Cavalcade of the Iniquitous

True Face

Thursday, 1158 hours, 15th of July, 1915

I had been left all alone in Wagner's office. A few days ago, I would have jumped at the opportunity to search his desk, the cabinets, even Oliver's reports, for any information that could prove useful. But there was nothing in this room that could be of use to me now. Not anymore.

I sat quietly in my chair, trying to ignore the ache in my shoulder, my leg, the wounded flesh itching beneath the bandages. Just who were these visitors that wanted to see me? That wanted to meet with Nemo? Wagner hadn't told me much about them, only that they were important army personnel. I tried not to think of what that might mean, instead turning my focus to the other matter weighing heavily on my mind. My squad. They had been through so much, but more than that, they had been vulnerable with me; prepared to open up old wounds and reveal the raw hurt beneath, all because they thought it might help me.

Might help Nemo.

I let my gaze drift to a large painting hanging on the wall to my right, swirling purples and blues flecked with ivory; an ocean perhaps, or an artistic rendition of the night sky. Once again, I felt that familiar wave of guilt wash over me. Doris' tears. Elias' shame. Yakov's brokenness. They had spoken the truth while I continued to weave them lies. When would it all end? How would it end?

As much as the thought terrified me, I had to tell them the truth, the sooner the better. They might hate me for it, turn on me, perhaps even turn me in, but those were risks I had to take. I couldn't keep living a lie.

No.

There was another way. I looked towards the window. In the distance, I could see a group of soldiers carrying bags of cement over their shoulders. The walls were still under repair. It wouldn't be too difficult to sneak out there one night, pretend I was on guard duty at the wall, and simply slip away when I got the chance. I would still be hurting them, letting them believe their new comrade had deserted them, but surely that would be less painful than the truth. Yes, that was the only way. Keep concealing the truth until I had the chance to escape. But where would I go? I couldn't go back to the base. I was a deserter—worse than that, a traitor. I couldn't go home for the same reasons. Perhaps I could make my way to a nearby town and build for myself a new life as a Stygian Dissenter...

No.

I would still be living a lie. As difficult as it would be, I had to tell them. There was no other choice. I turned back to the painting, the swirling patterns forming vague images I couldn't quite identify. As I let my gaze drift over the intricate brushwork, I was reminded of the portrait Elias had painted for me.

The sound of voices turned my attention away from the painting, away from the difficult decision I had to make. Footsteps. I gingerly rose to my feet, leaning on the back of the chair, taking the weight off my injured leg. With a bang, the office door suddenly flew open and in bounded a lanky young man, his dark hair contrasting with the white lab coat he wore.

"Remember me, Nemo?!" he cried, throwing his arms wide, grinning like a madman.

I stared at him in surprise. And dread. Was the game finally up? Was I about to be discovered? Hoping against hope, I leaned into my uncertainty, once more assuming the role of the nervous amnesiac. "No I don't, sorry. I... I have issues with my memory. Have we met before?"

He blinked at me, then burst out laughing. "Nah, I'm just messing with you."

Another young man stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. "I apologise for my brother," he said, looking me up and down, his brow furrowed, as though unimpressed by what he saw. "He's an idiot."