Free Web Novel【 404 Ivanovich Sokolov
Status: Killed In Action (Confirmed)
Notes: Mech wreckage recovered. No remains in cockpit; presumed vaporized or pulverized by artillery impact.】
Pavel's brow twitched as she looked at the report before her.
Damn it, I'm not dead yet.
She squatted in the ruins of a half-collapsed communications outpost, clutching a crumpled, blood-stained piece of paper.
She had picked this up ten minutes ago from beside the corpse of a communications soldier.
That unlucky soul was probably hit by stray fire during the retreat, clutching his document pouch tightly as he died—it was full of various combat damage reports and personnel status updates.
Pavel flipped through it, only intending to check the battle situation, but her eyes immediately caught her own name.
【Presumed vaporized or pulverized by artillery impact.】
Pavel read that line again.
Vaporized.
Pulverized.
It sounded as if she were a bar of soap thrown into a furnace.
She couldn't help but look down at herself.
Her hands were still there.
Her feet were still there.
Although her whole body ached as if she had been run over by a truck, she was definitely still a complete, flesh-and-blood human figure.
"...I'm still breathing, dammit."
She muttered softly.
But the words on the paper wouldn't lie.
At least, not to the Punishment Camp.
Pavel Ivanovich Sokolov, ID 404-631, was gloriously sacrificed in battle on 【Date】.
Mech wreckage recovered—this meant her beat-up little mech had already been dragged back for parts.
No remains in cockpit—this meant no one bothered to look for her.
Presumed vaporized—this meant they didn't even bother with a body bag.
Clean and neat.
Extremely efficient.
Perfectly in line with the Punishment Camp's usual style.
Pavel stared at the paper for a long time.
Her expression was twisted.
An indescribable feeling churned inside her.
Not anger.
Anger was too much of a luxury; she had long learned not to waste energy on such emotions.
Nor was it sadness.
Sadness required something worth mourning, and she had nothing in the Punishment Camp worth missing.
What was it then?
Pavel thought about it.
Perhaps... a faint sense of collapse.
Everything she had built up in that hellhole over who knows how long—her designation, her position, the subtle cooperative relationship she had with those people, the rules of survival she had painstakingly figured out—
It had all been zeroed out.
Just because of a thin report declaring her dead.
What would happen if she went back now?
"Report, Officer, I'm not dead. That report is wrong."
And then what?
Then she would be treated as a deserter, or a traitor, or both.
Then she would be dragged to the center of the camp and shot in front of everyone.
If she were unlucky, perhaps the 'Creative Personnel' would come up with some new tricks.
Pavel suddenly felt like laughing.
She was dead.
Pavel Ivanovich Sokolov was dead.
Dead clean, without even leaving a whole corpse behind.
That was good.
The dead had no worries.
The dead didn't have to carry out missions, didn't have to worry about where the next meal was, didn't have to worry about being woken up by a rifle butt in the middle of the night.
The dead could lie quietly in some corner, never having to care about any damn trivial matters again.
The only problem was—
This dead person was still breathing, still felt pain in her ribs, and was still squatting in a ruined communications outpost, clutching her own obituary.
Pavel folded the paper twice and tucked it into her pocket.
She didn't know why, but she wanted to keep it.
Perhaps as a memento. Perhaps she could use it as a joke someday.
"Hey, look, this is my certificate of death. Officially certified, honest goods."
She stood up and stretched her stiff neck.
Since she couldn't go back to Usar's side, there was only one path left.
Follow that Victoriana Knight until she could find a new way out.
It seemed she would have to be a ghost for now.
...
Pavel squeezed out through a gap in the ruins.
The sky outside was a strange dark red, the reflection of distant burning buildings cast upon the clouds.
The air was filled with smoke, charred residue, and a rotting smell she was all too familiar with.
The smell of the battlefield.
She quickly returned the way she came.
Her steps were light, making almost no sound.
Although Pavel had barely left her mech, she found herself moving as if on familiar ground across this battlefield.
Eleanor was still waiting in the original spot.
The Victoriana Knight was leaning against a broken wall, holding a rifle picked up from a corpse, vigilantly watching the surroundings.
Seeing Pavel return, her gaze relaxed slightly.
But only slightly.
"How was it?" freewebnσvel.cøm
Eleanor asked in a low voice.
Pavel didn't answer immediately.
She squatted opposite Eleanor, pulled the folded paper from her pocket, and handed it over.
Eleanor took the paper, unfolded it, and scanned it quickly.
Her expression didn't change much—only her eyebrows twitched slightly.
"Presumed vaporized or pulverized by artillery impact," she read aloud. "Died a horrible death. Your Usar paperwork is quite imaginative."
"Right?"
Pavel's tone was equally flat. "I also think it has a certain literary quality."
Eleanor handed the paper back to her. "So, you really are dead."
"Thoroughly dead." Pavel refolded the paper and tucked it back into her pocket.
"Officially certified, stamped and effective."
Silence lasted for a moment.
Sporadic gunfire sounded in the distance, like some ominous background music.
"So what are you planning to do now?" Eleanor asked.
Pavel looked at her.
There wasn't much extraneous emotion in those eyes.
"I shouldn't be able to go back," she said, lowering her head, her voice calm as if stating a fact unrelated to herself.
"I might as well go with you."
Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
"This isn't quite what we agreed on before."
"It isn't quite," Pavel admitted. "The previous plan was to take you near the defensive line, and then I would go back to confirm the situation. Now the situation has been confirmed—I'm a dead person, and dead people have nowhere to go back to."
She paused. "So the plan has changed."
"To what?"
"To me taking you back, and then..." Pavel thought for a moment, "...and then we'll see."
"We'll see?" Eleanor repeated. "What kind of plan is that?"
"A very flexible plan," Pavel replied without changing expression. "I told you, I'm very good at adapting on the fly." freewebnøvel.coɱ
Eleanor stared at her for a long moment.
A complex light flickered in those ice-blue eyes—part scrutiny, part something indefinable.
"Do you know what this means?" she finally spoke, her voice very low.
"Going with me, to Victoriana's position... do you understand what that implies?"
"It means I have completely betrayed Usar," Pavel answered without hesitation. "It means I change from a 'deceased Punishment Camp prisoner' to a 'deserting Punishment Camp prisoner.' It means if any Usar personnel recognize me in the future, I will die even more horribly than what's written on this report."
She tilted her head.
"Is there anything else I've missed?"
Eleanor was speechless.
She looked at the girl before her, this child who had just discovered her own country had declared her dead, discussing her 'betrayal' in an almost numb tone.
No hesitation.
No struggle.
Not even a shred of moral burden.
It was as if she wasn't discussing betrayal and life/death, but which road to take today.
"Don't you..." Eleanor carefully chose her words, "...feel there's any issue with it? Betraying your own faction?"
Pavel blinked, seeming to genuinely consider the question.
"My country threw me into the Punishment Camp for some reason I don't know."
She said, «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» her tone lacking anger, only a strange calmness.
"My country made me a cannon fodder by piloting a rickety mech that could fall apart at any moment. My country declared me vaporized less than a few hours after I went missing, too lazy to even find a body."
She paused. "I'm not entirely sure what kind of country has anything worth *not* betraying."
Eleanor opened her mouth but found herself unable to respond.
"Besides," Pavel continued, "I'm probably not much of a patriot. I came to the battlefield because I was thrown into the Punishment Camp, not because I wanted to defend my home and country. I fight because if I don't, I die; it's not because of some lofty ideal."
She shrugged.
"So, the word 'betrayal'... doesn't mean much to me."
"You are a very strange person," Eleanor said.
"I know," Pavel replied. "Others have said so too."
"Alright then."
She sighed. "Since you've decided, I have nothing more to say."
Pavel asked directly: "So when do we leave?"
Eleanor stood up—her movement somewhat stiff, clearly her injured leg was still bothering her.
"Now," she said. "While it's still dark, we go as far as we can."
Pavel stood up too.
"Which direction?" she asked.
Eleanor pointed northwest.
"Victoriana's main force is over there. I told you before, about three kilometers away."
She frowned. "But straight-line distance is meaningless. We have to bypass at least three engagement zones."
"I know."
Pavel picked up a rifle from beside a corpse and checked the magazine—seven rounds left.
Better than nothing.
"Follow me, step where I stepped. I more or less remember the mine distribution in this area."
Eleanor looked somewhat surprised.
"How do you know that?"
"I laid them."
