Defector (Part One)

Alan moved with the crowd through the underground shelter. People hurried past him, bumping into him, shoving him aside.

But no one looked at him. At most, they gave him a glance and wondered who this unwashed, bearded fellow blocking their way was.

He did not mind. In fact, he enjoyed it—just walking, without needing to think about where he was going, letting his heart drift wherever it wished.

Sometimes, he even felt as if he were back in his youth, walking through chaotic streets, listening to peddlers cry their wares and customers argue over prices.

He smiled.

But an officer wearing a blue field cap spotted him. He must have thought Alan was mocking him, because Alan saw him frown and prepare to speak.

Alan saluted him, dipped his head respectfully, and continued onward.

He did not know where he was going, but that did not matter. This was already the best situation he could hope for.

Everyone was trapped in the underground fortifications beneath Mount Mishil. The broadcasts continued as always, reporting victories somewhere or other, along with the "good news" that reinforcements would arrive soon.

But no one believed them anymore.

Food rations had gone from a pound of bread to a palm-wide lump of moldy flour. Drinking water was plentiful, but with fuel in short supply, diarrhea caused by drinking untreated water had become an even deadlier enemy.

The only reason everyone had held on this long was because they were facing Orks.

Fight, or die.

There was no third path. But Alan knew morale had collapsed long ago. Everyone was merely continuing to fight on instinct, like walking corpses. Hope had already been shattered.

"Tilmatt Alan."

The first time, he did not hear the words clearly and did not bother turning around.

Tilmatt Alan was