Memorandum #005

Day 4,262, 09:35 • Published in Croatia Japan • by Violence Seth

Last Episode : Memorandum #004
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Subject: Surviving Underground Beneath Zagreb

That old idiom comes to mind. “The days turned into weeks.” I think that is an apt enough expression. Zagreb looked like a splendid city but we could only see her through her barred sewer grates. We were hiding from Goshawk, living off hardly nothing, literally rationing the spoilt and nasty food or what little of it we could salvage. There was my Unit, Veritas and the other Unit named Chance. Even though we’d both escaped Goshawk together we were rapidly getting sick of one another. We’d lost our man Jasper or “Bic” as we’d called him as we made our escape from Goshawk H.Q. He’d earned his moniker through his prolific writing but none of it was left for us in posterity. Chance had also lost a comrade, some guy I vaguely remembered called Benji. They seemed to share a similar grief with us. Our mutual understanding was withering though.

We’d each carved out our own spot away from each other in the pitch black, festering tunnels. We had made our “camp” near an orange auto-lit door that led to street level. Ratel mocked our camp and led his crew to a spot closer to a sewer slit with a half decent view of the street. Of course he ignored my casual observation that staying too close could get us spotted. He stayed their in spite of me. We shared what food we could find but in these dire and uncertain environs we often resorted to bully bartering or straight out gambling, with the odd fight breaking out which was always handled by either myself or Ratel to break up. It was getting more and more tense as the days passed by and we grew hungrier.

Chance where braving it through their Type 4 withdrawals, bickering about how to ration the last few they had left. That made them even harder to reason with as the days wore on. Even though he kept a straight face, Ratel, the big hulking unit that he was, eventually stumbled into our camp, dropping hard on the ground. He looked like he was gonna snuff it. “Type 4’s Blackie, get them now!” he managed to express before his eyes rolled up into his skull. I had Gad resuscitate him. “Please... Black Hound.” he murmured. Hearing that Code Name said aloud was enough to spring me into action, having been in the literal pits for so long. “Gad, you keep him stabilized. Flinch, you’re with me.” They both nodded solemnly but I could see a hint of excitement flash across their faces. Finally, we were doing something that actually mattered.


Zagreb, Japanese occupied Croatia
Day 4262, 09.15 eRT


Once we were on street level we both retched at the stench of our uniforms. “I can’t, I’m gonna be-” I placed my finger over my lips to silence Flinch. I could see the shadow of a patrol clawing its fingers up the wall of the gas lit street beyond us. He puked into his mouth. I puked because I seen him puking. Thank the Lord we got out of sight as the drunken patrol-men passed right by us, singing what I assume was a Croatian ballad. We were hunkered down behind a small Civ car. They passed us and turned to the left and out of sight, their merry song echoing away with them. Flinch was about the puke again but I slapped that notion out of his head. We were deep undercover. He gathered himself, drawing in a deep breath then we made our way to the bright lights of the noisy right.

Civ’s clamoured past us as we made our way through the streets towards Gradski Park. Lord I felt blessed to be out of those effin’ sewers. It was stiflingly hot outside though, despite being almost 3.00 am locally. We hung around, sitting on a park bench until eventually a tall, wiry looking fellow with wild ginger hair and grey lips stopped a few metres away from us.“Tražite neku vrstu četiri?” he asked us hesitantly. “Da da da.. 20,000cc, hurry up.” responded Flinch. I never knew Flinch understood Croatian. “Čekaj, vratit ću se! Good price I’m selling you!” said the wiry junkie, clearly delighted as he jogged off. “Flinch, you never told me you spoke Cro-” He shook his head. “Nah. Everyone in the world knows what 20,000cc means.” That shut me up fairly quick. We’d no money on us. We sat silently waiting for our man to return.

“Think he’s gonna murk us?” I asked Flich just to break the silence. It’d been about a half hour. The park was deathly silent. Flinch stared vacantly ahead as he replied. “Yes, without a doubt. However if he thinks he’d be rewarded for spotting us he wouldn’t have approached us in the first place. I think he’s just a random Civ dying for a fix, kinda like Ratel and all the others. Sir.” Flinch had changed drastically after Bic got himself “snuffed out”. He seemed almost laser focused now... a bit sad perhaps, but what’s sadness to a true soldier? For the life of me I couldn't remember anything past Academy training so who was I to argue with him? I appreciated his civil tone though, delivering his honest yet dire assessment with the clean poise that was demanded of Veritas Unit.

Soon our lanky dealer was back. He’d brought some friends with him. Flinch was right. “Hand us the cash Hawkboys or we’ll open your necks.” I remained calm but I could sense Flinches distress. He looked at me with his watery eyes, as if in an odd sort of apology, before lunging towards the ginger Junkie. He had his eyes plucked out before I could even request a wee bit of clemency. He then chased one of the dead ginger Junkies friends into the park and the rest of them simply scattered away. I braced the eyeless corpse and sure enough he had a big bag of Type 4’s on him. I pocketed them then made an owl whistle for Flinch to come back. He ignored me, that would have to be punished or at least addressed... I mused as I pissed into the junkies empty eye sockets. I really don’t know why I did it, I suppose it felt right at the time? His eyeless head didn’t seem to mind. I sat back down on our bench and waited for Flinch to return. I heard distant screaming coming from the depths of the park. Flinch returned eventually, drenched in blood, holding another stash of Type 4’s.

We’d returned to the filth of the sewer and soon found ourselves witnessing Ratel holding a tall, blonde chap dressed in all black at knife point near the light of our camp. “What’s going on here le Roux?” He said nothing, holding as hard as he could muster onto the perplexed looking stranger. “We have your Type 4’s man, let him go Ratel.” said Flinch evenly. Ratel soon collapsed. Flinch moved in quick as the wind. He’d a blade to our new guest’s throat nearly as quick as Ratel had let go of it. “Who are you working for?” Flinch was really on top of his game tonight.

“E.L.F and I’ve an urgent message for the Black Hound.” he said nervously, with an odd American lilt to his accent. I knew the Eesti Vabadusvõim. I’d had a particularly dramatic encounter with them before, back when I was with Goshawk. I approached, filthy and unshaven. “You’re one of Major Sepps lads?” I inquired, wiping the grime from my face and hands with a rag soaked in petrol. “Yes sir.” It suddenly dawned on me. He was one of the A’s. “Which one are you?” I asked, bemused. “Which what? I don’t underst-” I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You’re safe around me soldier. We've met before, I remember you.” He visibly swallowed. I know he was very nervous but it looked horrid, even down here by the standard of the sewers. “My name is Artjom sir and if you’ll listen to me, I think you will fi-” I stood back. He swallowed again. “Find out what Artjom?”

He gave us a fanciful story about Rasa Blank and putting an end to Goshawk if we all teamed up together and so on. It all sounded delightful. I hadn’t heard such optimistic fiction since I was a free man, allowed to use the Goshawk library. He was insane if he thought we’d join them, even if he was really an actual Rasa Blank envoy. We’d too much bad blood with them. We were living in the sewers of Zagreb. Even if they lifted us out of this mire we were in too deep, no, why would they? To piss off the tyrant Petrov, who they created, a touch bit more? As I pondered the proposition I heard Ratel offer his service to this odd Blondie young man. The rest of Chance swore along with him, like it was some medieval knighting ceremony. I soon noticed both Gad and Flinch swearing their vows too. I suppose I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Ratel insisted over Comm-Link that we would hold on to Artjom as insurance until the “super secret summit” would be held in Prague, two weeks time from now. We didn’t even know who we were meeting with. Although a big part of me railed against this recklessness, I was proud to see Flinch and Gad filled with purpose again. Sure even Chance seemed happy and they’re a dour lot on a good day. I decided to let my command simply dissolve. I’d still keep a close eye on my comrades and make sure they didn’t take things too far. After Bic’s death, yesh, I don’t have the words for that yet... I’d found the limits of my capabilities as commander and now I was simply happy to see Gad and Flinch starting to move forward, even if it wasn’t me directing them.


Artjom had brought a small cache of food and supplies with him. Soon Chance were getting back to their old selves again, thanks to myself and Flinches midnight run. I never bothered to address Flinches *ahem* disorderliness. He was smiling again. We shared a cocktail that Artjom had brought the makings of. He called them “Blank Slates”. They were one part medical ethanol and three parts lemon juice. We were all soon hammered and I was soon singing and teaching the words of “The Irish Rover” to Artjom and Chance Unit. Once they knew the melody they began making up their own verses about how they were gonna murk Petrov and his boys. We seemed strong again and I felt a type of hope that felt almost sacred.

I’ll never forget the newly invigorated Ratel le Roux singing his own verse in Afrikaans. He’d nailed the rhyming and we all cheered him as he downed his Blank Slate. Gad had taken up the task next and was giving it a fair go. He stumbled his lines though and the lot of us laughed together, comrades once more. Atrjom tried a verse in Estonian and it seemed to rhyme but none of us could tell. We slagged him about it but he insisted it made sense. I could see he was happy to have found us, despite our dreary digs. I turned in for the night, back into the small comfort of my hobo-esque tent. I could still hear that joyful laughter and singing echoing through the black sewer tunnels of my mind as I fell off to sleep.

Signing off,

Seán “Black Hound” Murphy, Veritas Unit