The area is quickly secured, which is good because outside the random sound of gunfire is becoming more frequent. I feel the excitement of the approaching battle building in my stomach. The flier comes buzzing up over the roofs, turning this way and that, and I watch the soldiers as they go through the building, filling it with equipment bundled in pink tape.
We find a room with two doors that open out onto a balcony with a view over the city beyond. Agnetha opens the doors to get a better field of fire, then leans against the wall opposite, her rifle slung across her knees. She smiles coquettishly at me.
“Why aren’t you taking my picture?” she asks.
I point the camera at her and hear it click.
“Are you going to use that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Keeping it for your private collection?”
She stretches her legs and yawns.
“You don’t mind me being attached to your group, then,” I say, “not like your sergeant.”
She wrinkles her nose.
“He doesn’t speak for all of us. I don’t agree with everything the government says, either. We’re sent out here with insufficient equipment and even less backup, and when we get home we’re forgotten about at best. I think it’s good that we have people like you here.”
She frowns. “So tell me, what
“Actually, I don’t just paint. I use computers, software, all those things. It’s all about the final image.”
“I understand that. But what
I can’t keep evading the issue. For all my fine words about reflecting the war as it really is, the Sergeant had it right. I’ll paint whatever Command wants me to. I like to paint a picture of myself as a bit of a rogue, but, at heart, I know the establishment has me, body and soul.
“I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m here. I need to experience this place, and then I can try and convey some emotion.”
“What emotion?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
There’s a crackle of gunfire, sharp silver, like tins rattling on the floor. I ignore it.
“You’re very pretty,” I say.
“Thank you.” She lowers her eyes in acknowledgement. I like that. She doesn’t pretend she isn’t pretty; she takes the compliment on its own terms.
“How did you end up in the army?” I ask.
She yawns and stretches.
“I worked in insurance,” she says, and that seems all wrong. So drab and everyday. She should have been a model, or a mountaineer, or an artist or something.
“I lost my job when Jutland got hit by the DoS attack. Everything was lost, policies, claims, payroll. The hackers had been feeding us the same worm for months; the backups were totally screwed.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am. Really sorry. So that’s why her accent sounded so familiar. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.
“Other people had it worse.” She shrugs. “We had a garden; we had plenty of canned goods in the house. My mother had the bath filled with water, all the pans and the dishes. We managed okay until your army moved in to restore order.”
She seems remarkably unperturbed by the affair.
“So you joined us out of gratitude?” I suggest.
She laughs.
“No, I joined you for security. This way I get to eat and I’m pretty sure that my salary won’t be wiped out at the touch of a button. If your army’s servers aren’t secure, then whose are?”
“Fair enough.”
“No, it’s not fair. It’s just life. Your army wiped out Jutland’s data. Just like it did this country’s.”
I try to look shocked.
“You think that we are responsible for the trouble here?”
“It’s an old trick. Create civil unrest and then send in your troops to sort out the problem. You’ve swallowed up half of Europe that way.”
“I don’t think it’s that well planned,” I said, honestly. “I just think that everyone takes whatever opportunity they can when a DoS hits.”
As if to underline the point, the staccato rattle of gunfire sounds in the distance.
“Aren’t you worried that I will report you?” I ask. “Have you charged with sedition?”
She rises easily to her feet and walks towards me.
“No. I trust you. You have nice eyes.”
She’s laughing at me.
“Come here,” she says. I lean down and she kisses me on the lips. Gently, she pushes my face away. “You’re a very handsome man. Maybe later on we can talk properly.”
“I’d like that.”
She looks back out of the window, checking the area. Little white puffs of cloud drift across the blue sky.
“So, what are you going to paint?” she asks. “The heroic rescuers, making the country safe once more?”
“You’re being sarcastic.”
“No,” she says, and she pushes a strand of blonde hair back up into her helmet. “No. We all do what we must to get by. Tell me, what will you paint?”
“I honestly don’t know yet. I’ll know it when I see it.” I look down into the square, searching for inspiration. “Look at your flier.”
She comes to my side. We look at the concrete-grey craft, a brutalist piece of architecture set amongst the elegant buildings of this city.
“Suppose I were to paint that?” I say. “I have plenty of photos, but I need a context, a setting. I could have it swooping down on the enemy! The smoke, the explosions, the bullets whizzing past.”
