Opus Veda

Skye straddled him and lunged. Earth crunched by his ear. Her knife came up; a scorpion wriggled on its point. Faizan panicked, trapped between his girlfriend's legs and mocked by her canine grin.

The platoon laughed boisterously at the young lovers. Relationships had been restricted in the army. Now social media controlled them, trench romances were another tactic to exploit.

Faizan wasn't complaining.

"So close... if only this little guy had stung you'd escape the big push..."

Skye flicked the scorpion away. Her Gloucestershire accent lilted, coming out when she was teasing, stressed, or drunk. Faizan was infatuated by it, and all the rest of her - her cute eyes and playful smile. She was an influencer really - good at yoga, dance choreography, and consumer hauls; an influencer lured to the Army to boost both party's followers. Her first act had been singling Private Varma out, and nightly since her barracks had shook. Faizan worked zealously to impress her.

He dusted himself off. The uniform was red now, a brand identity to stand out in desert plains and sandy crags. Great Britain insisted on a place at the world stage, ignorant of its decline, unfazed by rumours of a Chinese dynasty. The United States would look out for its best friend.

The army was in Iran, manning the first line, fighting to keep that relationship with America special. The din of Muslim prayer wafted over their trenches. A kilometre away, the Islamic Revolutionary Guards roused themselves to attack.

Camera drones watched from above - politicos, journalists, content creators, military podcasts; each hungry for an angle to boost their clout, profits, careers. Audiences watched and were filmed watching. Soldiers families took the spotlight - their reactions as big a spectacle as any battle.

The air cried with Iranian ordnance. The British rushed into place as their own guns fired back.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Major Ferdinand yelled for his company to fix bayonets - a display for the cameras for an audience he was ordered to please. A shell hit the bunker beside him and filled it with screaming. Soldiers dived for cover. He picked them up and signalled for everyone to mount the ramps.

Faizan gripped the scaling ladder. His legs wobbled. Skye tugged his shoulder and yelled something but artillery drowned her out. She made hand gestures suggesting that, if she was killed, he could get himself on dating apps and swipe away.

Their eyes met, sharing love and fear. They tried to kiss, but their helmets blocked them.

"Eyes front!" Major Ferdinand's voice pounded their ears. He picked on the weak link.

"Private Varma!"

"Yes Sir!"

"Ah picked you oop as a failed schoolboy and raised you bah bloody 'and! You will not fail this coompaneh! You will not fail your squad! You will not fail your folks watchin' at 'ome!"

"I will not Sir!"

Ferdinand chose the ladder nearest the enemy, shoved its soldier away, and claimed their spot as his.

The barrage ceased. War trumpets reported. Machine guns unleashed.

They charged over the top. The cameras rolled to the cheers of everyone back home.

* * *

Why was he thinking about her? She always cropped up at random times, never convenient. Varma cringed at the overeager man - the boy - he had been. How naive, imagining glory and spoils, even planning life with Skye after their tour. Had she believed those conversations, or was she just scheming her next content? Would she have loved him without the followers a good looking private brought her?

If it was fake she'd done a good job hiding it. If it was fake, she'd died to preserve the lie, pushing Faizan aside as 50 calibres of death meant for him blasted her away. He couldn't even do her the honour of dying together, taken out by a pathetic graze of a wound, left in a field tent to replay the death of his first and final love. Her followers swamped him in sympathetic messages all night. Then they moved on.

And now he was a captain, serving a phony army in a country that wasn't Britain anymore. His task tonight was unworthy of a British soldier, though perhaps good enough for a revolutionary officer.

Pardo had messaged the situation: a wealthy supporter dead, their corpse left behind with dangerous data on their body.

It was bad, but the murderer's identity could only make Varma laugh with defeat.

His viral recruit had finally gone too far.