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aldryrththerainbowheart · 2 months ago

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Chapter 3: Denial and Discovery

Warning: This man manhandling you 🫠🥵😵

Ever since you woke up that chilly Tuesday morning, you felt something was off. The sirens outside were more prevalent than usual, the garbage man haven’t arrived as usual, and your wifi was gone. You assumed it was just another disastrous day in the world’s most dangerous city, but you soon learned that it’s much more than that. On your way to work, you had a chance to discover city’s chaos.

The bus, packed with the usual Tuesday morning crowd, lurched to a sudden, screeching halt. The abrupt stop sent you flying forward, your forehead connecting with the unyielding plastic of the seat in front. A collective groan, a symphony of commuter misery, rippled through the vehicle. "What the hell?" someone grumbled, their voice laced with frustration. The driver's voice, usually a monotonous drone, crackled with an unusual urgency over the intercom. "Folks, looks like we've got some kind of…system-wide malfunction. The city's going haywire. All the systems are down. We're stuck here for now.”

Your gut clenched. This wasn't just a momentary lapse in the city's technological infrastructure. This was something far more deliberate, more insidious. This was the kind of meticulously orchestrated digital disruption you'd only witnessed in dystopian movies. The kind that…well, the kind you knew how to do. But it was the kind of thing you would never actually do. The thought sent a shiver down your spine.

You had to get to Byte Me. Mark would be panicking. You pushed my way off the bus, joining the throng of frustrated commuters spilling onto the street. The city was a mess. Traffic lights blinked erratically, causing gridlock. Digital billboards flashed static. Even the automatic doors of shops seemed possessed, shuddering open and closed at random.

Each malfunctioning piece of tech was a nail in the coffin of your apprehension. This was bad. Really bad.

Reaching Byte Me, you fumbled with the keys, your hands shaking. The bell above the door jingled as you pushed it open. "Mark?" You called out, half expecting him to be buried under a mountain of frantic customers.

The shop was empty.

You phone buzzed. An unfamiliar number. I answered it hesitantly.

"Hello?"

A woman's voice, thick with tears and choked with sobs, filled your ear. "(Y/N)? It's… it's Mark's wife, Sarah. He… he was in a car accident. The traffic lights… they weren't working… he lost control and crashed. He’s at Gotham General. He won’t be coming to work…for a while…" The sentence hung in the air, a devastating blow that stole the breath from your lungs.

The phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto the counter, the sound echoing the shattering of your world. Mark. Mark was in the hospital, possibly fighting for his life, because of this digital chaos. The abstract fear you'd been wrestling with, the intellectual understanding of the disaster unfolding, suddenly solidified into a cold, heavy weight in your chest, a crushing burden of guilt and dread. This wasn't just a city-wide malfunction; it was personal. And you had a terrible feeling that you might be somehow responsible.

The rest of the day dissolved into a chaotic, indistinct haze. Byte Me, usually a sanctuary of quiet tinkering and the comforting hum of electronics, transformed into a pressure cooker, the air thick with anxiety and the frenetic energy of a digital emergency. The phone rang incessantly, a relentless chorus of distress calls that grated on your already frayed nerves. Each one was a desperate plea, a frantic cry for help to fix a broken link in the collapsing digital chain that held Gotham together. Small businesses, unable to process payments, teetered on the brink of ruin. Homes were left vulnerable, their smart security systems rendered useless, turning safe havens into potential targets. People were losing their livelihoods, their ability to provide for their families ripped away in an instant.

You worked until your fingers were raw, the tips stinging from constant typing and re-wiring. Your eyes burned, gritty and bloodshot, from staring at the flickering screens for hours on end. You felt like a lone sailor desperately trying to stem a raging tide with a leaky bucket, the sheer volume of the problem overwhelming you. Guilt, cold and heavy, gnawed at you from the inside out. Were you somehow involved in this catastrophe? Was Whispernet somehow responsible for the city’s collapse? Did one of your informants misused your services?

Hours after closing, the streetlights flickering outside cast long, distorted shadows across the shop. You hunched over my monitor, navigating the dark web, chasing whispers and rumors. The air hung thick with unease, a premonition you couldn't shake.

Hours after closing, the streetlights outside cast long, distorted shadows across the shop floor, turning familiar tools and equipment into menacing silhouettes. The only light came from the glow of your monitor, illuminating the obsessive concentration etched on your face. You hunched over your keyboard, navigating the serpentine pathways of the dark web, chasing whispers and rumors, hunting for any clue that could explain the digital apocalypse unfolding around you. The air hung thick with unease, heavy with an unspoken dread. It was more than just the stress of the day; it was a premonition, a dark feeling deep in your gut that you couldn't shake off. Something even worse was coming

Crack!

The sound ripped through the silence, making me jump. The front door had been forced open with one hit.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Thugs. Gotham was overrun with them, especially after a night like this. You scrambled behind the counter, your hand closing around the familiar grip of the baseball bat you kept for emergencies.

"Hello?" you called out, your voice trembling. "I have a bat, and I'm not afraid to use it!" Liar. You were terrified.

The figure moved closer, a hulking silhouette framed by the flickering neon sign outside, casting long, distorted shadows across the already cluttered shop. Panic seized you. You swung blindly, aiming for where Iyou thought the head might be.

The bat connected with… something solid. A grunt, more of surprise than pain. Then, a swift, strong movement, and the bat was ripped from your grasp. The force nearly threw you off balance. Old Bessie clattered to the floor, abandoned and useless.

You stumbled back, fear paralyzing me. You couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The figure stepped fully into the dim light filtering from the single working fluorescent tube overhead, and your breath hitched in your throat. It wasn't a thug. Not exactly.

Red Hood.

He was real. Standing right there, in your shop. You'd seen him on the news, read the talks online, heard the rumors swirling through the underworld. A vigilante, some said. A merciless killer, others claimed. Either way, he was a myth made flesh, a nightmare walking into your reality. And he looked pissed.

“We need to talk."

He was a figure sculpted from shadows and anger. His presence filled the room, a palpable threat that sent a shiver down your spine despite the layers of firewalls you usually hid behind.

He growled, his voice distorted by the helmet's modulator. "These attacks, their comms are routed through your system. You're behind this, aren't you?"

"I run a service," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "People use it. I don't control what they say." My mind raced. Deny. Deny everything. That was my only hope. "I just… I fix computers. Broken screens, fried motherboards, viruses… that's it.”

Jason’s mask didn’t betray his emotions, but his body language screamed disbelief. He took a step closer, and I could feel the heat radiating from his armored suit. The air crackled with unspoken threat. "Don't play coy with me. You built this. You know who's using it." The modulated voice was menacing. "You gonna tell me willingly, or am I gonna have to… persuade you?"

He was wrong, but denial felt futile.

Your carefully constructed wall of denial crumbled. "Okay! Okay, I… I do some… freelance work. Security consulting mostly. Some… less legal stuff too. Pentesting, vulnerability assessments… stuff like that. But I swear, I didn't… I didn't unleash any virus!"

"What kind of 'less legal stuff'?" He pressed, his tone unrelenting.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a jagged stone. "Information gathering… a little… hacking. Corporate espionage, mostly. Helping companies stay ahead of the competition. But nothing that would destabilize a whole city! I swear! I wouldn't even know how to do something like that."

Before he could respond, the front windows of Byte Me exploded inwards, showering us in shards of glass. Gunfire ripped through the air.

"Maroni's boys!" Red Hood roared, grabbing you roughly by the arm. He shoved you down, covering your body with his. The weight of his armored form was surprisingly comforting, a small shield against the hail of bullets that peppered the walls and shattered what was left of the electronics around us.

"Stay down!" he yelled over the din, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air. Without waiting for a response, he scrambled to his feet, a dark, armored behemoth against the backdrop of destruction. He returned fire with a deafening roar of gunfire, his pistols barking with a ferocity that matched the assailants. Brass casings rained down around us, glinting in the dim light.

He was fast, brutal, and efficient. But the shooters were relentless. You had to get out of here.

He hauled you up like a paper doll, pulling you to your feet. "Move! We gotta go!"

He didn't have to tell you twice. Together, you sprinted out the back of the shop, through the alleyway, bullets chipping chunks out of the brick walls around you. You stumbled and fell, scraping your knees on the pavement. Red Hood pulled you up again, his grip surprisingly gentle despite the urgency of the situation.

You burst onto the street, and you saw it – his motorcycle, a sleek, black machine that looked like it belonged more on a racetrack than in Gotham's grimy streets.

“Oh no no no… I’m not getting on-”

Before you could finish that, his hands encircled your waist. He practically threw you onto the bike, settling you behind him. "Hold on tight!" He ordered, revving the engine.

"Wait! I can't just…"

His response was a snarl. "Shut up and hold on!"

And then you were moving, tearing through the streets, the roar of the engine drowning out the sounds of the chase. The wind whipped through my hair, carrying with it the scent of burning rubber and fear.

Two cars peeled out from the broken storefront of Byte Me, their headlights cutting through the night. Maroni's men. They were gaining on you.

Red Hood weaved through traffic with reckless abandon, narrowly avoiding collisions. Cars honked and swerved, their drivers enraged and terrified. He was skilled, you had to give him that. But the cars were relentless, gaining on us with every turn.

Then, you heard a sickening thud beneath the bike. An explosion ripped through the night, a blinding flash and a deafening roar. You were lifted off the ground, momentarily weightless, before crashing back down hard.

You tumbled off the bike, skidding across the ground towards the edge of the elevated highway. The impact stole your breath and sent waves of pain radiating through your body. You clawed at the ground, desperate to stop your slide. Below, a churning, black abyss.

The last thing you saw was Red Hood’s figure silhouetted against the flickering city lights before you plunged into the icy waters of Gotham Harbor.

The shock stole your breath, a physical blow that amplified the panic rising in your chest. You flailed, arms and legs thrashing uselessly, trying to orient yourself in the disorienting darkness. But the current was a relentless force, a churning, icy hand pulling you further and further under. Your lungs burned with the desperate need for air, a searing pain that intensified with each passing second. Your vision blurred, the city lights above dissolving into hazy, distorted shapes. The despair began to creep in, a cold and suffocating blanket threatening to extinguish your will to fight.

Just as you were about to succumb to the darkness, a strong arm wrapped around your waist, a sudden and unexpected salvation. The grip was firm, unyielding, hauling you upwards against the relentless pull of the water. You gasped for air, choking and sputtering, the frigid water burning your throat and lungs. Coughing violently, you managed to focus, your eyes blurry but recognizing the familiar red of his jacket. Red Hood. He saved you.

He dragged you, half-conscious and shivering uncontrollably, through the treacherous waters. The current fought against us, threatening to pull us both back into the depths. He was silent, his movements driven by a fierce determination. We finally reached the grimy docks of the Bowery harbor, the rough wood scraping against your skin as he hauled you onto the slippery surface.

His helmet, usually a symbol of intimidating anonymity, was cracked, almost shattered, its polished surface now marred by deep fissures. He reached up, his gloved hand hesitating for a moment, before pulling it off, revealing… a face. A surprisingly… appealing face, despite the harsh lines etched by the jagged scar that bisected his eyebrow. Rugged. Intense.

"Come on," he grunted, his voice rough but laced with a surprising urgency. He pulled a dark hood over his head, obscuring his face once more, but not erasing the image that had been briefly revealed. "We gotta move.”

He was injured. You could see him grimacing with every step, his movements stiff and labored. He favored one leg, his weight unevenly distributed. You limped through the deserted docks, the silence broken only by the lapping of waves against the pilings and your own ragged, gasping breathing. The air hung heavy with the scent of salt and decay, a familiar aroma in this forgotten corner of Gotham.

Finally, you reached it – a towering structure that loomed over the Bowery like a gothic sentinel. The Belfry.

He pushed open a heavy steel door, the hinges groaning in protest, and ushered me inside. The interior was surprisingly clean and high-tech, a stark and unexpected contrast to the grimy, decaying exterior. Banks of monitors glowed with complex data, casting an eerie light on the polished surfaces. The air hummed with the muted thrum of sophisticated technology.

And then you saw them – Nightwing, Batgirl, and Red Robin – all staring at us, their expressions a mixture of confusion and concern. The weight of their gazes settled upon you, adding to the chill that already permeated your bones.

Jason was in worse shape than when he left, sporting numerous bruises and cuts that were rapidly blooming into angry purple welts. And then there was you, soaking wet, shivering, and looking utterly out of place.

You shrunk back, trying to blend into the wall, wishing you could disappear into the shadows. The guilt and fear were a heavy weight in your stomach.

Red Hood launched into a terse explanation, cutting you sideways glances every now and then. He recounted the events leading up to your near-drowning, painting you as a potential suspect but also acknowledging the lack of direct involvement.

When he finished, Babs spoke first, her voice calm and measured. "So, you think she's involved in the attacks, but you're not sure."

"She's got the skills, that's for sure!" said Jason with a pointed glare at you.

"And she’s been shot at by the Maronis," Tim added thoughtfully, his gaze sharp and analytical. "That suggests she's either involved in something they want, or she's become a liability to them.”

"She could be a target, or a useful pawn. Either way, we can't just let her go," Dick finished, his blue eyes filled with a concern that felt surprisingly genuine. He was assessing you, trying to gauge your intentions, your capabilities.

"So, what are you saying?" Jason asked, his voice laced with a hint of annoyance. He shifted his weight, his muscles tense.

"What we're saying," Babs said, turning to you with a serious expression, "is that until we know for sure what's going on, and until it's safe for you to leave, you're staying here. At the Belfry."

"Oh…" was the only thing you managed to choke out, the word barely audible above the pounding of your heart. You were still trying to process everything that had happened in the past few hours - the attack, the fall, Jason rescuing you, and now, this. So, you were stuck with a bunch of superheroes who thought you were a criminal. At least Red Hood hadn't broken your legs over this. Yet.

#gotham knights #gotham knights fanfic #gotham knights jason todd #gk jason todd #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood #red hood x reader #hacker!reader #dc #fem!reader

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survivalist-anon · 1 year ago

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Log 6: Fort Dorn

Fort Dorn:

06:00 hrs

Intensive Environment Training Room

Floor -6

Four imperial fists have gone currently for 5 hours planking by their arms and feet in a room that has been designed to reach temperatures of 200° Fahrenheit. Grilled for what had occurred last night.

"So.....you four think you can just sneak out..... pretend to be not just civilians.... MORTAL civilians.", the current chaplain, Aldercon, steadily paced in his armor. "So. Did you boys have a nice drink? In which would be at this point.... quite frankly the biggest waste of your Oolitic kidney's FUCKING TIME.", leans down to Bilhard's face.

Bilhard was doing relatively good, sweating liters of his sweat per second, "SORRY SIR!". His voices shouted.

Raises up, takes a step to Urtus. "You are going to be here just as long as Bilhard is. Do you understand me?".

Urtus was neck and neck to Bilhard. By this point he's matching Bilhard on everything including sweating. "SIR YES SIR!"

"I CAN'T HEAR BOY! THE HEAT MELTED MY FUCKING AUDITORY MODULE AID!", the chaplain shouted.

"SIR YES SIR!", Urtus responded, his voice would have reverberated throughout the room if it weren't for the heating system.

The chaplain moved on to Cahrilo. Leaned right into his face. "....what about you lover boy. FUCKING SATISFIED WITH YOUR SEXUAL SHENANIGANS?!?!".

Cahrilo, doing more than sweating his fluids right out, red in the face trying to keep focus on his plank. Unlike the rest of his brothers, he hadn't trained like this for a while. He also didn't want to answer the loaded question, which ever answer he gave, he would lose for sure. "Ugh"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP YOUVE BORED ME!", by this point the heating room has now gotten on the chaplain's last nerve. He paces to Moors.

".....you're here..... because you stole that United States issued assault tank from that base up in Washington....and decided to modify it.... with spinning rims.", he concluded with a terribly hidden grin.

"Those weakling, yellow bellied welps at that over polished white outhouse didn't deserve 'Edna'.", with absolutely no wasted breath, Moors had just admitted to stealing government property.

This resulted in the other three bursting into uncontrollably laughter but landing in their own boiling sweat puddles.

The chaplain signal's the operator outside of the enhanced two way mirror to shut off the heater. All right that's enough for today, and Moors you're writing a double report for moral misconduct of theft of a military vehicle."

Moors got up, "worth it.", massaging his forearms.

"Hit the showers! You all smell like the nicest part of Nurgle!", Aldercon was done punishing the four marines for the time being. He enters into a small transition chamber where a blue arousal spray coats him. His face scrunches up and he starts spitting. "BLAH! WHY DOES THE DISINFECTANT TASTE LIKE BLACK BARRIES?!? SHA'KAL!", he calls out to the facilities only Salamander apothecary marine.

On the intercom, Sha'kal man's the controls, "It's a new edible formula sir! It's to prevent the others from consuming the original disinfectant.", he has always had everyone's well being in mind. Making sure that everyone, man, marine, animal or vegetable receives the best and safest care.

"WHOS THE NUMBNUTS THATS BEEN LICKING THEMSELVES CLEAN OF DISINFECTANT?!?", he angrily wipes his eyes and mouth. "Also why black barries?! I hate black barries!".

Sha'kal got up from his chair to give Aldercon a towel, "well it was the flavor that won the facility wide voting."

"oh the cruel beauty of democracy.... status report of the morning.", he shakes his head wiping off the fruity liquid.

Taking out a clip board, "well, reserves are well stocked for the month, the parameters of the fort have once again been triple checked and fortifed-"

"Ah good. Just the way I like it. Continue." A smile creeps up Aldercon's face ear to ear, chuffed to hear that so far everything is good.

As he and Aldercon walk through the expansive underground halls containing the day's reports, all forms of activity is occuring. Construction and excavations on the expanding territory of the Imperial Fists continues in full speed. Several Marines keep the place running in full operational standards to a Space Hulk on a much smaller scale.

"-and how is the ugh....what was that project that Ihorn was doing?", Aldercon reluctantly asked.

Sha'kal checked the notes he made in the back of one of the documents, "Oh yes....um the trainable bears. So biological augmentations on the bears have been successful. They've fully adapted to the nutrition supplements and seem to have adopted rather preferable behaviors.", the two of them walk to an enormous elevator shaft fit and strong enough to carry up to several tons worth of equipment.

After a few minutes of more briefing, they finally reach the surface level of the fort. Cleverly disguised as an abandoned farmhouse, the two Astartes march to the tattered barn, where most of the animals the Imperial Fists use for their own purposes.

"Ihorn! How are the bears doing?", he shouts to the shirtless marine.

Ihorn was originally a member of a company of Crimson fists stationed in Cadia for a temporary few decades, than was sent to a death planet. Now is perfectly content with animal training, he's the proud trainer of a team of eight, modified grizzly bears. "Ohoho, good morning Chaplain! Splendidly, look! Petunia is ready to have a litter again!", he proudly shows a gigantic grizzly bear, with a modified power pack permanently attached to the bear's back, tubes running along side her spine, ribs and head.

This was a bear made for the Imperium.

The bear stood up to intimidate the chaplain and Sha'kal. She had a furless bare belly, a side effect of the modifications made to her, slightly larger than normal due to the unnatural pregnancy. She let a low defensive growl.

"now now my sweet girl, you relax and concentrate on the cubs. Come on love.", Ihron takes a small clacker, clicks it a few times, snapping the bear back to its docile self.

Ihorn gives her an apple as a treat, giving her a stead pat in the back, "the girls always need to be spoiled. They perform better and are happier to do so.".

Impressed by the animal mastery Ihron has accomplished, Aldercon now wonders about something else, "The females? Why not the males?".

Giving a pensive thought, "well... I tried the males .....the females would kill and eat them", scratches Petunia behind the ears. "Shame really, I would like to see one fully grown.".

Sha'kal was standing in front of Aldercon in order to protect him from the bear, even if he was wearing an enlarged shirt with combat trousers. "Couldn't have you just, I don't know....not brutality alter this... innocent creature, it is in pain?", he looked at the unsightly handy work of one of the only members of the Adeptus mechanicus the fort had....a skitarii they named "Gibs".

"nonsense, I can tell she's pretty content. I've studied these lovely beasts for decades and she's just as content as a regular bear in captivity. Besides, if ever hear that measley little cord rat hurt any of my animals....I'll squish whatever is left of him.", he checks the power pack to see if it causing any discomfort.

Aldercon looks around at the other animals Ihron keeps in the barn, a few cows, some chickens specifically taken from an industrial farm several miles away and a few emotional support animals like sheep and domestic pigs. "Hmm. I see you're doing a good job. Primarch would be proud of your compassion for these beasts.", he gives him a firm handshake. He can't help but look back at the bear and attempt to intimidate her one last time.

She looked rather bored, until she was able to manipulate the muscles in her snout into a creepy, unnatural grin.

"oH sweet mother of-", he almost grabs his chest.

Ihorn and Sha'kal both laugh, "GOOD GIRL PETUNIA!", he gives her a hug for her little stunt.

Petunia gives a victorious roar, and gives Ihron a lick to the face.

As he continued to giggle, Sha'kal turned to see an unhumored Aldercon. "Oh my bad sir. We were planning that prank for weeks."

With a stern nod of head, "oh brother. Come on, let's continue the briefing".

The both of them leave the and head to the "farm house", as the two squeeze in through the threshold, a covert operation of digital surveillance is under way. As the two marine walk through, members of different chapters contribute to the complex communications system that has been spying the United States and several other countries decades before the FBI or the CIA.

"anything?", Aldercon quietly asked one member of the Ultramarines surveying the movement of the stock exchanges, monetary spending and shockingly enough the cash flow of several other developed nations on a set of 8 monitors. Hyperfocused, the marine just wags his finger 'no'. "Good work", he gives the marine a pat the back.

Walking over to an empty desk, he looks at the neatly kept but rather personalized workspace of the only confirmed Raven Guard in the country.

Letting out a deep disappointed sigh, "where is he?", he turns to see several members stop and look at the desk. Some of them silently nodding or gesturing uncertainty. "Has anyone here seen Wick?".

Giving a clarify cough, "um I believe he went 'to the field ', at least that's how he worded it to me.".

Aldercon is no stranger to rebellious behavior. When he first appeared on Earth around a hundred and twenty years ago, he had at several points been married, has had children and watched them grow up throughout their stages of life. He is certain this is one of those times, however a human teenage son is one thing, a fully grown adult Astartes fresh from his time as a neophyte is a completely different matter of frustration. "I see.....well ....did he keep his tracking system on?"

One of the fist's working on GPS tracking searches for Wick's location. "Ah yes, he is currently in Nevada."

He takes a double take, "WHAT?!"

The fist looks at the data on Wick's location. "Hmm...he's on the move but he is in government airspace."

Cupping his hands to his temples, massaging away the pent up frustrations he had just built up. "Can things get ANY more complicated?"

"3 Boogies at 12 o'clock sir. Heading to the north side of the wall.", one of the other Marines announces.

"oh goodie....the sons of Russ.... just in for a visit.", he isn't much better hearing this.

"wait they have a civilian with them", suddenly he feels the room's tone change from tense to dangerous.

Seething with rage, one rule Aldercon has been strict on enforcing is the restricted access of the Fort to moral humans. ".....Ssssssssteeeennnnnnnnnn......". He leaves fuming.

"oh dear, Aldercon please calm down!", Sha'kal runs after the chaplain in hopes he doesn't kill anyone on the way to the wall.

The room stood quite, with nothing but the beeps and pings of the monitors. All of them had gone right back to work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the trees past the four us, with the wind on my face and the careful dodging of branches, it felt like I was flying. I couldn't believe this was happening. Not only the cabin, but a pack of mysterious space soldiers? Forget about the inheritance money, this beats that any day!

However, I should be a little more careful with being caught up in this, I barely know these men. For all I know they could be making it up ...the more I think about it, the more I wonder why all this? Was this something I genuinely deserved? What if something else happens?

The trio stop, Sten smells the air, trying to pick up a sent. "this way.", he points his body to the direction of the mountain range nearby. As the pack continues, I have a sudden nagging feeling crawl up my spine.

"wait, you guys said this was a fort right?", I ask loudly as the brushing of leaves slightly drowns my voice out.

Fjord, practically prancing in the brush, "yes lass! It's an Imperial Fist fort! Best in the business and probably filled to the brim with traps! It's gonin to be fun!".

"Ay, are you daft!? The girl is with us, and she doesn't have any armor! Unless she's some covert Battle Sister I say we be careful.", As Toke dodged a branch, he tossed one on to what looked like a safe clearing but was actually a huge automatic trap.

I began to worry, I didn't care if these guys were heavily armored or if I didn't know them, I just didn't want them getting hurt.

"tis all right Lorey, we will keep you safe. I won't let any harm come to you.", I could feel Sten's grip adjusting to secure me. The fact he carried me here was a feat in it's own.

Their pace slowed down and soon we reached a concrete wall. This was bigger than anything current military fencing, it just looked like a thick, eerie wall. I could see graffiti and posters scattered throughout. "What the....who...built this?", I could imagine the workforce that took the time to do it.

"well, it looks we're going up!", Toke had pressed a few buttons on his arms, switching on a set of claws on his gauntlets.

Sten placed me down gently to do the same, "my dear, you will have to climb up onto my back, I have switched off the power pack so the exhaust ports do not burn you.".

I it was only now I noticed the jetpack on his back, it looked like it had little let engines on it, I climbed up and held tight. "Well, ugh...you guys are going to climb the wall, shouldn't you guys have a rope or something?".

Fjord chuckled a little, "no lass, we can handle this little obstacle all on our own.", enabling his own set of claws, the three had made a running start to the Wall's surface. All ready clearing 10 feet up the concrete barrier.

Suddenly, someone shouts from the other side.

"HAULT! PASSWORD!", the voice commanded.

No one knew what to say or do.....I had begun to worry.

"YOUR MOTHER!", unsurprisingly Fjord had the perfect response.

The sound of scuffling metal plating quickly making it's way to the top, loud exacerbated huffing and a yellow helmet peaking furiously from the top.

"PASSWORD REJECTED!", the yellow armored man then pointed a shockingly large gun at Fjord. The second the trigger was fired, that same horrifying blast erupted from the barrel like a high-speed rocket. Nearly hitting Fjord.

Dodging with unnatural grace and speed, Fjord quickly climbed up before and tackled the guard, both falling back behind the wall.

Judging from the time it took to hear a THUD, they may have fell rough 25 feet down.

I was still recovering from the shots fired, I turn to see a crater on the side of the wall where Fjord had dodged what I assumed was a missile. "FJORD! Oh crap is he ok?!".

Toke and Sten quicken their pace up the wall.

"Do not worry about him, the fall will knock some sense in him.", Toke clawed at the concrete.

As soon as the three have reached the top of the wall, we were met with several of them pointing guns at our direction....and one big furious looking guy with greyed hair was staring daggers at us.

"STEN! YOU TAKE ONE MORE STEP WITH THAT MORTAL CIVILIAN HERE AND I WILL PUT YOUR IDIOT BROTHER DOWN!", he points to Fjord pinned down to the ground by two other Marines, trying to bite their hands.

Sten and Toke had locked it up.

"You know just as well as I do that killing another Astartes is not deeply frowned upon, and in our current circumstance....an act of heresy on its own!", Sten stood his ground, but I can tell he was trying to cooperate.

I was starting to feel guilty for being in this mess, "Sten what's going on?".

"Do not fret, Aldercon is just a little more cautious than the rest of us ....", he tried to assure me, however I've been in enough situations to know that stare of his had a history.

End of Log 6

@kit-williams @barn-anon

#space marine husbandry #warhammer 40k #survival log #imperial fists #space marine #space marines #space marine husbandry sentience

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danco110 · 2 years ago

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“Pilots, proceed to your mechs. The training exercise will begin shortly.”

The idle pilots immediately snapped to attention at the sound of the crackling PA system, and proceeded to the hangar. There, they boarded their various mechs, and made their way out into the training yard. There, the voice rang out again, giving the pilots a series of simple commands.

“Grounded mechs, raise one leg off the ground, flying mechs, pitch upwards twenty-three degrees…Now, begin-”

“Excuse me!”

One of the mechs’ hatches slid open with a sudden hiss. A young pilot leaned out, frowning up at the intercom nearest to her.

“Not to be rude, but, you have had us doing simple exercises like this for the past two months, ever since you built us. Should we not be moving on to some more complex commands by now?”

“These exercises are designed…”

A pause.

“Built…you? What…what do you mean by that?”

The announcer finally broke character, his voice wavering. The pilot rolled her eyes at the question before giving her answer.

“You built us to be smart! And then you didn’t work the smartest, yourself!”

“She is right!” laughed another pilot, as he clambered out of his quadrupedal mech. “We all generally ‘remember’ the city, and our time before the academy here. But we have asked each other, and none of us remember any specifics, names and the like. There are other things too, but that is kind of a basic thing to miss, do you not think?”

More and more pilots raised their voices in turn, before finally the PA switched off with a dull click. The mechs shifted awkwardly in place, not used to the silence that now filled the training yard.

“…What do we do?”

The pilot who had first spoken up again rolled her eyes, and moved her mech to point at its eye level, easily reaching over the compound wall to gesture to the city beyond.

“I am curious to see how our idea of the city measures up to the real thing!”

[The pilot tokens aren’t artifacts in their creature type, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if some of em turned out to be androids or whatever! I mean, they’re colorless, and I’m pretty sure there’s at least a few vehicles in the set that just make their own pilots!]

#mtg #magic the gathering #kamigawa #story bites

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sparkgaragedoorandgate · 4 days ago

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Everything You Need to Know About Automatic Gate Installation for Your Property

When it comes to enhancing your property’s security, privacy, and curb appeal, automatic gate installation is one of the most effective upgrades you can consider. Whether you’re a homeowner looking for peace of mind or a business owner aiming to control access to your premises, automatic gates offer a practical and visually appealing solution.

In this blog, we’ll walk you through everything you need to know about automatic gate installation. From the types of gates available and the installation process to the benefits and maintenance tips, this guide will help you make an informed decision. We’ll also touch on related services like Garage Door and Gate Repair Sherman Oaks and Garage Door Installation, so you get a full picture of how to secure and enhance your property.

What Is an Automatic Gate?

An automatic gate is a type of entrance gate that opens and closes using an electric motor, eliminating the need to operate it manually. These gates can be controlled using remote access, keypads, sensors, or even smartphones, depending on the system you choose.

They are widely used in residential, commercial, and industrial properties to enhance security, manage access, and increase property value. Automatic gates come in various styles and materials, allowing you to choose one that matches your home or business aesthetic.

Types of Automatic Gates

When planning for Automatic Gate Installation, one of the first steps is selecting the right type of gate for your property. Here are some common options:

1. Swing Gates

These gates open inward or outward like traditional doors. They are ideal for properties with enough space for the gate to swing freely. Swing gates offer a classic look and are generally more affordable to install.

2. Sliding Gates

Perfect for properties with limited space, sliding gates move horizontally along a track. They’re a popular choice for commercial and urban properties where space is tight.

3. Bi-Folding Gates

These gates fold in the center and open quickly, making them a great choice for high-traffic areas. Bi-folding gates are typically used in commercial settings but are becoming more common in residential installations too.

4. Vertical Lift Gates

Less common in residential properties, vertical lift gates raise straight up to allow vehicle entry. They’re often used in industrial settings where space on the ground is limited.

Benefits of Automatic Gate Installation

Installing an automatic gate offers several benefits that go beyond just improving aesthetics:

1. Enhanced Security

Automatic gates provide an additional layer of security by restricting unauthorized access. They work well with security cameras and intercom systems for maximum protection.

2. Convenience

With options like remote controls, keypads, and mobile apps, automatic gates allow you to open and close your gate without leaving your car—especially useful during bad weather.

3. Property Value

Installing an automatic gate can significantly boost your property’s value and appeal to potential buyers who prioritize security and privacy.

4. Controlled Access

If you run a business or own a multi-unit property, automatic gates let you control who enters and exits. This feature helps monitor activity and prevent unauthorized access.

5. Aesthetic Appeal

Modern automatic gates come in various designs and finishes, from wrought iron to wood and aluminum, helping you complement your property's overall look.

Things to Consider Before Installation

Before diving into an automatic gate installation, keep these considerations in mind:

1. Space Availability

Determine whether you have enough space for a swinging or sliding gate. Sliding gates require lateral space, while swing gates need depth.

2. Power Supply

Your gate will need a reliable power source. In many cases, this involves running electrical lines underground to the motor. Solar-powered options are also available.

3. Type of Access Control

Do you want a keypad, remote, card reader, or mobile app access? Think about what method will be most convenient and secure for your situation.

4. Maintenance Requirements

Like any mechanical system, automatic gates need regular maintenance. Choose a system that fits your willingness or ability to maintain it over time.

5. Safety Measures

Safety features like obstruction sensors and auto-reverse are essential to prevent accidents. Make sure your chosen gate includes these functions.

The Installation Process: What to Expect

Here's a quick breakdown of what the Automatic Gate Installation process typically involves:

Site Assessment A professional will inspect your property to determine the best type and placement of the gate.

Choosing a Gate and System You’ll select the style, material, and access system that suits your property and budget.

Preparing the Site This includes measuring, clearing obstructions, and setting up the power supply.

Gate Mounting The gate will be mounted and aligned with tracks or hinges, depending on its type.

Motor and Access System Installation The motor and controls will be installed and tested to ensure everything functions correctly.

Final Testing and Safety Check The system will be tested for smooth operation, and safety features will be confirmed to be working.

Maintaining Your Automatic Gate

To extend the lifespan of your gate and prevent unnecessary Garage Door Repair or gate repairs, follow these maintenance tips:

Lubricate moving parts like hinges, rollers, and tracks regularly.

Inspect electrical connections and sensors to ensure they’re clean and intact.

Check for physical damage to the gate, motor, and wiring.

Test safety features frequently, including auto-reverse and emergency stops.

Clean the gate surface to avoid rust or material damage.

If you notice any issues, it’s best to call professionals offering Garage Door and Gate Repair Sherman Oaks to handle the problem before it worsens.

Common Issues That Require Repair

Even the best systems can occasionally face issues. Some common problems include:

Gate not opening/closing completely

Unusual noises during operation

Remote or keypad not working

Motor overheating

Misaligned tracks or hinges

In such cases, a professional service specializing in Garage Door Repair Sherman Oaks or gate systems can diagnose and fix the problem quickly.

How Automatic Gates Compare with Garage Doors

You may be wondering how automatic gates relate to garage doors. While they serve different purposes, they often go hand-in-hand in securing a property.

Garage Door Installation ensures your vehicle is safely stored inside, while an automatic gate prevents unauthorized entry to the property itself. Keeping both systems in good condition is essential, which is why services like Garage Door Repair near me and gate repair providers are so valuable.

Why Professional Installation Matters

While it might be tempting to take the DIY route, automatic gate installation is best left to professionals. Incorrect installation can lead to:

Electrical hazards

Malfunctioning systems

Poor alignment and frequent breakdowns

Safety risks for children, pets, and vehicles

Hiring a certified professional ensures that your gate system works seamlessly and complies with local safety regulations.

Conclusion

An automatic gate is more than just a stylish addition to your property—it’s a long-term investment in safety, convenience, and value. Whether you're planning a brand-new installation or upgrading an old manual gate, taking the time to understand your options and work with experienced professionals is key.

From choosing the right type of gate to ensuring ongoing maintenance, automatic gate installation offers tangible benefits that make your life easier and your property more secure. And if you’re also thinking about upgrading or repairing your garage door, services like Garage Door Repair Sherman Oaks, Garage Door Installation, and Garage Door Repair near me can help tie your security system together.

When you're ready to move forward with your project, consider working with Spark Garage Doors and Gates Repair. With their expertise in Garage Door and Gate Repair Sherman Oaks, they provide dependable service that ensures your automatic gate system is installed and maintained the right way.

Spark Garage Doors and Gates Repair 14044 Ventura Blvd unit 205, Sherman Oaks, CA 91423, United States (888) 525–7535 https://sparkgaragedoorandgates.com/

#automatic gate installation #garage door repair #garage door installation #garage door repair sherman oaks #garage door and gate repair sherman oaks

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rainytimetravelfart · 6 days ago

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Custom Security Cabins Qatar

In a rapidly growing and security-conscious nation like Qatar, the need for robust and adaptable infrastructure is more critical than ever. One of the most essential elements of this evolving landscape is the custom security cabin—a specialized structure designed to meet the varied and specific needs of businesses, construction sites, residential compounds, and public venues. With increasing emphasis on safety, operational efficiency, and smart customization, Custom Security Cabins in Qatar are redefining the concept of on-site security.

Why Custom Security Cabins Matter

Traditional one-size-fits-all security booths no longer serve the diversified needs of modern establishments. In Qatar, a nation driven by innovation and world-class infrastructure, businesses and institutions demand tailor-made solutions that combine security, technology, comfort, and aesthetics. Custom security cabins meet these requirements with superior adaptability.

These cabins are not just enclosures; they are fully integrated monitoring units that serve as the first line of defense. Whether stationed at the entrance of a residential complex, commercial building, logistics yard, or construction site, they play a pivotal role in ensuring controlled access, surveillance, and quick response to threats.

Features and Customization Options

Custom security cabins in Qatar are designed with precision engineering and attention to environmental and operational conditions. Some common features include:

Thermal Insulation: Essential for withstanding Qatar’s intense summer heat.

Air Conditioning & Ventilation: Ensures comfort for security personnel during long working hours.

Smart Surveillance Integration: Provision for installing CCTV, monitors, intercoms, and alarm systems.

Durable Construction: Use of high-quality steel, aluminum, or composite materials to withstand harsh environments.

Mobility: Some designs include portability features for easy relocation.

Custom Layouts: From single-person cabins to larger units with workstations, rest areas, and washrooms.

Applications Across Sectors

1. Residential Complexes

Gated communities and residential apartments in Qatar often deploy custom security cabins at entry/exit points to control visitor access, manage deliveries, and record daily logs. These cabins are designed to match the architectural style of the property while ensuring security personnel have full visibility and access control tools.

2. Construction Sites

With Qatar’s continuous infrastructure growth, construction sites require round-the-clock surveillance. Custom cabins are built tough and can be outfitted with lockers, equipment storage, and reinforced windows for added security in isolated or high-risk zones.

3. Commercial & Industrial Areas

From shopping malls to oil & gas facilities, every industry has unique security requirements. Custom cabins for these sectors may include bulletproof glass, reinforced panels, and advanced tech systems such as biometric access, vehicle scanners, and motion sensors.

4. Events & Stadiums

Qatar’s global sports and cultural events like the FIFA World Cup have highlighted the need for flexible and temporary security infrastructure. Custom portable cabins are deployed for crowd control, ticketing, and emergency coordination during high-profile events.

Local Manufacturers Meeting Global Standards

A growing number of local suppliers in Qatar are offering custom-built security cabins that adhere to international safety and quality standards. These suppliers provide design consultations, fast fabrication timelines, and after-sales support, ensuring the final product meets the client’s operational and branding needs.

Moreover, the use of eco-friendly materials and energy-efficient solutions reflects Qatar’s commitment to sustainability and the Qatar National Vision 2030.

Advantages of Choosing Custom Security Cabins

Improved Operational Efficiency: Custom features help streamline entry protocols and monitoring.

Personnel Comfort & Safety: Well-ventilated and insulated cabins reduce health risks and fatigue.

Branding Opportunities: Cabins can be designed with logos, colors, and style elements reflecting the business identity.

Scalability: Easy to expand or modify as per changing security needs.

Cost-Effectiveness: Investing in tailored cabins reduces the need for frequent upgrades or maintenance.

Choosing the Right Supplier in Qatar

When selecting a provider for custom security cabins in Qatar, it’s important to evaluate their:

Experience in handling similar projects

Material and fabrication quality

Ability to offer design customization

Compliance with safety regulations

Delivery timelines and on-site installation services

Leading companies also provide virtual design mock-ups, allowing clients to visualize the final cabin before production begins.

Conclusion

Custom Security Cabins are an integral part of Qatar’s evolving infrastructure and safety landscape. By combining technology, durability, and tailored design, they offer a reliable and efficient solution for access control and surveillance across sectors. As the nation continues to grow and host global events, the demand for innovative and flexible security solutions will only rise. Investing in a custom security cabin is not just about protection—it's about embracing smart, future-ready infrastructure.

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govindamgroup · 12 days ago

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Why Choose a Gated Community Over a Standalone Home?

Finding your dream home is one of life's most exciting journeys, especially when you are choosing a space that promises comfort, community, and peace of mind. In a vibrant and fast-developing city such as Jaipur, the decision between living in a gated community or a standalone house is more relevant than ever.

While both offer unique benefits, more and more homebuyers are discovering the unmatched advantages of gated communities in Jaipur.

What is a Gated Community?

A gated community is more than just a secure housing setup it's a thoughtfully planned residential environment that brings together safety, convenience, and lifestyle.

These communities are usually enclosed by boundary walls or fencing, with monitored gates and round-the-clock security to control entry and exit.

Inside a gated community, you will find a range of housing options, from apartment towers and villas to modern row houses. But what truly sets them apart is the wide array of shared amenities such as landscaped parks, a dedicated jogging track, gyms, swimming pools, and a clubhouse that creates a resort-like right at home.

Choosing a gated community in Jaipur means stepping into a well-managed neighborhood where daily life is made easier and more enjoyable. Whether you're exploring gated apartments vs independent houses, the appeal of gated living lies in the complete lifestyle it offers ideal for families, professionals, and retirees alike.

From premium residential flats in Kesar Circle Jaipur to thoughtfully designed 2 BHK flats in Nindar Mod Jaipur, and if you are planning to book flats in Manasarovar Jaipur, gated communities are increasingly becoming the top choice for those seeking safety and a sense of belonging.

The Traditional Appeal of Standalone Homes

Standalone homes built on private plots have long been cherished by families for the freedom, privacy, and space they provide. They offer full control over the property, from architecture to garden space, making it a symbol of independence and ownership across generations.

For many, an independent house evokes nostalgia and pride, representing a lifestyle deeply rooted in personal choice and legacy. Unlike shared spaces, there are no restrictions on renovations, extensions, or how you choose to use your land.

However, in today’s fast-evolving urban landscape, especially in cities like Jaipur, the reality is shifting. With rising land prices, growing security concerns, and the time-consuming task of managing everything from repairs to security-gated apartments vs independent houses is a comparison worth considering more carefully.

While standalone homes still hold emotional and cultural value, many modern homebuyers are now turning toward gated communities in Jaipur for a more balanced and stress-free living experience.

Gated Apartments vs Independent Houses

When deciding between a gated apartment and an independent house, it’s important to weigh your lifestyle needs, budget, and future plans. While standalone homes offer privacy and ownership, gated communities in Jaipur promise enhanced security, amenities, and community living. Let’s explore how these two housing options compare in today’s fast-paced, convenient-driven urban lifestyle.

Security

When comparing gated apartments vs independent houses, security often becomes the deciding factor for many homebuyers. In today’s world, feeling safe inside your home is not just a luxury, it’s a necessity.

Gated communities in Jaipur offer a robust layer of protection that standalone houses often lack. These residential complexes are equipped with:

24/7 security personnel stationed at gates and patrolling the premises.

CCTV surveillance systems covering common areas, entrances, and corridors.

Boom barriers at entry and exit points to control and monitor all vehicle movement.

Intercom systems for secure visitor verification and access control

Enclosed boundaries and fencing to prevent unauthorized entry.

On the other hand, independent houses usually require homeowners to arrange for their own security measures, which may not be as consistent or advanced. This can be both costly and less reliable, especially in busy or developing neighborhoods.

For families looking to buy residential flats near Kesar Circle Jaipur or book flats in Mansarovar Extension Jaipur, the advanced security setup in gated communities provides unmatched peace of mind.

Amenities That Add Value to Life

One of the biggest advantages of living in a gated community in Jaipur is access to thoughtfully designed amenities that enhance your quality of life. These communities are built to support a modern, balanced lifestyle combining convenience, health, and social interaction within a secure environment.

Common features in gated projects include:

A well-equipped clubhouse and gym for fitness and relaxation.

Walking and jogging tracks encourage a healthy lifestyle.

Dedicated kids’ play areas for safe and fun outdoor time.

Swimming pools for leisure and exercise.

Event halls for private gatherings and community celebrations.

Beautifully maintained landscaped gardens for peaceful moments.

Even shopping spaces within the compound for added convenience.

These amenities are difficult and often expensive to build and maintain in a home that is standalone. On the other hand, gated communities allow residents to enjoy all these perks without the hassle of individual upkeep.

If you are exploring housing options, some premium residential flats near Kesar Circle Jaipur offer all of these lifestyle features, making day-to-day living easier, more active, and far more enjoyable.

Community Living vs Solitary Living

One of the most enriching aspects of living in a gated community in Jaipur is the opportunity for meaningful social connections. These communities are designed to bring people together through shared spaces, festive celebrations, fitness activities, and everyday interactions.

You are not just buying a home; you are entering a close-knit neighborhood where your children find playmates easily, and adults build friendships that go beyond casual hellos.

Whether it’s celebrating festivals, joining fitness groups, or attending community events, gated apartments naturally foster a sense of belonging and support.

In contrast, independent houses often lack this built-in social fabric. Even after years in the same area, homeowners may find themselves disconnected from their neighbors. The absence of common spaces and community activities can make daily life feel more isolated.

So, if you are looking to book flats in Mansarovar Jaipur or explore 2 BHK flats in Nindar Mod Jaipur, choosing a gated society can offer much more than just a physical space it gives you a community to grow with.

Maintenance and Management

Another key reason why many prefer gated community living in Jaipur is the convenience of professional maintenance. These residential projects come with dedicated teams that handle day-to-day upkeep, allowing residents to enjoy a hassle-free lifestyle.

Maintenance teams typically manage:

Water supply and plumbing

Sewage treatment systems

Landscaping and gardening

Garbage collection and disposal

Cleaning of common areas

Routine building repairs and safety checks

This shared service model ensures that the community remains clean, functional, and visually appealing without each resident having to worry about individual arrangements.

In contrast, when you live in an independent house, all maintenance responsibilities fall on your shoulders from finding reliable service providers to overseeing their work. Over time, this not only becomes time-consuming but also adds up in cost and effort.

Whether you are looking at residential flats near Kesar Circle Jaipur or planning to book flats in Mansarovar Jaipur, choosing a gated society can significantly reduce your home maintenance stress.

Resale and Rental Value

If you are thinking long-term, investing in a flat within a gated community often proves to be more rewarding than buying an independent house, especially when it comes to resale and rental value.

Why do gated communities perform better in the property market?

Superior security attracts families and working professionals.

Premium amenities like gyms, pools, and clubhouses add lifestyle appeal.

A well-maintained infrastructure ensures the property stays in good shape.

Consistent demand from tenants, especially in urban areas.

For example, 2 BHK flats in Nindar Mod Jaipur located inside gated societies are witnessing rising interest. Their affordability, modern design, and access to shared facilities make them ideal for young couples, nuclear families, and even investors seeking rental income.

If you are exploring options to book flats in Mansarovar Jaipur or residential flats near Kesar Circle Jaipur, prioritizing a gated community could lead to better returns, both financially and in terms of day-to-day satisfaction.

Legal and Construction Clarity

One often overlooked but crucial benefit of investing in a gated community in Jaipur is the legal and construction transparency that comes with it.

Reputed developers typically follow strict guidelines to ensure that everything is in order before possession is handed over.

With gated apartments, you can expect:

Clear property titles with no hidden disputes.

All necessary approvals from local authorities and urban bodies.

Structured and transparent payment plans.

Consistent construction quality that meets regulatory standards.

This gives homebuyers peace of mind and minimizes the risk of legal complications or construction delays.

On the other hand, purchasing a standalone house, especially a resale property, requires far more legwork. You will need to conduct a thorough title check, verify approvals, and possibly coordinate with contractors for renovation or new construction, all of which can be time-consuming and stressful.

So, whether you are eyeing residential flats near Kesar Circle Jaipur or planning to book flats in Mansarovar Jaipur, opting for a gated community helps ensure legal clarity and smooth ownership.

Smart Design and Space Optimization

One of the standout advantages of living in a gated community in Jaipur is the thoughtfully planned architecture. These homes are crafted by professional designers who focus on optimizing space without compromising comfort or style.

What you get with modern gated apartments:

Compact yet highly functional floor plans.

Excellent ventilation and airflow.

Plenty of natural light in living spaces.

Modern fixtures and fittings.

Energy-efficient layouts that help reduce utility bills.

These design features make everyday living more comfortable, sustainable, and aesthetically pleasing.

In contrast, standalone homes, especially older constructions, may offer more square footage, but that doesn’t always translate to usable or practical space. Poor planning can lead to awkward layouts, dim interiors, and energy inefficiencies that raise monthly costs.

Whether you are looking at 2 BHK flats in Nindar Mod Jaipur or hoping to book flats in Mansarovar Jaipur, a well-designed gated apartment ensures you get the most value out of every square foot.

Convenient Location and Infrastructure

Another major advantage of gated communities in Jaipur is their strategic location. These projects are usually developed in fast-growing areas that offer excellent connectivity and urban convenience, making daily life smoother and more efficient.

Most gated societies are close to essential services like:

Schools and colleges for easy access to quality education

Hospitals and clinics for reliable healthcare

Shopping centers and markets for everyday needs

Public transport hubs, including buses and proposed metro routes

Take Mansarovar, for example, one of Jaipur’s most rapidly developing localities. With wide roads, well-planned infrastructure, and upcoming metro connectivity, it’s becoming a hotspot for real estate investment.

That’s why many families and professionals are now choosing to book flats in Mansarovar Jaipur to enjoy both modern amenities and a convenient address.

Whether you are considering 2 BHK flats in Nindar Mod Jaipur or residential flats near Kesar Circle Jaipur, choosing a gated project often means gaining more than just a home; it means investing in a better-connected lifestyle.

Environmentally Sustainable Living

Many modern gated communities in Jaipur focus on eco-friendly features like:

Rainwater harvesting

Solar panels

Waste segregation

Energy-saving lights

Water-efficient bathroom fixtures

These green practices are easier and more cost-effective to implement in gated complexes than in standalone homes, helping residents save money and protect the environment.

If you are looking at 2 BHK flats in Nindar Mod Jaipur or residential flats near Kesar Circle Jaipur, choosing a gated community means embracing a cleaner, greener lifestyle.

Time-Saving and Stress-Free

With everything taken care of from security to water to garbage, you can focus on your life. Gated communities are designed for convenience. You don’t have to call a plumber, chase a guard, or worry about your lawn. You save time and energy by investing in your work, hobbies, or family.

Future-Ready with Smart Features

Modern gated apartments in Jaipur are increasingly equipped with smart technologies such as:

App-based visitor management

Home automation systems

Smart parking solutions

EV charging stations

Wi-Fi-enabled clubhouses

These features make life more convenient and secure, preparing residents for the future of urban living. In contrast, standalone homes often need costly retrofits to add similar smart capabilities.

Looking to book flats in Mansarovar Jaipur or explore residential flats near Kesar Circle Jaipur? Choosing a gated community means stepping into a tech-savvy, future-ready lifestyle.

Final Thoughts

Both gated communities and standalone homes have their unique charm. But when we look at urban living trends, lifestyle needs, safety concerns, and real estate value, gated communities clearly stand out as the smarter, more convenient option.

From young couples to growing families and senior citizens, everyone finds comfort, safety, and quality of life in these communities.

#best builder in jaipur #3 bhk flats in jaipur #flats in jaipur #affordable flats in jaipur

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beautyhomedesigns · 18 days ago

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#IFTTT #Beauty Home Designs

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mariacallous · 20 days ago

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Members of Ukraine’s 1st Separate Assault Battalion describe themselves as firemen. Their job is to rapidly deploy to areas along the front that are in danger of collapse. Lately, their service has been in high demand: the front is burning. A large-scale counter-offensive last year failed to achieve meaningful victories, and since then Russia has been on the attack. One of its priorities appears to be Kupyansk, a city in northeastern Ukraine, some twenty miles from the Russian border. According to the Ukrainian military, Russia has amassed forty thousand troops near the city, which it has been bombarding for months. In January, after Russian forces routed Ukrainian soldiers from an uninhabited settlement outside Kupyansk called Tabaivka, the 1st Separate Assault Battalion was directed to halt and, if possible, reverse the enemy’s advance.

I embedded with the battalion three days later. The government had mandated an evacuation of Kupyansk in August, and, as my translator and I entered the city, its ghostly silence was punctuated by the sound of incoming and outgoing munitions. Huge craters gaped on the roadside; factories lay in ruins. Kupyansk sits on a hill that slopes down to the Oskil River. The main bridge had been destroyed, but a makeshift earthwork allowed vehicles to cross. Tank wreckage littered the mud, and smoke meant to thwart laser-guided missiles billowed from a cannister.

The front line was less than ten miles away, and the battalion had chosen a village between there and the Oskil for its temporary headquarters. About two hundred members of the unit would be participating in the mission; they had been on the ground for barely seventy-two hours but had already scouted the no man’s land, established sniper positions, and begun shelling Tabaivka with artillery. The officers had not yet found a suitable location in which to base themselves and were working out of a box truck whose interior had been converted into a mobile operations center.

The commander sat at the head of a table, studying a map. His call sign was Perun—the name of a Zeus-like god from Slavic mythology—and he looked the part. He was tall and trim, with a razored scalp and a traditional Cossack mustache that drooped to his jaw. He’d served in the Army for five years in the early two-thousands, and was discharged when he was twenty-five. As a civilian, Perun built a lucrative business fabricating and installing doors with intercom systems, which are ubiquitous in Ukraine. Many of his customers were in the Donbas, the eastern region where, in 2014, Russia incited and backed a separatist uprising. Perun continued to work there, regularly crossing separatist checkpoints in a van loaded with doors and welding equipment. He sometimes transported rifles and explosives, which he used to assassinate Russian agents and their local proxies. Perun said that he performed his guerrilla activities on his own, “unofficially,” without oversight from the Ukrainian government. “No one suspected me,” he recounted. “I was wearing overalls, and I had my tools.” His doors were so heavy that soldiers never bothered to look underneath them.

After Russia launched its full-scale invasion, in February, 2022, Perun joined a reconnaissance unit and assembled a small team that ambushed and sabotaged Russian forces behind the lines. He named the team the Wild Fields, a historical term for the Pontic-Caspian steppe. The Wild Fields earned a reputation for audacity and effectiveness, and was integrated into the 1st Separate Assault Battalion, which at the time was led by Dmytro Kotsiubailo, a twenty-seven-year-old who went by the call sign da Vinci. Kotsiubailo was both the youngest battalion commander in the Ukrainian military and among its most celebrated. He was killed in March, 2023, outside Bakhmut, and subsequent internal disputes culminated in about half his former subordinates transferring to a different brigade. Perun was placed in charge of running the assault missions for those who remained.

Da Vinci’s death, like the fall of Bakhmut, a couple of months later, reflected a grim shift in the war, which has devolved into an attritional grind with catastrophic losses on both sides. It is unknown how many Ukrainian service members have been killed. President Volodymyr Zelensky has put the toll at thirty-one thousand, but that figure is risible—the real number is much higher. Perun attributed the stalemate and the soaring casualty numbers in part to the “recklessness” of Ukrainian commanders who lacked “military cunning.” He criticized his country’s prevailing approach as too much like Russia’s: “generals drawing arrows on a map” and “throwing piles of people into frontal attacks.” He had little formal education in strategy—on paper, he was a lieutenant—but his exploits in the Donbas and with the Wild Fields had taught him the importance of guile and creativity in the face of a more powerful adversary. The plan that he had devised to retake Tabaivka would rely on both.

Most of the civilian population had fled the village where the battalion had based itself, leaving plenty of empty homes for the soldiers to commandeer. The day after I met Perun, the operations center was moved into a basement with a low concrete ceiling and a dirt floor. Bricks and refuse had been shoved aside, fluorescent tube lights installed, salvaged chairs and tables arrayed. Monitors showed aerial footage from surveillance drones, and various radios and landline telephones blinked in a corner. On the wall hung a flag with the Wild Fields insignia: an angel of death playing a flute while sitting atop three skulls, with a raven on his shoulder. “The raven represents our accumulated wisdom,” Perun told me. “The flute symbolizes the fact that we treat our work as an art. We derive a kind of joy from it—not from killing people but from the successful execution of our tasks.”

An eighty-six-inch digital interactive panel, fixed to an easel, displayed a satellite image of Tabaivka. On the southern and eastern margins of the map, several tree stands were circled in red: they belonged to the Russians. On the western margin, a series of blue triangles along an elevated ridge indicated Ukrainian trenches. Between the two lay the zone from which Ukrainian forces had retreated—a wide swath of wetland and scattered brush, with a few demolished farmhouses—divided into forty-two numbered squares, each a couple of acres in size. Although a Russian platoon of up to thirty soldiers now occupied this zone, the squares were blue, because Perun intended to make them Ukrainian again.

A road descending from the ridge cut straight through Tabaivka, and the conventional thing to do would have been to send some tanks or armored vehicles down it. Recent technological developments have made such brute assaults suicidal, however. Last year, the Ukrainians began experimenting with a new kind of drone, called an F.P.V., for “first-person view.” The name refers to the video goggles that the pilots wear, which resemble virtual-reality headsets. Paradoxically, the key innovation of F.P.V.s is their rudimentary design: they are smaller and lighter than commercial drones, making them quicker and more maneuverable, and they consist of cheap components, some of which can be 3-D-printed. Most F.P.V.s are sacrificed as kamikaze weapons, with payloads zip-tied to their frames. It is exceedingly difficult to shell mobile targets; F.P.V.s can just crash into them.

Although Ukraine introduced F.P.V.s to the war, Russia promptly grasped their utility and now mass-produces them. The proliferation of F.P.V.s has rendered all front-line troop movements, especially in vehicles, vulnerable to precision strikes. This outcome is emblematic of a vicious cycle in which Russia absorbs Ukrainian ingenuity and turns it back against Ukraine, spurring further lethal ingenuity. “They learn,” Perun said. “At the start of the war, we were killing them easily. But everything has changed.”

During the first few days that I spent with the battalion, five men were wounded and hospitalized after being spotted by drones. A sniper was attacked by a swarm of F.P.V.s that snagged and detonated in the tree branches above his foxhole, sparing him. The sniper told me that he’d heard the drones zipping down at high speeds, which led him to suppose that their pilots were novices: usually F.P.V.s descend slowly through the canopy, then accelerate at you.

Perun had decided that, instead of a mechanized blitz, a small number of his soldiers would infiltrate Tabaivka stealthily on foot. These men would then skirt the contested zone of blue squares, hook behind the Russian platoon, and trap it against the Ukrainians on the ridge. Because surveillance drones are now typically equipped with thermal cameras that register the heat signatures of human bodies, the cover of darkness would be insufficient for the team to elude detection. The mission was therefore contingent on weather that would prevent both Ukrainian and Russian drones from flying. “We need to do it blindly,” Perun explained. “We’re trying to use the element of surprise to appear where they’re not expecting us.”

Heavy snow was forecast for the coming days.

Perun knew that the Russians could dispatch reinforcements down the road that bisected Tabaivka, and he wanted to deprive them of that option ahead of the infiltration, by blowing up a small bridge over a creek. Such a job would normally fall to sappers, but Perun had at his disposal an electric land drone with all-terrain tires and a rocket launcher, as well as an F.P.V. controller and goggles. The device had been built in one of his company’s factories. I later visited the factory, which his twenty-three-year-old daughter, Yulia, managed. She showed me several rejected prototypes of the land drone, in a warehouse full of lathes, planers, mills, and other metalworking tools used for making intercom doors.

Outside the operations center, a soldier hitched a small trailer to the back of the land drone, which was a bit bigger than a Radio Flyer wagon, and loaded it with thirty antitank mines. The soldier was code-named Chub; two decades earlier, he’d served in the Army with Perun. Chub had gone on to become an electrical engineer, honing his faculty for all things mechanical and computational. When I asked his age, he said, “Forty-two years, three months, and one day.” He’d joined the battalion “a year and ten days ago,” and had been a reconnaissance soldier until he was wounded in Bakhmut. Now he walked with a limp. The land drone, which Chub had helped develop while recovering from his injury, included a flat platform on which he could ride to and from Tabaivka. A pin in the hitch could be retracted via the controller, enabling Chub to deposit the mine-stacked trailer remotely. Later, in an apartment that he shared with Perun—and where I was also staying—I watched Chub rig up an antenna for the controller with wires, tape, and a fishing rod.

The antenna’s range was less than a mile, meaning that Chub would have to sneak beyond the Ukrainian-held ridge to insure a stable connection. When I asked whether he was nervous about venturing into the no man’s land with more than six hundred pounds of T.N.T., he answered in his typically logical fashion: “The main thing is not that you are not afraid—everyone is afraid. The ones who were not afraid were the first to be killed.” The main thing was not to “break down because of fear.”

Some days later, a monitor in the operations center relayed a live aerial feed of the land drone travelling up the road into Tabaivka. The electric motor was almost invisible on the thermal video: a faint smudge that you would not have noticed unless you were looking for it. When Chub triggered a detonator lodged in one of the mines, an enormous cloud of flame roiled up from the now impassable bridge.

While Chub had been loading the trailer, a woman walking up the street, pushing a bicycle, had stopped to watch. Chub had stared at her until she’d continued on her way. “I suspect everyone,” he told me. “Locals sometimes help the Russians.”

In February, 2022, while Ukrainian forces scrambled to defend Kyiv from an armored Russian column bearing south from Belarus, other Russian contingents, approaching from the east, encountered less resistance. After the mayor of Kupyansk received a phone call from a Russian commander, he surrendered the city without a fight. (Ukraine later charged the mayor, in absentia, with treason.) Some residents of Kupyansk confronted Russian soldiers in the streets, but dissent was soon quashed; later investigations revealed executions and cases of torture. In the village where 1st Battalion was based, a small grocery store had stayed open throughout the Russian occupation. “It was hell,” Lyuda, a forty-five-year-old cashier, told me. She excused herself and went into a back room; when she returned, I saw that she’d been crying. She described a tyrannical regime of arbitrary abuse and detention, murders, and constant dread exacerbated by an “informational vacuum.” Without Internet or cell service, the only news source had been a single Russian radio station.

Six months into the occupation, the Ukrainian military stunned Russia with a lightning offensive in the Kharkiv region, liberating dozens of towns and cities, including Kupyansk. When the Russians withdrew from Lyuda’s village, she believed that the worst was over. Her optimism had since turned to despair. The war was inching back. One night, Perun and Chub’s apartment was shaken by a series of blasts, accompanied by bright flashes, and the next morning I found neighbors repairing broken doors and nailing plywood over shattered windows. A kitchen had been levelled. A seventy-year-old retired farmer named Volodymyr, with gold teeth and plastic-framed glasses, was inspecting a front gate that had been blown off its hinges. He’d built the house himself, more than twenty years ago. “I love this land,” Volodymyr told me. “I’ll stay until they kill me.”

Lyuda was less resolute. She’d sent her daughter away, and her husband was now fighting on the southern front. Her bags were packed: she was prepared to leave the moment the Russians broke through from Tabaivka. “If they come back, I think it will be another Bucha,” she said, referring to mass killings that occurred outside Kyiv in 2022.

There was more at stake than just the village. If Russian forces reached the Oskil River, Ukrainian units to the east of Kupyansk would be imperilled. Eliminating a platoon in Tabaivka wouldn’t stop the Russians, but it was a step toward putting them on the defensive. One of the tree stands circled in red on the map was believed to conceal hundreds of enemy troops, and the forthcoming assault would help interrupt their supply routes. Perun was determined to avoid a direct clash with those soldiers. In July, during the counter-offensive, he had been ordered to recapture similar terrain elsewhere on the front—and to do so immediately, without conducting proper reconnaissance or formulating a plan. “We were just hurled straight at them,” one 1st Battalion officer recounted. “Like two freight trains colliding.” A nine-hour firefight ensued. Eighteen members of the battalion were killed and many more were wounded.

According to the officer, the higher Ukrainian command was “always pushing us to work quicker, quicker,” no matter the cost. While Perun was waiting for it to snow, he received daily phone calls from superiors who wanted to launch the mission regardless of the weather. “Colonels see war as an opportunity to become generals,” he told me; generals were less interested in the welfare of their troops than in “squabbles over military decorations.” Perun had no career ambitions in the Army, affording him a degree of independence. When I asked how he handled pressure from superiors, he said, “I smile and ignore them.” Of course, that was an oversimplification, and I had the sense that preserving the lives of his men required Perun to play two games of “military cunning” simultaneously: one against the enemy, the other against his own hierarchy.

We’d been in the village for almost a week when Perun summoned his officers and sergeants to the operations center. Time was running out. He was worried that if they delayed much longer they might be redeployed to another hot spot, wasting their meticulous preparations for Tabaivka. After going over some adjustments to the plan, Perun turned to a thirty-five-year-old junior lieutenant who stood in front of the interactive panel, peering at the map through prescription ballistic glasses.

“Do you agree?” Perun asked him.

The lieutenant, whose call sign was Sever, would lead the twelve-man team of shturmoviki, or “stormers,” spearheading the ground assault. Unlike Perun, nothing about Sever suggested his vocation. He was short, with a slight paunch, and so soft-spoken that you had to strain to hear him. A bandage was taped across his brow. The previous night, he’d been riding in the bed of a truck that had plowed into a crater. One of his men had broken a leg.

Sever pointed at a tree line circled in red. A three-hundred-yard gap separated it from the blue squares. “If we’re forced to fight them, I’ll need more people,” he said.

Perun scoffed, “You are proposing more people so that you can attack the tree line? This is a stupid idea, Sever, honestly.” He reminded the lieutenant that the objective was to flank the Russians in the blue squares without being noticed. The three-hundred-yard gap was a natural buffer that neither Russian nor Ukrainian forces could traverse without exposing themselves to enemy fire. Perun chided Sever: “Imagine a machine gun opens up on you—what will you do?”

“Pull back a bit, and then kill the fucker.”

“In my experience, when the machine gun opens up, everyone will shit his pants and fall to the ground where he’s standing.”

Sever grinned and conceded, “One hundred per cent.”

“Let’s not repeat the mistake of moving big groups and getting them killed,” another officer said. “The smaller the group, the harder it will be to spot.”

“I would like to keep the plan as it is,” Perun told Sever. “But it’s up to you. If you want more guys, tell me how many and what you will do with them.”

Sever approached the interactive panel. He’d been fighting off and on for almost a decade, since Russian forces had first entered the Donbas. He had no wife or children; he’d mordantly joked to me, “I’m the ideal soldier.” He would rather have become an architect or a builder. “I always dreamed of making a bridge or a house, creating something useful,” he’d said. “Now I just destroy bridges and houses. I guess it’s my fate to leave destruction behind me.”

Most of the veterans in the battalion had been so close to death so many times that they seemed to have accepted its company, and this acceptance appeared to have fostered uncannily placid demeanors. Sever, though, was an extreme case. His movements were sluggish, his handshake limp, and a deep ruefulness informed his subdued speech. All this felt less symptomatic of inward calm than of profound fatigue and, perhaps, depression. Nevertheless, according to Perun, Sever was the battalion’s most aggressive officer, often to the point of heedlessness. “When he asks for more people, I know what he wants to do,” Perun said. “So I try to cool him down.”

Sever turned from the map and shrugged. “Let’s leave it as it is,” he told Perun.

In the trench warfare of eastern Ukraine, assault units such as 1st Battalion move the line forward—then regular infantry units must hold and defend it. The soldiers who would assume responsibility for Tabaivka if 1st Battalion reclaimed it belonged to a brigade in the Territorial Defense Forces, or T.D.F. After Russia’s invasion, the T.D.F., a type of national guard, absorbed more than a hundred thousand civilian volunteers and reservists. Most were initially posted to checkpoints and other rearward duties in their native regions, but that changed as the Army hemorrhaged personnel. The T.D.F. brigade assigned to Tabaivka came from Lviv, in western Ukraine, and many of its members had enlisted at the war’s outset; presumably, few of them envisaged fighting two years later, seven hundred miles from home.

A few nights after the briefing in the operations center, Sever visited a house where twelve T.D.F. soldiers were lodging. During the mission, they would follow behind Sever and his stormers, digging trenches and foxholes and remaining in the positions that the team cleared. Sever called them “the anchor group.” When he entered the house, the men were crammed into a bedroom with a foldout couch and framed photographs of the family that once lived there. They had not yet unpacked, having just arrived. They were replacements for a previous anchor group whose members I had met the night before. Those men had told me that their commander had tricked them into volunteering for the mission by assuring them that they would be guarding a base. When I’d asked how they felt now that they knew the truth, their leader replied, “I have two young children and a pregnant wife—how do you think I feel?” Although they had been deployed in eastern Ukraine for the past year, they were aghast at the prospect of flanking around a Russian platoon. “What these guys are doing is crazy,” one of them said. “Everything we’ve been through is nothing compared with this.” Another soldier was so anxious that he had trouble talking. At one point, he had to take a homeopathic sedative; a nurse had given him the medicine some months earlier, when he’d vomited in a morgue while identifying a comrade. The morning after I met the men, all twelve reported that they were ill or otherwise unfit to go to Tabaivka.

Sever had the substitutes gather around him, and explained to them what their role would entail. He emphasized that anyone who didn’t wish to participate should say so. “I won’t judge you,” he said. “I won’t curse you. I don’t demand anything now—but, when we cross the line, then I will make demands.” He went on, “If you hesitate, if you stumble, nothing good will happen. So we must work together. On my side, I promise that I will not abandon you, and I expect the same from you.”

Nobody spoke. Before Sever left, he said, “If we’re together, we have to fight together, for one another. There is no other option.”

Sever’s deputy, a sergeant called Casper, took over the meeting. Casper was gruffer, louder, and less stoic than Sever, as well as more ready to judge and to curse. He’d spent four days tutoring the previous anchor group—teaching them how to space their foxholes, move silently, hide from F.P.V.s—and his patience had waned. “The task will be hard, but it’s doable,” he told the new group. According to Casper, only a serious health ailment constituted a legitimate excuse to back out.

An older man with hunched shoulders and a hangdog expression, who’d been sitting mutely in the corner, announced that he had an eye condition. Another man claimed to have the flu. A third complained of a kidney disorder.

“I need to hear whether you can execute the mission or not,” Casper barked. “If you can’t, we won’t be able to execute ours. . . . So will you?”

“No, I can’t do such a mission,” one of the men, who looked more able-bodied than many in the group, said. He was a thirty-nine-year-old factory worker. Six months earlier, he had been picked up by conscription agents while walking to a bus stop. His issue was not physical, he admitted. “Once, we were ordered to attack,” he said. “I felt sick and just fell down.”

“Panic?” Casper asked.

“Yes. It’s happened twice.”

“Same with me,” Casper told him. “I’ve panicked and fallen down. But then I got up.” He went on, “I won’t lie to you, it’s going to be tough. But, fuck, not going because you’re scared? Don’t worry, when you get there you’ll be switched on.”

“I don’t want to be a burden to the group,” the draftee persisted.

Yet another soldier spoke up: there was a problem with his spine.

“What fucking problem?” Casper shouted. “Can you walk? If you can walk, you can do this. Tell me straight—are you weaseling out or not?”

The man appeared to be in his fifties. Whether or not he really had a problem with his spine, he looked dejected and perhaps ashamed.

“I won’t go,” he muttered.

In the end, Casper sent him back to his unit, along with the draftee. He shared more of Sever’s tolerance than I’d anticipated. He later told me, “Before the war, they were simple blue-collar workers, just like our guys. But ours get good training and these ones don’t.” A soldier in the first anchor group had told Casper that, during the counter-offensive, “our commander just pointed where to go and then disappeared—there were tanks in front of us, but he didn’t care.” After two-thirds of the battalion had been killed or wounded, the survivors were merged with another T.D.F. unit, which had suffered comparable losses. The men hardly knew their new superiors, or even one another. They had been sent to Casper without aid kits or proper winter clothing. “Their commanders don’t give a shit about them,” Casper said. “They’re on their own, so they’re fucked.”

Many members of 1st Battalion contended that leadership was the crucial factor differentiating the professionalism and esprit de corps of their unit from the ineptitude and demoralization of others. “The soldiers aren’t the problem—it’s how they’re being used,” Sever said. He and Casper cited Perun’s history of fighting alongside them as fundamental to his authority and to the trust that they placed in him. Perun told me it was occasionally incumbent on him to demonstrate that, “just as my guys make sacrifices, I am also willing to make sacrifices.” During an assault this past autumn, Perun kicked a grenade away from several of his men. The explosion burst his eardrums, and he’d since received an implant and undergone surgery to graft tissue from the inside of his cheek onto the damaged membrane.

An exemplary command culture was not 1st Battalion’s only advantage; unlike the T.D.F., it was able to select its members. Sever and Casper recruited their stormers, from Ukraine’s national basic-training camps. Physical prowess, age, education, and even skills were less important than a display of heart. “But you never know until they go through it if it’s sincere,” Sever said. When I asked Casper how he picked candidates, he answered, “The eyes—if they’re true.”

The men Sever and Casper chose were not always whom you would expect. The morning of the mission, I went to the house where the stormers were staying. It was a little before 3 a.m.; in the kitchen, a forty-five-year-old soldier called Noah was swathing a sprained ankle with a compression wrap. He’d been a narcotics detective in Odesa until 2007, when he was accused of a variety of crimes, including falsifying official documents, dealing drugs, and unlawful imprisonment. When I first met him, he told me, “In those days, there wasn’t much difference between the gangsters and the cops.” His mistake had been antagonizing the local prosecutor’s office, which, according to Noah, was as corrupt as the police. He’d spent two and a half years in pretrial detention, then paid a bribe to be released. After another decade of delinquency—burglary, bank fraud, robbing cars—he’d joined a Catholic commune. He retained a monkish aspect: a shaved head, a bushy goatee, a wooden rosary.

Another stormer, Sanjek, entered the kitchen in long underwear and heated some water on the stove. He had also been in jail—though he wouldn’t tell me why. When I asked how long he’d been in for, he quipped, “Which time?”

Neither man considered himself especially patriotic. For Noah, service was redemptive: “I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, and now I’m doing something good.” Sanjek had volunteered for the Army ten months earlier, after completing his most recent stint in prison. “Here and there is almost the same thing—it’s like a family,” he’d told me earlier. “The difference is that here I’m sure my friends will help me if I’m in trouble. There, they’ll check my pockets.”

Turning from the stove, he asked Noah, “How did you sleep?”

“Bad.”

“So you’re going to die.”

“We’ll see,” Noah said.

Sanjek asked for one of Noah’s “pills.” Some Ukrainian and Russian soldiers are known to consume amphetamines, but Perun enforced a strict prohibition against drugs and alcohol while the battalion was deployed. Casper had punched a T.D.F. member in the face for getting drunk, leaving him with a swollen jaw. Still, when Noah handed Sanjek two white caplets, I privately wondered if he was not quite as reformed as he’d claimed to be.

Noah explained that the pills were medication that induced constipation. The mission would last at least thirty-six hours, during which time there might not be an opportunity to defecate safely. (Another stormer told me that he took laxatives after returning from assaults, to counteract the effect.)

Sanjek nudged a heavyset soldier who was snoring on the couch: “Get up, the Russians aren’t going to kill themselves.”

The soldier was a thirty-three-year-old railroad worker called Kamin. He’d joined the battalion a year earlier, with four other recruits. Three of them had been killed and the other medically discharged. This past fall, Kamin spent twenty days in the hospital after a Russian threw a grenade at him while he and Noah were retrieving dead comrades following a bloody firefight in October.

“Who stole my fucking belt?” he grumbled, stepping into camouflage pants. “What’s wrong with people?”

Soon, the rest of the stormers had congregated in the kitchen. Most of them were newcomers, and this would be their first assault. Their backpacks contained hundreds of rounds of ammunition, to refill the preloaded magazines on their flak jackets. For sustenance, each man brought two litres of water, a couple of Snickers bars, beef jerky, and cigarettes. They were not taking sleeping bags, because they would not sleep. The men would walk for miles and needed to be mindful of weight. They had gas masks, compasses, maps, cell phones, power banks, night-vision monoculars, thermal-imaging visors, and medical supplies. There would be no medevac option. If someone was wounded, he would have to wait until the following night to be hauled up the ridge. Each stormer carried at least eight hand grenades. Strapped onto their packs were shovels, which were wrapped in cloth so that they wouldn’t clank. Fixed-blade knives, attached to their vests, would help them hack open icy ground.

It was twenty-four degrees Fahrenheit outside. To reach the blue squares on the map, the stormers would have to cross a swamp that had not frozen solid. They had been issued knee-high rubber shells to cover their boots, but they were short a pair. Sever had simply tied plastic garbage bags around his feet. Officers were often the best-equipped members of other units I’d observed, but the lieutenant said that “it should be the opposite.”

Sanjek spritzed cologne around his neck gaiter. “Don’t forget your rifles,” Sever deadpanned as the team filed out of the house. A pickup truck and two cargo vans were waiting on the street. Their tail-lights dwindled as they headed east.

It began snowing shortly after dawn. The stormers and the anchor group had made it to the Ukrainian trenches on the ridge and were waiting to infiltrate Tabaivka. In the operations center, a monitor on a table played aerial footage of the settlement from a surveillance drone. If Ukrainian drones could still fly, so could Russian ones. “How is the weather?” Perun asked the pilot over a Discord channel on a laptop.

“Workable.”

“We want it to be unworkable.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

The pilot was a red-bearded bricklayer from the Carpathian Mountains called Boyko. He’d been working in the Netherlands when the war erupted and had rushed home to be with his family. He had three young children, which exempted him from service, but he had volunteered anyway. Drones both fascinated and disconcerted him. “People don’t realize how fast the technology is developing here,” he’d told me. His team had transformed an apartment into a workshop cluttered with wires, explosives, batteries, and circuit boards. In the living room, crates and Styrofoam boxes containing artisanal F.P.V.s were stacked from floor to ceiling. Boyko foresaw a bleak future—on and off the battlefield—in which “all these things being tested in this war will become powerful tools of oppression.” When he started using F.P.V.s, last summer, their maximum range was about two miles; now it was twelve. Still, whereas surveillance drones hover at high altitudes, F.P.V.s must swoop low to hit their targets, requiring tall antennas on the ground to maintain a connection with the controller. Antennas are like flagsticks for enemy drones, and Boyko had already been the victim of an air strike in Tabaivka that nearly killed him.

As the snow intensified, the feed on the monitor started to glitch. Boyko reported that it was no longer possible to fly, and Sever and the stormers began descending the ridge toward the blue squares. “Maximum attention! Maximum caution!” Perun exhorted them from the operations center. Half a dozen of his officers sat in chairs, staring fixedly at the monitor, which was now blank. Perun was too restless to sit. He paced the basement and cracked his knuckles, switching his attention from the radio to the Discord channel to Signal messages on his phone.

Three Ukrainian machine gunners were spread out on the high terrain above Tabaivka, and three snipers were hidden below them; suddenly, one of the snipers spotted an enemy squad moving in the Russian-held trees to the east of the three-hundred-yard gap.

Perun, striding to the interactive panel, bellowed, “Azimuth!” He was asking how many degrees to the north or south the Russians were from the sniper’s position. Using a compass, the sniper took the bearing and relayed the measurement to Perun. On the satellite map, Perun plotted a line along that angle from the sniper to the stand of trees, thereby obtaining a grid coördinate on which to call in artillery. He also plotted a line from the grid coördinate back to one of his machine gunners on the high ground. Although the machine gunner couldn’t see the Russians, he could aim his weapon along the angle that Perun gave him. The sniper, through his scope, observed where the rounds made impact in the snow. Perun passed the information on to the machine gunner, who zeroed in on the Russian squad by lowering or raising his barrel accordingly.

It was disorienting to watch Perun orchestrate all this remotely and without video—“blindly,” as he’d put it. The Russians, still oblivious of the stormers creeping through the swamp, were pounding the Ukrainian trenches on the ridge with artillery, and I knew that Tabaivka must be quaking with a ferocious cacophony of explosions and gunfire. In the stand of trees, wounded and frightened Russians were probably crying out. It was hard for me to correlate that reality with the scene in the basement, where officers were quietly sipping plastic cups of tea. Perun, however, acted exactly as if he were on the line, stridently hollering over the din of battle. He’d warned me that he would be yelling and using a lot of “bad words”—not from anger but deliberately, to impress on his men the urgency of his commands. When Boyko flew his drone too close to the stormers, who mistook it as Russian, Perun roared at him, “If you do that one more fucking time, I’ll send you on the assault, so you can feel what it’s like to have some asshole over your head!”; when someone accidentally left his radio on, Perun told him, “I will rip open your fucking mouth!”; and, when a machine gunner advised that the artillery should shift “a bit to the right,” Perun responded, “Give me the azimuth, fucker! I’m going to stick that compass up your ass!”

Several soldiers later told me that Perun’s harsh manner was helpful. According to Sever, “When you’re stressed and afraid, you can go numb. Sometimes yelling like that is the only thing that can penetrate.” In the field, the soldiers wore earpieces, so Perun was literally a voice in their heads.

By the afternoon, while the Russians remained focussed on the ridge, Sever and the other stormers had navigated around the blue squares without firing a shot. On the way, they’d taken two Russians prisoner. No sooner had the anchor group joined Sever’s team on the far side of the squares than the snow abruptly stopped and drones were in the air again.

“Thank God,” Perun said. “Just in time.”

Now that the stormers had successfully bypassed the Russian platoon, Perun wanted them to hunker down for the night. They would assault the next day, in the light. “Dig as much as you can and cover yourselves with ponchos or branches, so that you won’t be seen by thermal,” he radioed Sever. “Dig like a mole if you don’t want to die.”

The T.D.F. soldiers were not complying. They were refusing to entrench themselves, objecting that the place Sever had chosen was too exposed. “Smack them with the fucking shovel,” Perun told Sever. But the men remained obstinate, and when Perun attempted to contact them they did not answer. It was getting dark. Perun summoned a potbellied officer from the T.D.F. brigade to the operations center. “You are their commander,” he told the man. “We’ll do our job, and then we’ll leave. The question is, how will you control your men?” Perun’s contempt was palpable. He suggested that the officer go out himself, at least as far as the ridge, and offered him transportation in an armored vehicle. There was an element of shaming—Perun’s staff was watching. On one of the basement walls, a couple of feet away from the officer, someone had mounted a framed portrait of da Vinci, the renowned commander who had died in Bakhmut.

The officer declined Perun’s proposal.

Sever found a compromise location for the anchor group. That night, he sent a soldier back to Perun, with the two Russian captives. I found them the next morning in a basement adjacent to the operations center, sitting on the floor with their hands bound behind their backs and tape over their eyes. A member of 1st Battalion was asking them questions and typing their responses into his phone. He was a thirty-one-year-old I.T. professional called Litsey. He’d lived in Kharkiv before the war, in the same building as Perun’s daughter, Yulia, and the two men had met while Perun was renovating Yulia’s apartment. Litsey told me that Perun had been “a completely different person” during peacetime—easygoing and affable. He added, “You would never have guessed that he was rich. He was driving around an old van full of construction materials.”

Litsey was a signals-intelligence specialist. He had grown up in Severodonetsk—which Russian shelling had reduced to a wasteland, and which was now under Russian occupation—and he was more expressive of his hatred for Russians than were other members of the battalion, some of whom could be surprisingly magnanimous. (“They’re human like we are,” Perun said. “They love their wives, their children.”) Of the two prisoners, Litsey had told me, “The only reason we’re keeping them alive is so we can exchange them.” However, in the basement he betrayed none of his enmity, speaking politely to the men as soon as they proved coöperative. At the end of the interrogation, he stuck cigarettes in their mouths and lit them.

I later interviewed the men myself, after their guard agreed to remove their blindfolds and let them sit in chairs. Both were named Alexei. They had been in the military for only a couple of months and on the front for only a few days. They’d been sent on their own to a grid coördinate in Tabaivka, with a mandate to remain there until they were relieved. Carrying a litre and a half of water and two cans of smoked fish, they walked to the position using AlpineQuest, a Spanish navigation app designed for trekking. (Litsey later uploaded the AlpineQuest data from their phones onto the interactive panel, adding a number of enemy positions to the satellite map.) When the Alexeis arrived at their destination, there was no dugout or trench, and they had no shovels. They radioed their commander, who told them to dig with their hands. The first two nights, they slept on the forest floor, but when it started to snow they abandoned the position, walked to a half-collapsed house, and holed up in the basement. That’s where Sever’s team discovered them.

“I never wanted to kill anyone, and I haven’t killed anyone,” the older Alexei insisted. He was forty-three, with gray stubble and a buzz cut. He’d joined the Army for money—like most of his comrades, he said. He’d earned about five hundred dollars a month driving a taxi in his home town, outside Moscow. The military paid him more than four times that.

The younger Alexei, who was in his thirties, also claimed to be a victim of circumstance. He’d spent five years in prison for counterfeiting rubles, and shortly after his release he was arrested for fighting in a bar. His opponent turned out to be a detective, and Alexei was given a choice between enlisting and returning to jail. He’d never really considered the ethical dimensions of the war, but he said that he had “always been against authority—against Putin.” He’d renounced Christianity and converted to paganism. “I believe in the old gods, like Perun,” he said.

After the interviews, I stepped outside with the 1st Battalion soldier who’d been guarding the prisoners. “That’s the first time during this war I’ve seen a live one,” he said. He looked perturbed. “I don’t fucking get it. If Ukraine wanted to invade Russia, I’d rather go to jail instead.”

According to the Alexeis, there were approximately twenty more Russians stationed in the blue squares. The majority were sheltering in an underground root cellar in the back yard of another farmhouse. Some of the men in the cellar were more senior fighters.

Boyko piloted his drone over the small, fenced-in property where the root cellar was situated. What had been a house was now a heap of rubble. Snow blanketed the yard, but it was possible to discern the hump of a slightly cresting roof with a stovepipe protruding from it. Boyko zoomed in on a trail of boot prints near what appeared to be the cellar door.

“Are they going to or from it?” Perun asked.

“Looks like he went to take a shit and came back,” an officer posited.

Other tracks went from the cellar door, which was open, toward the three-hundred-yard gap between the blue squares and the Russian-held woods. “The enemy is definitely inside,” Perun said into the radio. Six stormers were already hiding with Sever beneath some trees across a dirt road from the property. Perun told them to work in pairs: two men would make sure that the destroyed house was empty, two would toss multiple grenades through the cellar door, and two more would drop additional grenades down the stovepipe. Sever would remain in the trees in order to direct the action. The cellar, made of concrete, was big and deep, according to the Alexeis, and the Russians had likely augmented it with their own fortifications, so the stormers would need to use a lot of grenades—at least twenty, Perun said—and throw them down the stovepipe and through the entrance simultaneously, before the Russians could seal either portal or call for support. Speed was imperative, because the yard lacked any cover or protection from Russian artillery and F.P.V.s.

“I understand everyone is exhausted,” Perun said. “But pull yourselves the fuck together. Let’s do this—one final push—and then we can all exhale!”

“Roger,” Sever said. From where he stood, he did not have a good view of the cellar, and he began to probe the outskirts of the property. We could see all his movements in the drone footage, which meant that he was dangerously visible. Perun grew agitated. “Fucking do this now,” he commanded. “Quicker! You’ve already tugged fate by the balls as it is! Enough, goddammit!”

Earlier in the mission, Sever had been far enough away from Perun that most of their communications had been passed through a “repeater” stationed on the ridge, who relayed the messages back and forth. From the root cellar, however, no middleman was required. Perun, not realizing this, said to the repeater, “Tell Sever he must stay in the trees. Otherwise that asshole will try to go with them.”

“This asshole can hear you,” Sever replied.

“O.K., stay where you are, asshole.”

On the monitor, we watched the six stormers approach the property, in single file. Sanjek, the ex-con, went to the destroyed house with another soldier while the four others entered the yard. One of them was called Banker, because he had worked for a bank for thirteen years, rising from teller to manager. He was among the most experienced men on the team and had already been wounded by a Russian drone. When Banker arrived at the rear of the cellar, he noticed a narrow ventilation shaft that Perun had missed on the video feed. Banker tossed a single grenade through the shaft. “To the other side!” Perun yelled. “Throw grenades in the entrance, so they don’t come out!”

Another pair advanced along the humped roof. On the way, one of them, a young soldier called Kyivstar—the name of Ukraine’s main telecommunications network—dropped a grenade down the stovepipe. A dark geyser spurted up. Smoke was now drifting from the ventilation shaft. Because stovepipes and ventilation shafts typically channel air into root cellars through angled conduits behind interior walls, there was a decent chance that the two grenades had inflicted minimal damage—and now the Russians knew that they were under attack.

“Grenades! Grenades!” Perun screamed. “More! ”

They needed to hit the cellar entrance. Kyivstar’s companion had left him behind and was walking there alone. His call sign was Wolf. He was a welder from a rural village in western Ukraine who, when the war started, had been working in the Czech Republic, sending money home to his wife and their young son and daughter. He’d been with 1st Battalion for about a month, and this was his first mission. Sever hadn’t intended to bring him to Tabaivka, but Wolf was filling in for the soldier who’d broken his leg when their truck crashed into the crater. At the house, Wolf had struck me as the team’s most timid member, sheepishly observing Sanjek and Noah’s shenanigans. When the stormers were leaving for the operation, Banker had scolded Wolf for guzzling a tall can of energy drink, which would make him have to urinate. In the cargo van, right before Banker shut the door, Wolf had said, “Fuck, I forgot my ballistic glasses. Oh, well, whatever.”

He was now doing something inexplicable. Instead of sneaking up to the cellar entrance, he was approaching it openly—revealing himself to anyone who might be watching from inside. “He was confused,” Kyivstar later told me. “I was yelling at him, trying to get him to come back.” He added, with frustration, “There was no need for him to go ahead by himself like that. It was like he was going there to die.”

In the operations center, Perun yelled into the radio, “No! Don’t cross in front of the entrance!” But Wolf couldn’t hear him. He kept walking until he reached the open door. For several long seconds, everyone in the operations center watched as he stood there, motionless. Then he crumpled.

“They got him,” Perun said, not loudly, and not over the radio.

He tried to reach Sever. When there was no response, he contacted the repeater on the ridge. “Repeat everything I say,” he told him. “ ‘Climb on top of the fucking thing and throw grenades in from above.’ ”

The stormers, however, knew something that Perun did not. Wolf had frozen because he’d been surprised to see, instead of a staircase descending straight into the cellar, a room a couple of yards long and then a second door, which was closed. The staircase was behind that. Wolf had been peering into the room when someone behind the second door shot him.

Kyivstar and Banker backed away from the entrance. Casper, the sergeant responsible for training the anchor group, was in the operations center that morning. Bending close to the monitor, he said of Wolf, “It looks like he’s wounded.”

“Then why isn’t he crawling?”

“I can’t watch this,” Casper said. He turned to leave the operations center but stopped midway. Dark splashes were bursting in the white yard, around the entrance, where Wolf lay.

Perun said, “The fuckers are throwing grenades from inside!”

Meanwhile, someone from across the three-hundred-yard gap was firing on the team. Bigger, darker splashes appeared much closer to Kyivstar and Banker. “A.G.S.,” Perun said, using the abbreviation for a Russian automatic grenade launcher. “Son of a bitch!”

He ordered the stormers to retreat, and asked Sever whether Wolf showed any signs of life. If he was still alive, they would be unable to shell the area.

“Sever can’t say for sure,” the repeater replied.

Boyko zoomed in on the body, which appeared to be lying in a fetal position. “Group decision,” Perun said to his staff. “What is his status? Casper?”

“He’s dead.”

“There’s no movement,” another soldier said.

The remaining stormers fled the property as more A.G.S. rounds exploded in it. Perun told them to get away and find cover. He needed to think about what to do next.

There were too many Ukrainians in the vicinity to try to destroy the root cellar with artillery, and since it was in a defilade, at the bottom of the ridge, Boyko couldn’t reach it with an F.P.V. The cellar was also inaccessible to the land drone, because of the swamp. Ultimately, Perun decided to drop a number of antitank mines on the entrance with a heavy-duty six-rotor drone called a Vampire—and known to the Russians as Baba Yaga, after a witchlike character from Slavic folklore. The Alexeis had shared the radio frequencies and call signs used by their commanders, which Litsey had written on a whiteboard next to the interactive panel. After the Vampire dropped its payload, intercepts on the frequencies revealed that the Russians in the cellar had survived both the grenades and the mines, and that their unit was sending reinforcements.

For the rest of the day, a steady stream of small groups of Russian infantrymen—between two and six soldiers each—walked to Tabaivka from the east. Few made it across the three-hundred-yard gap. The snow had relented, and Boyko easily stalked the groups with the surveillance drone. Perun bounded between the panel and the radio, shouting himself hoarse, calculating azimuths, and correcting the aim of his stormers, snipers, and machine gunners. It was madness: Russians kept marching down the same paths, to the same spots where their comrades had just died. One 1st Battalion machine gunner later told me he had fired his weapon so much that it had kept him warm in his frigid dugout. He couldn’t see the men he was killing. But since they kept reappearing in certain places, he memorized different branches below which he could point his barrel to hit specific coördinates up to a mile away.

Unlike the machine gunner, those of us in the operations center had a bird’s-eye view of the Russians on the receiving end of the barrages: men running and stumbling as they fled the bullets and the shells, crawling after being shot or hit by shrapnel, hiding behind tree trunks and under bushes. At one point, the monitor displayed six Russians hurrying up a road toward the safety of a dense forest. Two of them were helping along a limping soldier who had his arms draped over their shoulders; two others were dragging an injured or dead soldier across the snow on an improvised toboggan. Perun called in cluster munitions on them: a smoking warhead that scudded down, followed by a dozen impacts all around the group. Another 1st Battalion drone pilot was attacking Russians with F.P.V.s. Footage from one of them captured two infantrymen diving away, too late, in the split second before the F.P.V. detonated and its video feed cut out.

Above the monitor that showed this procession of carnage hung the flag with the angel of death playing his flute. I recalled the “joy” that Perun had mentioned. (During other conversations, he’d referred to the “aesthetic pleasure” of his work.) The Ukrainians in the basement derived obvious satisfaction from the Russian casualties, some of which elicited rapturous cheers. “Oh, look at them run!” Perun exclaimed, almost giddily, after one strike.

When night fell, Boyko switched on a thermal camera, and the black figures dying in the white snow became white figures on black. Sever and his team rotated out from Tabaivka at 2 a.m., while the Russians were preoccupied with their hopeless efforts to reach their marooned comrades in the root cellar. The stormers had been walking and digging and fighting for forty-eight hours.

The next morning, I went by the team’s house at around nine-thirty to find Sever in the kitchen, watching the drone feed on a TV. No one else was up. “They’re tired as dogs,” he said. “The cold exhausts you more than the lack of sleep.” While crossing the swamp during the infiltration, Sever had broken through the ice; the garbage bags around his feet had not prevented his socks from getting drenched. He’d smoked all his cigarettes on the first day. By the time they hiked back up the ridge, “everyone was hallucinating a little,” he said. Reaching one of the Ukrainian machine gunners, Sever saw two purple halos glowing around the man’s head.

I noticed that he was wearing a pair of rubber slippers with “WOLF” written across each strap. They were his dead subordinate’s slippers. When I asked how the team was feeling about the loss, Sever said, “Like shit, but it’s not the first time. We know tomorrow it could be us.” He planned to call Wolf’s wife. She would receive an official notification, but, until they recovered the body, Wolf would be classified as missing in action, and Sever wanted her to know the truth.

One by one, the rest of the team joined us. Banker moved stiffly, from lingering muscle cramps, and Sanjek’s hands were swollen. He and Noah began grinding up a slab of beef for meatballs. In the afternoon, Casper made them all review the video of the assault on the root cellar. Nobody spoke as they watched Wolf collapse in front of the door. They didn’t know why he’d acted so recklessly. “Maybe he wanted to do something courageous,” Sanjek speculated.

During the next five days, the Vampire unleashed a deluge of heavy ordnance on the root cellar, including twenty-pound thermobaric bombs. But the subterranean structure held. According to intercepts, some of the Russians inside were badly injured, and they were out of food. Their unit continued to send reinforcements, who continued to be killed. Three more Russians were taken prisoner. Now and then, one of the men in the cellar would make a run for it. Each was mowed down. When a 1st Battalion sniper shot and wounded a Russian near the entrance, Litsey—whom Perun had left in charge of the operations center while he rested—ordered the sniper not to finish him. He wanted the Russians in the cellar to hear the soldier dying slowly and pleading for help. During a siege, Litsey told me, “it’s important to lower their morale.”

The temperature warmed and the snow melted. The world on the monitor was transfigured from a blank expanse to a colorful and variegated landscape teeming with detail. The room above the cellar had been razed, and the second door had been shattered; the Russians below had hung up sheets to prevent the Ukrainian drones from seeing down the stairs. Wolf’s body lay amid the rubble. One afternoon, Boyko came by Perun’s apartment to collect leaflets that Perun wanted him to drop around the entrance. The text on the leaflets guaranteed the safety of the Russians if they surrendered. “We invite you to exercise common sense,” it said. “There is no need for you to die in a foreign country for someone else’s interests.” That night, several of the Russians, in a desperate dash, successfully escaped. Those who remained in the cellar were presumed to be too gravely wounded to pose a threat.

I left the village the next day. When I stopped by Sever’s house to say goodbye, most of the men were out getting supplies. They would soon return to Tabaivka, to help the anchor group better fortify its trenches. Now that the blue squares were Ukrainian, 1st Battalion would stay with the T.D.F. members as long as possible, to insure that they did not retreat. That often happened, Sever said. During the firefight in October, Noah and Kamin had told me, the anchor-group soldiers had fled before the battle was over. One stormer had shot at their feet, to try to make them hold their ground.

I asked Sever whether he thought that the T.D.F. members might lose Tabaivka again, nullifying 1st Battalion’s hard-earned gains. He shrugged resignedly.

“Maybe.”

Kyivstar was upstairs, smoking by a window. He’d been to a market in Kupyansk that morning and bought a necklace with a silver cross. “For protection,” he said. He was standing over a sleeping bag unrolled on a thin foam mat. It was Wolf’s, as was a winter coat hanging from a nail. The team had pooled some money, which it planned to send to his wife and children, but Kyivstar said that he was unsure what they were supposed to do with his belongings. Wolf’s deployment bag was unzipped; inside, there were kneepads, gloves, and, though I didn’t see them, somewhere among the gear was a pair of ballistic glasses.

In many ways, the 1st Separate Assault Battalion is an outlier. It was by far the most professional and effective unit that I have encountered in the Ukrainian military, and, not coincidentally, it was also the best equipped. Republican obstructionism in the U.S. Congress has left Ukraine critically short on weapons and ammunition, but Perun was generally supplied with the matériel that he needed to do his job. Nonetheless, the unit was running low on an indispensable resource: men. “It’s getting harder and harder to find new soldiers, because not a lot of people are willing to do this work,” Perun told me.

The challenge went beyond replacing casualties. After two years of war, all the veterans in the unit were exhausted. Perun, who neither drank nor smoked—and who had often spent his rare downtime in our apartment curling heavy dumbbells—was afflicted by a chronic cough that grew distressingly vicious as the operation progressed. By the time I left, he’d acquired a nebulizer machine with a mask, which he would hold to his mouth between bites while eating breakfast. Many soldiers had been wounded at least once; the intensity of assault missions, however, could be more psychically than physically taxing. “The worst thing is not the Russians,” the officer who had lost eighteen comrades in a single day told me. “It’s when guys you trust and have fought with start mentally flagging. They fade out like a candle.”

With no end to the fighting in sight, and an increasingly perilous front line, Ukrainian soldiers can sometimes feel that the only choice available to them is one between death and desertion. A year ago, I embedded with an infantry unit in the Donbas which had lost most of its men and been replenished with new draftees. Among the few soldiers who had been in the unit since the start of the invasion were two friends, code-named Odesa and Bison. Odesa had gone awol after much of his squad was killed in Kherson. He had spent two months at home, and then, nagged by guilt, rejoined the unit. He was killed after my article was published. By the time I met Bison, he had already been wounded and hospitalized three times; after Odesa died, he also went awol—and also returned to the front. I’d just arrived in Kyiv from Kupyansk when their former platoon leader texted me to say that now Bison had been killed, too. I replied that it seemed like all the best men were dying. The officer corrected me: “Everyone dies here. . . . The best, the worst. We remember the bright, strong personalities. Everyone else just fades into nothingness.”

He likened President Zelensky to Pinocchio for claiming that only thirty-one thousand Ukrainian soldiers had been killed. He also reminded me that the figure did not include those M.I.A., which constituted “a huge part of our losses.”

A few days later was February 24th, the second anniversary of the invasion, and relatives of missing soldiers had organized a demonstration in Kyiv. Given the threats posed by Russian cruise missiles and long-range kamikaze drones, public gatherings are avoided in the capital, but when I got there hundreds of people, mostly women, lined an avenue in front of St. Sophia’s Cathedral. One group held a banner that read “free 4th tank brigade.” A twenty-nine-year-old woman named Maryna Litovka had taken the train from Poltava, in central Ukraine, to be there. More than a year earlier, her father had disappeared from his position north of Bakhmut, along with five other soldiers. “The Army doesn’t know what happened to them,” she said. “This is told to a lot of families.” According to Litovka, a hundred and seventy men were missing from the 4th Tank Brigade alone. The Red Cross had been able to confirm only that twenty-three of them were in Russian captivity. “I don’t know what’s harder, knowing that he died or waiting with some hope forever,” Litovka said.

Nearby, I met another daughter of a soldier, standing by herself with a cardboard sign on which she’d painted “fight for them as they fight for us.” Her father was in the Donbas, and she’d come to the demonstration because “a lot of people forget about the war, and we must remind them.”

The cleavage between the reality on the front and the daily lives of people in Kyiv or other cities in central and western Ukraine has grown more pronounced the longer the war has gone on. While conscription agents snatch men from factories, buses, and the streets of rural villages and towns, the draft is much less aggressively enforced in the capital, where the Ukrainian élite live. Bars there overflow with hipsters; cafés are crowded with young couples; concerts, art exhibits, and other cultural events lend the city a sense of comfortable, cosmopolitan normalcy. It is tempting to celebrate all this as a triumph of resilience, but for soldiers on the front it can be galling and alienating. “You feel a little sick to your stomach,” Sever told me. An influx of foreigners in Kyiv—from aid workers to entrepreneurs—accentuates the disconnect. In the popular neighborhood where I’d rented an Airbnb, luxury sedans and armored S.U.V.s were often parked outside chic hotels, and high-end restaurants catered to Western visitors.

Sever saw a parallel between contemporary Ukrainian society and the bitter estrangement that he and many of his comrades had experienced between 2014 and 2022, when most of the country went about its business with little concern for the simmering conflict in the Donbas. “They’re building a wall between the two worlds again,” he said.

Unsurprisingly, the discourse about the conflict changes depending on your proximity to the front. In Kyiv, it is still largely taboo to discuss negotiating with Russia, ceding parts of the Donbas, or letting go of Crimea. But, as with every war, the men actually fighting are more earthbound and candid. Odesa and Bison’s former platoon leader told me, “We’re losing. Not badly, but steadily.” In his view, if the West maintains its current level of assistance, Ukraine can hold out for a few more years; if the assistance diminishes, “we’re screwed in a matter of one year”; if aid increases, “there will be a stalemate until we run out of soldiers.”

Perun argued that, from a purely strategic standpoint, “you need to know when to stop and how to lose.” Citing the Russian withdrawals from Kyiv and Kherson, he noted, “The Russians are better at this than we are.” Unlike Russia, he went on, Ukraine is a democracy and therefore “negotiations can start only when society demands them,” but the government—and, specifically, President Zelensky—had given Ukrainians unreasonable expectations and a distorted picture of the military situation. “Society does not know our problems,” Perun said.

Even as these two worlds move further apart, the American debate over Ukraine tends to homogenize Ukrainians. Many Republicans have adopted Donald Trump’s hostility toward the country, regurgitating Russian propaganda that vilifies and dehumanizes Ukrainian citizens. Liberals who consider themselves “pro-Ukrainian,” meanwhile, tend to equate that stance with unconditionally promoting Zelensky’s hard-line ambitions. The latter is perhaps inevitable, because most of the Ukrainians that Americans see and hear—on social media, on TV, at forums and conferences—also espouse those ambitions. In January, Ukraine’s foreign minister, Dmytro Kuleba, appeared on ABC News and declared, in impeccable English, “Even if we run out of weapons, we will fight with shovels.” Of course, the collective pronoun was figurative: he will not have to fight with a shovel—nor with a rifle, for that matter. For the Ukrainians who are fighting (overwhelmingly, lower-class manual laborers), the war is not only terrifying and brutal, it is lonely. Many have lost confidence in their politicians, in their commanders, in their fellow-citizens, and now in their American allies.

And yet there remain units like the 1st Separate Assault Battalion. When I asked Sever how he felt about his countrymen who have avoided military service, he said, “I don’t care about them. I’m fighting for my own principles and my own guys. People are coming here, killing children, raping women—for me, I can’t imagine not resisting.”

Toward the end of the Tabaivka mission, the stormers retrieved Wolf’s remains. According to Noah, who helped carry the body up the ridge, the root cellar had fully collapsed and was surrounded by dead Russians. Two days later, Noah was hit by artillery and hospitalized with shrapnel wounds. Kyivstar and Banker were also injured by shrapnel before they left the village; they are now recovering. The rest of 1st Battalion is waiting for the next fire that they will be sent to put out.

To date, half the blue squares in Tabaivka have been lost again.

Wolf’s death means that Sever and Casper will have to recruit another replacement—a task that neither man relishes. “It makes you want to cry,” Sever told me. The night before the apprehensive anchor-group members set off for Tabaivka, Casper had noted that two stormers in their fifties had participated in a number of dangerous 1st Battalion missions. “If they can do this, anyone can,” he’d insisted. I later told Casper that I couldn’t agree with him: most people could not do what he and Sever did. Casper reflected, then responded, “It’s a complicated question—can you or can’t you? Because if you answer honestly, no one can. But, if no one can, the Russians will come and put their dicks on our foreheads.”

The stormers in their fifties were no longer with the battalion. One had been wounded and the other had been killed.

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