Liberi Reader

Glug. Glug.

I watch the bubbles in the water cooler. They rise up in an unending stream, and then they pop.

Many people are walking out of the dour hall, taking advantage of the arbiter calling a recess to stretch their legs, and voice their opinions on the matter while they are at it.

In my moment of distraction, the water overflows, spilling onto the floor. The noblewoman behind me languidly moves away from the puddle, afraid the 'pure snowmelt from Sami' would damage her worn leather boots.

Bozhe moy, I once had the exact same pair...

I quickly spin my wheelchair, attempting to flee.

He gives his seat a pat, and he gets a yelp of fear in return. A student kneels on the ground underneath his buttocks, serving as his chair.

Upon hearing her comrade's words, the thug pulls her knife out of her 'cushion', warm blood dripping off its blade.

Varvara closes her eyes tight. A gust of wind sweeps by her cheek, and a few drops of warm liquid splash across her forehead.

She shudders as she opens her eyes. The raised stick is gone, along with its master.

Zima stands before Varvara, waving about a bloodstained steel pipe as she bellows out her challenge.

There are more footsteps and angry shouts, but they are soon replaced by cries of pain.

Before long, the nearby Warriors are sprawled out across the ground. Leto pats the dust off her hands, giving one of their heads a good kick before moving back to Sonya's side.

Zima crouches down, stretching out a hand to Varvara.

Though Zima's face is still stained with blood, it is the face that has brought her the most relief these past few days.

Varvara tugs on Zima's hand, using her strength to stand. Though she still trembles, the light has returned to her eyes.

It is the light of a drowning girl who has grabbed onto a buoy. Though she does not know what exactly lies behind that door, she believes that as long as Sonya is with her, it is an exit out of this forsaken place.

The rescued students, several dozen in all, are huddled along the road like canned fins. Some of them had their jackets taken away, their faces streaked with tears.

But with Pencil Stub and his team's coaxing, they slowly stand up and follow their lead, heading towards their camp.

Before anyone can react, the Sixteen Warriors appear at the very back of the group, escorting a burly Ursus.

Shrieks break out at the sight of them, and everything immediately devolves into chaos. A few people shout, trying to maintain order, but to no avail.

It is an ebon maw, a voracious abyss.

The pitch-black muzzle slowly rises, the grinding of gears piercing the silence. Panic breaks out as people scramble to hide themselves where they can, holding their breath as they wait for the cannon's roar.

For a moment, all sound is driven out of Katorga. All that remains is a keen ringing in the ears.

Zima pokes her head out of a snowbank, her sight blurred by blood. Though she leapt out of the center of the blast, shrapnel has left a gash across her forehead.

Under a layer of dust, a scorched, black pit mars what was once level ground. Flames climb their way up the wooden doors. Around her, there are the bleeding, the injured, the fallen.

Gromov's laughter can still be heard through the artillery barrage. He does not bother aiming, wantonly raining down fire across the area. Watching pathetic insects scurry about is his greatest joy, after all.

The ramshackle buildings sway. Varvara had been through too much today. She stands by a stone pillar, her eyes blank...

As the girls fade into the distance, Faddey lets out a deep breath. The last vestige of his consciousness is beginning to scatter.

Gromov leaps aside as a crossbow bolt sprouts out of his lackey's chest. He looks towards its source: a high-rise, from which more bolts are coming.