Flesh and Blood

She flexed her hand. It would have to do. It wasn’t up to her usual standard but pickings were slim these days with the increased fighting. Besides, she had gotten used to the new leg quickly enough and despite her feet now being two different sizes. Time to worry about such things was fleeting so she was sure this transplant would be no different. If only they’d had time to remove this stupid tattoo. Who gets a tattoo anymore? Let alone one somewhere as visible as the hand. And a heart locket? It made her positively sick to the stomach thinking about the waifish woman who would have been the previous owner of this hand. Maybe she would find time to have the blemish removed if the fighting ever died down.

She was pulled from her thoughts by a gruff voice, “You ready to get back out there, blue soldier?” She had only recently been promoted from green rank to blue, so it took her a moment to realise she was being addressed.

“Yes, Black Alpha” she wasn’t even certain her hand would last but she was able to grip her mug each morning so that was good enough for her.

“Ship out with the others tonight, then. Be ready”. With that command Black Alpha turned and marched away.

****

Dirt whipped across her face, only partially protected by the muslin face wrap. She couldn’t see anything but she could hear everything. The sounds of screams guided her through the turmoil. They weren’t winning; had they ever been? Was anyone, really? She didn’t know what things were like on the other side of the lines these days, not really, only rumours and snide remarks from her fellow fighters. But what was she to do? There was nowhere left that wasn’t in the middle of a war. No land left unscarred by bombs.

She gripped her knife tighter as she forged ahead. Small patches of fire dotted across the landscape and periodically lit up her view enough to assure her that she was going in the right direction. Her hand – the hand – hummed and suddenly the knife felt a little wobbly. She shook her head and repositioned her grip.

“Keep moving. No backing down”. The voice came from somewhere in the distance. She wasn’t sure if it was her side or the others. Did it even matter? She was almost certain that the other side were being given the same, unchanging directives: fight, push, kill.

****

She wasn’t sure what time it was. It looked as though the sun might be breaking on the horizon but that could just be more fire. The noise had died down as bombs were at a premium and guns had been phased out years ago. Gun safety. It had been such a hot button issue when she was a young child. All guns had been banned and the world had seemed better for it. In the beginning.

She wasn’t sure how many people she had killed with this new hand but it seemed to be doing the trick. The blood spilled had at least mostly covered the ghastly tattoo. She was distracted, thinking about the tattoo and the previous owner of this hand when she saw eyes in the darkness. They were staring right into hers. She gripped her knife and lunged. Missed. Blocked. Lunged again.

She felt a warm hand grab her arm, trying to wrestle the knife from her. The stranger’s hand slipped with the slickness of the blood she was wearing. The colour on the hand flashed, visible once more. Her opponent stopped. Frozen, looking into her eyes, searching. She wasn’t sure how to react, frozen herself by this unexpected behaviour amidst mayhem.

“Anna?” The opponent’s mouth moved but she was sure a name had been spoken. She hadn’t heard her own name in so long that others would have forgiven her if she had forgotten it; her name wasn’t Anna.

She lunged again, this time her knife made contact. As she grappled with the struggling, wounded opponent she caught a glimpse of something. A tattoo. A heart shaped locket, right on the hand. Not her hand. Her eyes lifted from the stab wound to the eyes of her opponent, glistening, questioning, betrayed.

Her opponent reached up and pulled at her muslin. “Anna?” this time clear, crisp “I never thought I’d see you again”.

Her muslin had fallen across her shoulder, caught in her hair and her jacket. Her opponent stared at her face and went grey. She wasn’t sure if that was loss of blood or something else entirely. The opponent looked down at their hands, almost caressing, tattoos matching, “You’re not Anna.”

She pushed her knife in deeper, one last thrust.