Sharpshooter

January 19th, 2050

Telling by the dirty calendar of puppies and kittens on my right, I can see that I've been out for less than two days.

Wherever I am, I'm guessing that this COBRA base is secluded– probably somewhere in the desert– like the rest I've invaded. And because the base is isolated, supplies and aid take at least a week to travel. I know because we've taken advantage of those cargo transports and stole a few small items– like a cannon.

Trust me, the cannon is small compared to the other items we transported home that night.

Anyways– most COBRA soldiers can't get fast and modern medical help– they have to stick to the tourniquets and the bio-glue that binds wounds together for later fixation.

If my knee did heal overnight, there's only one way they could've done so.

I touch my knee, which feels fine. The skin feels smoother than usual, which is strange.

I know that they did a bio transplant.

The process is expensive– so expensive that this procedure is only for people with political status.

If this COBRA base is able to afford this technology, the Union is in trouble.

And if COBRA blows a million credits on me to heal me overnight, they obviously want something more than information.

I look at the gun on the floor and look towards the locked doors. There are no windows in this basement– only a separate hallway, which I'm assuming leads to a bedroom with a bathroom. I'll take a piss and shower later– but right now I'm keen on exploring the room for any possible clues.

As a pull out the drawers in every cabinet, desk, and closet, I find things that I haven't seen in quite a while. Old photographs, shattered picture frames, clean pairs of underwear (it's been a long time, ok?) and a wax seal look up at me.

I start closing the drawer but suddenly pull it back open with a jerk– wait a moment. That wax seal's familiar.

My fingers are shaking as I take the wooden handle and take a look at the bottom to see the press.

Every cadet's family receives a letter once the cadet dies or goes missing. Each letter is stamped by the head of military with a special seal. There are four stars on each corner of the seal and an eagle in the center with an olive branch in its talons, which is ironic, considering that we special force cadets aren't peaceful all that much.

We nickname these letters "flyers". It's somewhat of a running joke– nothing like a little dark humor to lighten up the mood.

I place the seal back exactly where I found it and look up at the door. I can see my reflection on one of the glass picture frames on the desk and my lilac eyes are as wide as plates.

Well, shit. Now I know why Mamba left me the gun.

Just as I finally connect the dots there's a small beeping noise at the door and I know for a fact it's a retina scanner. I let out a small "fuck" and quickly duck behind the mahogany desk and tighten my grip on the handgun.

If killing the General is a necessary task for me, I'll do it.

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"Listen, Julius, already four cadets have been reported to have gone AWOL. It's time to finally do something about it. You know how much I hate pulling out that wax seal and stamping it on a letter with absolutely no meaning," the General's voice rumbles. The sound of his boots indicates that he's turning to the bathroom first.