2042_POST-WW3 - GIRLS' FRONTLINE FANFICTION.

INSIDERS_11: DOLL_TRAFFICKING_.

"Dolltrafficking Incident"
February 25th, 2041

It had been one of those nights where everything felt off. The kind where you could feel the tension hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break. The streets of Pokrov were quiet—too quiet for a town that had been under Bersikan control for only a few weeks. I was on patrol with the local "Patrol" Special Military Police Squadron (SMPS), doing our rounds and keeping an eye on things. But finally, I got that fancy ass "Tier 1" Special Forces gear. A renewed 6B47M helmet with some fake Ops-Core ARC Rails and EMR Tsifra cover from NPP KlASS, a 6B46V Plate Carrier with some real composite plates from the Reversed Armory. Fucking finally, I got in hand some pairs of new 6Sh122 gloves, 6B51 knee and elbow pads, 6B50 ballistic goggles, and a new fancy pair of VKBO summer boots. The wind had a bite to it, and the cold seeped through my uniform as we made our way down the narrow streets in a Navy Blue HMMWV. The silence was unnerving like the city was holding its breath. That was when I pulled up the balaclava.

Then the call came in.

21:53 UTC2. A civilian reported a disturbance at a nightclub near Vul. Plyazhna streets. The voice on the other end had been shaky, the words rushed. Something about gunshots, a gang. No one knew exactly what was happening, but the look in the driver's eyes told me what I was thinking. This wasn't going to be a simple disturbance call.

As we approached the nightclub, I could already feel the weight of the situation. The lights from the building flashed in erratic colors—red, blue, green—pulsing to the beat of the music that spilled out into the street. Even from a distance, we could hear the bass thumping, drowning out any sound of normal life. It was surreal—like the city had a heartbeat, and we were about to rip it open.

We pulled up to the nightclub, parking a few meters from the entrance, our boots crunching on the cracked pavement as we stepped out of the vehicle. The flashing lights made it hard to see clearly, but I caught the outline of figures near the door—too many for a regular night out.

Then it happened.

Before we could even reach the entrance, the gangsters came out of the shadows, armed with submachine guns, and opened fire. The sharp cracks of gunfire split the night, bullets whizzing past us as we scrambled for cover. Instinct kicked in, and I hit the ground behind a nearby car, my heart pounding in my chest. The HMMWV took a few hits, metal screeching as bullets punched through the thin armor.

For a moment, it was chaos. The street lit up with muzzle flashes, the thunder of gunfire echoing off the walls of the buildings. But we weren't new to this. The SMPS was trained for situations like this—urban ambushes, close-quarters combat. We returned fire, suppressing the attackers as they tried to duck back into the club.

"Push forward!" someone shouted, and before I knew it, we were moving.

I could hear the others laying down covering fire as I advanced, ducking and weaving between the parked cars, my rifle trained on the entrance. The gangsters fell back, retreating into the building as we stormed the nightclub.

Inside, it was chaos. The music was still blaring, some ridiculous beat that made my head throb, and the crowd was a mess of people—dancers, gangsters, civilians—everyone caught in the madness. The DJ hadn't even stopped playing. He was either too scared or too stupid to realize what was happening.

One of our guys fired a shot into the ceiling, the sharp crack of the unsuppressed round cutting through the noise. The crowd screamed, people ducking and scrambling for cover as the music finally died, leaving a ringing silence in its place. But the fight wasn't over.

I spotted gangsters blending into the crowd, trying to slip away, their weapons half-concealed. I raised my rifle, firing a burst into the nearest one before he could react. He went down hard, the thud of his body lost in the chaos. Another gunfight erupted inside the club, bullets ripping through the walls, tables flipping over as cover. The gangsters weren't going down easy. They knew the place better than we did, using the crowd and the dark corners to their advantage.

It felt like the fight lasted forever, but eventually, the gunfire died down, and the smoke began to clear.

That's when we found the storage room.

One of our operators had kicked in the door, revealing what looked like a regular backroom—until we saw them. A-Dolls—dozens of them—gagged, bound, stuffed into makeshift holding cells. Their eyes stared blankly ahead, their faces smeared with grime. It was a jarring sight, even after everything I'd seen in this war. These weren't ordinary machines. These were civilian Dolls, treated like cargo, smuggled, and trafficked.

"Holy shit," one of the guys whispered. "What the hell is this?"

I didn't have an answer. None of us did. All I knew was that this went way beyond a simple gang skirmish. This was a doll trafficking operation, and it ran deep.

We reported the find to FSB Command immediately, knowing this was too big for us to handle alone. Within an hour, the FSB Vympel units had arrived, along with a plainclothes agent who seemed to know more than he was letting on. He was quiet, and controlled—too calm for a man who had just walked into a room full of trafficked Dolls.

I was standing outside the club, the cold night air finally cutting through the adrenaline, when the plainclothes agent approached me. His face was expressionless, the kind of face you could forget in a crowd, but his eyes—there was something in his eyes. Something that said he knew more than anyone else here.

"Petrovich," he said, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. "We need to talk."

I frowned, wiping the sweat from my brow, still trying to process everything that had just happened. "About what?"

"About the Dolls, the relics, and what you've been seeing."

My blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"

He pulled out a small, folded piece of paper from his coat, handing it to me without a word. I unfolded it, my eyes scanning the page. At first, it didn't make sense—just more numbers, coordinates, lines of code. But then, something clicked. These were the same numbers I'd seen in my dreams. The same symbols, the same sequences. It was all connected.

"You've stumbled onto something bigger than you realize," the agent continued, his voice calm, measured. "The Russian Federation has been pushing relic research for years, long before the war. But not everything went according to plan. Some of the research... was leaked. Information got out. People got hurt. Innocent people."

My mind was spinning. The incident in Moscow, the girl I had met, the forbidden secrets swirling around me—it was all part of this. The relics, the Dolls, the numbers in my dreams. I had unknowingly stepped into the middle of something far more dangerous than I could have imagined.

"So... what happens now?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

The agent gave me a long, hard look. "Now? Now, you keep your head down. You're in deep, Petrovich. Too deep to walk away. But don't worry—FSB has eyes on you. Just do your job. And when the time comes... we'll talk again."

He turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, the cold wind cutting through my jacket as I stared at the paper in my hands. I didn't know what to make of it. The numbers, the relics, the trafficking ring—it was all part of a bigger picture. And somehow, I was right in the middle of it.

The night was still, the gunfire long gone, but the weight of what I had learned pressed down on me. The war was no longer just about territory, about control. There were things happening beneath the surface—things that no one was supposed to know.

And now, I knew.

As the wind picked up, scattering the sounds of the distant city, I folded the paper and tucked it into my jacket. Whatever was coming, I wasn't ready. But I had no choice.

The war was getting darker. And so was the path ahead.