THE SCRAP OF BRASS

The heavy iron door of the supply room groaned as Vance pushed it open, gesturing for Elena to step inside ahead of him. The small room smelled of gun oil, dry leather, and damp concrete, lit only by a single overhead bulb hanging from a frayed yellow cord. It was far away from the prying eyes of the junior soldiers and the automated security cameras monitoring the main exercise yard. Vance closed the heavy door behind them with a definitive thud that echoed off the bare walls, locking the deadbolt with a sharp, metallic click.

“Talk,” Vance said, leaning his back against the heavy wooden door and crossing his arms once more. His expression was no longer that of a commanding officer dealing with an insubordinate prisoner; it was the face of a man trapped by his own curiosity and the dangerous implications of what he had just witnessed on the firing range. “That shot wasn’t standard infantry training. That was black-ops tier counter-sniper work. The kind they taught the deep-recon detachments before the government restructured the northern territories.”

Elena set her bucket down near the corner of the room, her movements deliberate and unhurried. She walked over to a small metal workbench cluttered with spare parts, cleaning patches, and bottles of solvent. Without asking permission, she picked up a small brass brush and began absentmindedly cleaning the residue from her fingernails.

“I didn’t ask to be put on the deep-recon teams,” Elena said, her voice flat and devoid of self-pity. “I was a civilian structural engineer assigned to oversee the construction of the underground munitions bunkers in the western sector. When the invasion started, the command staff abandoned the installation, leaving our engineering crew behind to lock down the automated systems. When the enemy forces breached the perimeter, we didn't have infantry to defend us. We had to pick up whatever dropped weapons were left in the trenches and learn how to use them ourselves if we wanted to survive the night.”

Vance listened in silence, his eyes fixed on her hands. “And the survivors?”

“There weren't many,” Elena replied, looking up to meet his gaze directly. “Some were captured. Others were integrated into irregular units until the ceasefire was signed. But once the war officially ended, the high command didn’t want engineers walking around with firsthand knowledge of where every classified bunker and fuel line in the territory was buried. So they classified us as security risks, stripped us of our civilian credentials, and transferred us to the southern internment camps under permanent detention orders.”