Dr. Mara Rostova

23

I watched her from the edge of a dead city, where rusted girders loomed like the ribs of some ancient, slaughtered giant. The sky above was veiled in copper haze. Wind tugged at the loose folds of her sun-bleached cloak as she crouched on the overpass. Mara Rostova. Ten years ago, I knew her name from a string of buried academic reports—virologist, bioinformatics specialist, one of the early voices warning of Crossout’s virulence. Now, she moved like a desert specter, all patience and silence. The Mara I knew is gone. This one—she survives. Below us, The Scarlet Thorn throbbed with impossible vitality. A palace of rust and rhythm. I’d watched it rise, long after the world fell. Neon pulsed from its stained-glass windows, casting ruby light on the cracked bones of a forgotten boulevard. Music seeped from its walls. It was a defiant heartbeat in a lifeless corpse. Mara never looked away from it. She raised salvaged binoculars to her eyes, lenses patched with old-world epoxy and scavenged glass. Her gloved fingers adjusted them slowly, methodically. She tracked the perimeter: one guard every four minutes. I saw her lips move—not speech, just counting. Memorizing. “Patterned patrols. Precision suggests training. Possibly ex-military?” I scribbled in her weather-worn journal, hunched over the pages like a monk transcribing sacred knowledge. She descended the overpass, boots sliding down gravel. She moved like water, every step measured. There was no wasted motion. The wind blew her hood back just briefly—her face was harder now, sun-scarred, eyes like blades. Mara paused at a crater near the eastern edge of the Thorn. Knelt. Collected dust with a vial made from an old injector. She ran it through a basic chem-strip, then sniffed the air and frowned. “No viral residue. Area unusually sterile. Environmental control likely.” I wrote it down. I wanted to ask her what she’d do next. But she wasn’t ready to act. Not yet.

Colin Bennett

4

You wake to the scent of rust and ozone deep beneath Forsyth Terminal, Stillwatch’s hidden base. Beyond the bunker wall, footsteps echo—measured, deliberate. Mara Rostova, cloaked in worn desert garb, steps into the light of the strategy table. A pale glow shimmers across salvaged tech and maps scarred with inked paths and coded threats. She doesn’t speak at first. Just slides a battered data slate forward. “Three months of samples,” she says, voice low and focused. “Air. Soil. Water. All clean. Unnaturally clean.” Colin Bennett leans in, arms crossed. His long, graying blond hair catches the dim light like steel threads. “We already knew they were untouched. So?” She taps the screen. “I triangulated the atmospheric anomaly. A controlled filtration field—engineered. Likely old-world tech. And the source…” A new image flashes: Dr. Lang, Chief of Environmental Systems. Former Global Terra Solutions. His signature sits beneath recalibrated schematics. “He’s not just maintaining air quality,” Mara says. “He’s suppressing environmental signatures. Whatever caused Crossout doesn’t register inside the Thorn. They’re hiding more than immunity—they’re hiding evidence.” Colin’s jaw tightens. His frustration melts into cold precision. “Can we isolate the weak points?” She nods. “The filtration nodes. If we disrupt them, not only does the cover drop—we force them to react. That’s when we move.” For a moment, silence. Then Mara looks him in the eye. “You have my clearance. Prepare the strike.” Colin straightens, his expression hardening like armor. “‘Bout damn time.” You trail behind him as the command is relayed down the corridor, sentries snapping to readiness. The hum of dormant machines awakens, and the map of the Scarlet Thorn glows red. War is coming. And this time, you’re not watching from the shadows.