YTSK SS: The Fate of Commissar Aegea

Aegea opens his eyes. The light that now enters his retinas reveals a starry night sky and continious rainfall. He feels the cold rainwater as its showers his body and his surroundings. He raises his body and looks sideways, his gaze revealing corpses - not just human corpses, but also the carcasses of fallen horses. The stench of the dead is painfully noticeable, even outdoors.

He tries to stand up, but as he makes his ascent, his knees start to hurt painfully and force him to the ground, his arms barely able to keep his face from kissing the ground. He then inspects his knees, and realizes they were shot. He then starts to recall what happened. There was a battle here. He tried to reach a piece of artillery on horseback in order to allow his soldiers to gain victory, and though he managed to disable the artillery, he was shot and fell of his horse.

Aegea clenches his jaw as the realization sets in: he must reach the silo’s barracks, or he will not live to see another dawn. The injuries to his knees are no longer just an obstacle—they are a death sentence if left untreated. Infection lurks unseen in the deep, bloodied wounds, a predator he cannot afford to face. His mind races with grim possibilities: fever, delirium, and an excruciating decline. He curses under his breath. "I can't die like this... not here. Not like them," he mutters, casting a glance at the broken bodies strewn across the battlefield.

There is no time to despair. Aegea grits his teeth and shifts his weight forward, his arms trembling as he braces himself against the slick, rain-soaked ground. If his legs are useless, his arms must carry the burden. His fingers claw into the mud, pulling his body forward inch by agonizing inch. The earth clings to him like a greedy creature, each movement a battle against exhaustion and gravity. His shoulders ache, the muscles screaming with each drag, but he pushes through the pain.

The first few yards feel like miles. His wet uniform clings to him, heavy and cold, chafing against his skin. His hands, slick with mud and blood, threaten to lose their grip with every pull. The rhythmic slapping of rain and the distant rumble of thunder punctuate his strained breaths. He fights to ignore the growing chill seeping into his bones, focusing only on the distant silhouette of the silo's barracks, barely visible through the storm.

Minutes stretch into eternity. The mud cakes his hands and arms as his body shivers violently from the cold. His mind drifts to thoughts of his comrades, imagining them safe and warm inside the barracks. He thinks of medics with clean bandages and antiseptics. A single spark of hope burns within him, urging him forward. But doubt gnaws at the edges of his thoughts. Will he make it in time? Will he survive this ordeal? He shoves the doubts aside with a growl, dragging himself onward.

15 minutes have passed, and Aegea thinks he has made it halfway to the barracks. It is at this moment that he is struck by an ominous chill going down his spine, feeling as if an evil presence is watching him. He looks around, but does not see anyone. "It's nothing", he murmurs. He keeps calm and continues to drag himself forward. Soon he will reunite with his comrades. However, as his paranoia starts to heighten, a strange thought occurs to Aegea: he remembers that, during the last battle, he had his right ring finger shot off. He was being shot from every direction, had fallen off his horse, was bleeding from his face, and had every reason to believe that he would die. But, at this moment, he senses that the ringer finger is still intact. Having become conscious of the paradox, he turns his eyes towards his ring finger and receives visual confirmation.

"What has happened? How is my ring finger still here? And... I should have been dead. How am I still alive?", asks Aegea, his mind overtaken by desperate confusion.

A female voice speaks: "Are you sure that you are?"

Aegea looks at the figure emerging from the nearby bushes - it is Yan. In her right hand, she holds a nearly empty jar, with faintly visible green liquid at its bottom, the purpose of which Aegea can not even begin to guess. "Yan! But, wait, no. You... can't be here! You're dead!" She does not reply.

Aegea takes a deep, trembling breath. "and.. but-but-but-but... if-if... you're dead, and... you're here, t-then... that means... that means... that this... must be... the... afterlife."

Yan laughs at the suggestion. "No", she says, before slowly approaching Aegea. "But, if there is an afterlife, you'll be there soon enough."

Yan steps closer, her gaze piercing through the stormy darkness like twin daggers. Aegea tries to back away, but his body refuses to respond. Her pale hand stretches toward him, and before he can speak, she places it firmly against his chest. A sudden surge of energy erupts from her palm, and the battlefield vanishes in an instant.

The world dissolves into darkness, replaced by a vast, cold chamber. Aegea finds himself lying on the hard, damp surface of a massive dome-shaped room. The air is thick and heavy, carrying a faint, acrid stench that burns his nostrils. The surface beneath him is unnaturally smooth, yet it radiates a chilling cold that seeps through his skin.

Yan strides forward, her pale hands moving with precision as she grabs Aegea’s left arm. Despite his feeble attempts to resist, she forces it to the ground with a strength that feels almost inhuman. From the shadows of the dome, she retrieves a thick, black iron chain, its heavy links clattering ominously in the still air.

She kneels beside him and loops the chain tightly around his wrist, pulling it taut against the smooth surface of the floor. Aegea grits his teeth as the cold metal bites into his skin. With deliberate care, Yan fastens the chain to the ground, securing it with an iron lock that snaps shut with a resounding click.

She steps back, her expression calm but laced with cruel amusement. The chain alone is enough; Aegea’s broken body and weakened state ensure he won’t be going anywhere.

Aegea looks at Yan. "Let me guess, you're going to murder me because I made inaccurate maps."

Yan chuckles. "You've met a terrible fate, haven't you?" She takes a deep breath. "But, whatever happens to you, it won't be as terrible as your portrayal of the Colombian conflict. You video showed the MAQL as controlling FARC areas, even though they were ONLY ACTIVE IN THE CAUCA REGION!" She bites Aegea's forehead, ripping off a chunk of his skin with her teeth before swallowing it. Blood exits the gaping hole, and pours over Aegea's eyes.

Aegea collects himself, hoping he can knock some sense into her. "Yan, this is ridiculous. I'm trying to overthrow the bourgeoisie, and you're trying to kill me because of mistakes in a fucking... mapping video. Can't you see the freedom of the working class matters more than these meaningless mapping squabbles?"

Yan bursts into anger. "MEANINGLESS, HUH?!" She plunges her fist into Aegea's forehead, breaking the front of his skull. "WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF MEANINGLESS?!" She then punches through his mouth, breaking his teeth. "SPEND MOST OF YOUR LIFE WATCHING MAPS, EXPECTING ACCURACY, WATCH THE MISTAKES BECOME MORE VISIBLE AS YOU RESEARCH, AND THEN - TELL ME WHAT HAS MORE MEANING THAN HISTORICAL ACCURACY!" She then punches Aegea in the stomach and forces him to cough blood. She pauses for a moment, allowing Aegea to moan in pain.

After a beat, Yan breaks the silence, speaking with righteousness and scathing contempt. "Inaccurate mappers are scum. I am the harbinger of justice, an angel of death."

Aegea wants to make some retort, some combination of words that could wake her up as to how absurd it is to kill him over his mapping videos. He soon realizes that, in all due likelihood, there is no such word sequence. Yan is committed to killing him for his inaccuracies, even as the farce and disproportionality in doing so appear painfully obvious to him. To try an make an appeal to Yan that could reach her psyche would require him to comprehend a state of mind that is simply incomprehensible to him. There is only one way out of this.

Aegea reaches into his pocket and grabs his knife. Before Yan can even take a breath or process what he is doing, he thrusts it into his heart.

A sharp, searing pain radiates from the wound as the cold metal penetrates his heart. Blood gushes forth, warm and sticky, soaking his body and pooling beneath him on the cold, unyielding surface of the dome. Each faltering beat of his heart sends another crimson surge, his breaths becoming shallow gasps as his body begins to betray him. His vision blurs, the room and Yan’s piercing red eyes fading into a swirling haze. The weight of his failing heart pulls him toward unconsciousness, the agony giving way to a numbing cold spreading through his limbs.

As blood loss drains his strength, his hands slip from the knife’s hilt, and his body grows still. Aegea feels the weight of the world lifting, the pain dulling as his body succumbs to the blood loss. His final act of defiance, the choice to end his own life rather than endure Yan’s torment, settles heavily in his mind. A faint, grim satisfaction flickers within him, a fleeting ember of triumph before it, too, is extinguished. As his vision fades completely, his world dissolves into darkness, leaving only stillness and the echoes of a life brought to a sudden, violent end.

Aegea’s eyes snap open, his chest heaving as he gasps for air. The world around him is dark, silent but for the faint hum of machinery in the background. His body aches, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like an iron shroud. Suddenly, a soft click echoes through the room, and a light flickers on, illuminating the space in a pale, sterile glow. Standing by the doorway is DRM, his silhouette sharp and unmistakable.

“Commissar, are you alright?” DRM asks, his voice calm but tinged with concern.

Aegea groans, his hand instinctively moving to his chest. No wound, no blood. Just a faint, ghostly ache where the knife should have pierced him. “Yes. I’m fine,” he replies, his voice hoarse and uncertain. He squints at his surroundings, taking in the sparse, utilitarian layout of the room. “Where am I?”

DRM smiles gently, stepping closer. “You’re in the nuclear silo. You were quite badly bloodied in yesterday’s battle, but you managed to make it.” He pauses, as if gauging his reaction. Aegea moans softly, his head falling back against the stiff pillow. “Where are my comrades? Where is Oak?” he asks, his voice steadier now.

“They’re in the kitchen,” DRM says, folding his arms. “If you can stand, I’ll show you the way.”

Aegea closes his eyes, summoning what remains of his strength. His body feels like lead, heavy and uncooperative, but he forces himself to move. With a grunt of effort, he swings one leg over the side of the bed. The floor greets his bare foot, jolting him awake a little more. Gritting his teeth, he moves the other leg to the floor and pushes himself upright. His muscles protest, his body swaying slightly, but he manages to find his balance.

He looks up at DRM, who watches him with a steady, encouraging gaze. Aegea takes a step, then another, his confidence growing with each movement. By the time he reaches the door where DRM waits, his anticipation has begun to swell, pushing away the lingering fatigue. His comrades are alive. Oak is alive. And whatever nightmare had gripped him was gone now, left behind in the cold, dark recesses of his mind.

When DRM grips the handle and opens the door, Aegea’s heart races in anticipation. But what greets him on the other side is not the bustling warmth of a kitchen or the familiar faces of his comrades. His breath catches in his throat as his eyes take in the sight of a large dome room, eerily familiar. "*It’s a large dome room... like what I saw in—*""

Before he can complete the thought, a sharp force strikes his back. Aegea cries out as he stumbles forward, his balance giving way. He crashes to the cold, unyielding floor, the impact sending a jolt of pain through his body. Above him, a burst of cruel laughter rings out.

“HAHAHA! Gotcha!”

Aegea twists around, his eyes locking onto Yan, who stands a few feet away, her laughter echoing off the dome’s walls. Rage and confusion boil over inside him, and he screams, his voice raw and desperate. “WHAT IS THIS!? WHAT IS HAPPENING!? I FUCKING... I... I... I... I... …i…”

Yan’s grin widens as she leans forward slightly. “Died?”

Aegea clenches his fists, his voice dropping to a whisper. “…Yes.”

Yan tilts her head, pulling a familiar object from her pocket. It gleams faintly in the light—the knife he had plunged into his own chest. “You thrust this knife into your heart…” She lets the statement hang, her voice taking on an almost playful lilt.

“…Yes…” Aegea admits, his voice strained, his mind struggling to make sense of the scene unfolding before him.

“…And yet, you’re still here.”

“Yes.”

“That’s so strange, isn’t it?” she muses, turning the blade over in her hand, her tone mocking yet filled with a sinister curiosity.

Aegea’s lips part, but no words come. The weight of her statement presses down on him like an iron shackle. He stares at the knife, his mind racing with questions that he can’t begin to answer. Finally, he manages to croak, “Where is DRM?”

Yan glances around, her movements slow and exaggerated, like a performer in a macabre play. “Well, not here, it seems.”

“I saw him… He spoke to me…” Aegea says, his voice faltering.

Yan’s smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, did you now?”

“Yes…” His words feel hollow, like an echo fading in a vast void.

“Well, was he nice?” Yan asks, her tone light, as though they were discussing the weather.

Aegea’s hands clench into fists, his jaw tightening as frustration and fear swirl within him. He feels her question is a deliberate taunt, a mockery of his confusion and desperation. Refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response, he remains silent.

Yan senses his purposeful silence, and drops the subject. "Oh well, no matter. We have more important things to tend to. Like the punishment for your terrible maps. Are you are aware that the 'movimiento indigeno' in Columbia didn't operate as one group?" Her words hang in the air, sharp and accusatory, but Aegea refuses to respond. He glares up at her, his lips pressed tightly together, his defiance etched into his face.

Yan lets out an exaggerated sigh, clearly unimpressed by his lack of engagement. “No answer? How rude,” she says with a pout. Then, as though nothing had happened, her demeanor shifts back to one of playful malice. “Never mind. Let’s continue where we left off, shall we?”

With that, she kneels beside him, and Aegea’s body stiffens as her cold fingers wrap around his left wrist. This time, there’s no hesitation, no dramatic flair. She pulls a heavy iron chain from the ground—a perfect replica of the one from his nightmare(?)—and secures it around his wrist with unsettling efficiency. The lock snaps shut with a metallic finality, the weight of the chain biting into his flesh.

“There,” Yan says, standing and brushing off her hands as though she’s completed a mundane chore. She looks down at Aegea, her lips curling into a wicked grin. “Now you won’t go anywhere while I get a treat for you.”

Before Aegea can ask or even react, Yan raises a hand, and the air around her shimmers. With a sudden, sharp crack, she vanishes, leaving behind an eerie silence. Aegea lies there, his chained hand heavy against the cold surface of the dome, his mind racing with questions and dread. Whatever “treat” Yan has in mind, he knows it will be far from pleasant.

A few minutes later, the air shimmers again, and with a faint crack, Yan reappears, standing confidently over Aegea. In her hands, she holds a small, ornate cup, steam rising from its surface in soft, spiraling tendrils. The liquid inside bubbles and churns as though it has a life of its own.

Yan grins, her red eyes gleaming with a sadistic spark. “Hey, Aegea,” she says cheerfully, tilting the cup slightly to show off its ominous contents. “I have your treat. Say aaaaaah!”

Aegea can not begin to guess what sort of treat Yan wants to give him, nor does he really want to know. He wants to say something witty, something sarcastic to ease the stress of his impending death, but he can not formulate a clever comeback. With nothing to ease his mind, the stress of the situation only tightens. Too petrified to say anything, Aegea simply allows his fearful eyes to lock on to Yan, as he silently anticipates her next move.

Yan notices that Aegea is not cooperating. She draws a hammer, focuses on the hand she had tied to the floor, and strikes his left thumb with it. The hammer crushes the thumb's skin and bones, shredding its upper side. Intense pain signals enter Aegea's mind, leading to a reflexive scream.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! AHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Yan’s smile deepens, her eyes alight with sadistic glee. “Thank you for cooperating,” she says mockingly, before tilting the steaming cup toward his face. Without giving him a moment to recover, she pours the boiling liquid down his throat. The lava burns its way through Aegea’s mouth and throat, scorching flesh and nerves alike. His muffled screams barely escape as his vocal cords are torn apart by the searing heat. Yan leans closer, watching the destruction with fascination.

"Hey Aegea, can you feel the lava burning at your mouth and throat? It's really maiming your body, isn't it? Just like how you maimed your portrayal of South Korean insurgents in your Korea video! But that's not the only thing you maimed, oh no. You also maimed the Soviet advance south - they were NEAR SEOUL BEFORE THE TREATY WITH THE AMERICANS WAS SIGNED, DIVIDING THE PENINSULA!"

Yan uses her knife to slice wounds into Aegea's armpit. She then notices that blood continues to pour out of his left thumb.

"I have to say, your thumb looks kind of ugly now. Let me try to fix it."

Yan then proceeds to slice the bottom of the thumb off, leaving a gaping, bleeding hole where the bottom of the thumb used to be. Having seperated the thumb, Yan drags it into her mouth and licks it, evaluating the taste of the blood. As her gaze remains fixed on the thumb, her ears notice that Aegea has stopped screaming, indicating that he has died.

"Tigerstar's blood tasted better", Yan says. However, satisfied that the blood tastes above average, she swallows the thumb, allowing the flesh to pass through her throat.

As Yan moves her gaze away from the thumb, she realizes that Aegea is still alive, wrestling against the chain in desperate futility. The lava has torn away at his throat to such an extent that he has been deprived of his ability to breathe or scream, but even as he is suffocating, he still lives. The pain, meanwhile, stretches from each moment into the next with infinite slowness.

The realization that Aegea has still not died fills Yan with a slight irritation. "Alright Aegea, it's been fun, but I have other things to do."

She picks up Aegea's body, only to feel the chains she had attached to him resisting the pull. She once again draws her knife, and amputates his left hand. Aegea can't scream, but he is clearly distressed.

"Don’t worry," Yan repeats, her voice calm and almost tender as she hefts Aegea’s battered, mutilated body with an ease that defies her slight frame. "You won’t be needing it where you’re going."

The chamber shifts around them as she strides through her lair, the dark corridors echoing with her unhurried footsteps. Aegea’s blood drips steadily onto the cold, unyielding floor, leaving a gruesome trail behind. He no longer resists. His body hangs limply, his chest barely rising, his consciousness flickering like the last ember of a dying fire.

Finally, Yan arrives at her destination: a small, secluded room deep within her lair. The air here is heavy, oppressive, and filled with the acrid tang of sulfur. Dominating the room is a massive, ancient contraption of iron and stone—a lava-powered incinerator, its edges blackened with the residue of countless incinerated objects. The device hums faintly with power, the glow of molten lava visible through the grates and seams. It is a relic of ancient technology, a machine built long ago for purposes lost to time, and one Yan has found disturbingly useful.

She approaches the heavy iron hatch, gripping its corroded handle and pulling it open with a grating screech. Instantly, a wave of blistering heat rushes out, filling the room with an almost unbearable intensity. The molten lava within churns and bubbles angrily, casting flickering orange light across Yan’s face. The fiery depths are a roiling sea of destruction, eager to consume whatever enters.

Yan pauses for a moment, savoring the spectacle. Then, she lifts his broken body and, with a single effortless motion, throws him into the molten inferno. Aegea's limp form tumbles through the air, the glowing light of the lava illuminating the torn remnants of his once-proud figure. As his body descends into the fire, the intense heat engulfs him instantly, his flesh searing and charring before the flames claim him entirely.

The last fleeting threads of his life unravel in those final moments, lost amidst the roar of the lava. For Aegea, there is no more pain, no more thought, only an all-encompassing, eternal silence. Above him, the iron hatch slams shut with a resonant clang, sealing the inferno—and his fate—within.

Yan steps back, brushing her hands together as though ridding herself of lingering dust. A satisfied smile plays on her lips as she surveys the now-quiet room. "And that," she murmurs to herself, turning away, "is the end of that." Without a second glance, she exits the chamber, leaving behind only the faint hum of the ancient incinerator, tirelessly churning in the darkness.