was a good thing.

“I thought you were blind,” Marie interjected, frowning.

“That’s why I’m asking,” Aveline replied, breathing heavily.

She stared at the motionless body, the scorched flesh and hair, the coat that was still smoking from
the heat, and the shotgun that had fallen to the ground again. She answered Aveline’s question in the
affirmative, picked up the loaded weapon, and limped over to her to sit down. Marie pointed the
shotgun at the entrance and waited silently.

Noise came in from outside; the battle raged on. Screams and shouted orders reached her ears, while
in the distance, outside the city borders, the fire of heavy artillery rumbled like a thunderstorm.

After one last flare, there was no more red light bathing the ruins in an infernal play of light. Only
sporadic shots rang out, as if lost in the dust and darkness of the ravaged city.

Have we lost?

The thought did not hurt her.

“My anchor is a beach near Orsolille,” Aveline finally broke the silence. She had closed her eyes,
which had become useless anyway. ” High waves, Marie. It really roared when they broke against
the flood barrier. And by Sance, how strong the wind blew! The hat my uncle gave me as a farewell
gift was swept straight out to sea, as if it had always belonged there. Far away from everything,“
she exhaled audibly, no longer seeming to notice the pain in her torn hand. ”I was afraid that day. If
the gusts had been just a little stronger, the waves just a little higher, I would have been gone, while
the instructor called after me that I should remember exactly how the salty air tasted and how the
wet sand felt under my feet.”

“I think that sounds exciting,” Marie commented.

She noticed her vision blurring, but said nothing.

The chemical concentrate in her blood had burned away, and without it, her body didn’t know how
her eyes were supposed to function. Anatomically speaking, as one doctor had said, it made no
sense. The eyes themselves, that is. It was a miracle they worked at all.

“But the sea has been calm for a few months now,” said Aveline, her voice quieter, or perhaps the
noise coming through the window was simply too loud. For Marie, it was just a storm battering the
house, making the walls shake and the foundations tremble. A combination of violence that mixed
the smell of burnt flesh in the room with the scent of gunpowder and blood.

“I’m walking on an endless beach, the sand is soft and cool, but not a single grain sticks to my feet.
There is no wind, it almost feels as if there is no air at all. No smell. No taste. Am I even breathing?
Sometimes I see iron-gray rocks, far too smooth to climb. They seem as immovable as an ancient,
sleeping giant, like the earth itself, as if they had been cast from a single piece. And sometimes
there are people, far away, walking along this eternal beach, gazing out at the pitch-black sea full of
stars. And every time it gets harder to go back into the water, to feel and experience again and…”

The shots, the shouting, the fighting that broke out in the courtyard of the old citadel drowned out
Aveline’s whispered words. The storm raged with all its might, and more than once Marie wondered
if the house, this makeshift ruin, would collapse. Her eyesight was gone, leaving her with only a
vague sense of light and dark. She let go of the shotgun, groped for Aveline’s arm, and held on tight.

It was more instinct, the memory of a former feeling, that drove her to do so.

Then the storm subsided.

It fluttered away with a few scattered shots, a final rumble, a final detonation that even Marie’s
limited vision could see in the form of a flash of light. The house shook, she felt plaster falling on
her head and shook her head to get it out of her hair.

Calm returned.

“We made it,” Marie exclaimed, stating the fact, simply satisfied. But Aveline remained silent, even
when she spoke again. She felt cautiously along Aveline’s arm, searching for her soft face, feeling
blood-soaked fabric, hard brass and iron buckles, the sewn-on rank insignia, and then finally finding
her cheek.

Cold.

“Aveline,” Marie said, her voice irritated, her head confused. She was searching for something that
was no longer there. She hadn’t wanted it anymore. Nevertheless, Marie began to cry because the
memory was like grief, like she had to function, it was still there.

It didn’t hurt.

But it didn’t feel good, just empty.

Her feelings were no longer able to drown out her thoughts. And so a sober memory came back,
but even though she had done something wrong, it didn’t hurt.

I forgot to take the time