The city was dead, and still the smoke refused to rise straight.

It coiled and twisted over Manila like it, too, was lost, clinging to what remained of the skyline.

Whole blocks had turned to ash and shell, yet the staff officers still used their sandbags for desks and called the rubble "headquarters."

Captain James Mallory sat with his back against a broken wall, helmet hanging from a finger, and watched the morning light bleed through the haze.

The conference room had once been a bank. Now it was a bunker, half ceiling, half sky.

He had a cup of black coffee gone cold, and a stack of reports laid out before him like a gambler's losing hand.

Brigadier General Patton, not the Patton whose corpse lied buried beneath the sands of Algiers.

But some distant cousin who enjoyed pretending he was every bit as great as his kin, paced behind the table with his riding crop tapping the floor.

His jaw was square, his hair thinning, and his temper already frayed by the humidity.

Around him sat the remnants of the command: a handful of colonels and majors, their faces drawn with exhaustion and smoke.

Major Willis, his adjutant, was reading the latest situation report aloud. His voice cracked halfway through.

"…and hostile activity continues along Route 8. Two convoys were ambushed north of Calamba. Estimated fifteen KIA, eight WIA, four missing. Locals are reported to have participated, armed with older German-pattern rifles, some using captured M1s."

Patton's crop slapped against the map table.

"Locals. Locals! Every damn time it's the locals. Didn't MacArthur's people say they'd been pacified? We handed them a provisional government, a flag, a goddamn anthem…"

"They didn't want any of it, sir."

Mallory's voice cut through the room like the crack of a pistol. Calm, flat, carrying just enough insolence to make everyone look up.

Patton turned, nostrils flaring. "You got something to add, Captain?"

Mallory shrugged, setting his helmet down beside the coffee.

"Only that I called this three months ago. The minute we started running joint patrols out of Taguig, I told Command we were sitting on borrowed time. The locals weren't pacified, they were pretending. You can see it in their eyes, they're waiting for us to leave or for someone stronger to drive us out."

Colonel Reed snorted from across the table. "Stronger? You mean the Krauts?"

Mallory nodded. "The Germans don't have to win here. They just have to convince the people that we've already lost. It's working. Every village our scouts pass through smiles for the camera, waves the flag of the Manila Transitional Authority, and then stabs our convoys in the dark."

He leaned forward, voice low but deliberate.

"I've seen this before, sir. The uniforms change, but the script never does. You can bribe a man to work for you, but you can't bribe him to believe in you."

The room fell silent for a beat, the only sound the dull groan of metal somewhere outside where the engineers were trying to clear another collapsed road.

Patton exhaled through his nose and reached for his flask. "So what do you suggest, Captain? We start handing out medals to the ones shooting at us?"

Mallory's mouth twitched in something close to a smirk.

"No, sir. But we stop pretending they're our friends. For Christ's sake, we fought a war here less than a decade ago, a brutal, bloody campaign and you think they've already forgotten?'

"Bullshit," snapped Reed. "We gave into their demands, they're only a year or two away from the agreed upon date of full independence. Hell, if it weren't for us the Japanese would have used these islands as a staging ground in their war against the Germans, do you really think…"

Mallory cut him off. "We butchered entire villages, and burned cities to the ground. Like is said, this was less than a decade ago. Most of the people here still remember that war. And what we did to them."

He gave a dry laugh, gesturing toward the broken skyline. "Look around, Colonel. Do they look grateful?"

No one answered. Outside, a single burst of distant gunfire rolled over the ruins, followed by silence.

Patton finally spoke. "Intelligence says Berlin's running propaganda through shortwave radio, telling the villagers we're here to re-enslave them."

Mallory nodded. "And we made it easy for them to prove it. They offer food, medicine, and the promise of independence. We offer ration cards, curfews, and martial law. It doesn't take a genius to pick sides."

Major Willis shifted uncomfortably. "With respect, Captain, we've also built roads, clinics, power stations…"

"…for our logistics," Mallory finished. "Not theirs. The villages don't have electricity, but the airfields sure do."

Patton's temper snapped. "Enough of the cynicism, Mallory. You've been reading too many philosophy books. These people want order, and we're the only ones capable of giving it."

"Maybe," Mallory said softly. "But order given at gunpoint isn't order, General. It's inertia."

That earned him a hard stare, but Patton didn't answer. He just took another pull from his flask and muttered something about "goddamn fatalists in uniform."

Before anyone could speak again, the door burst open.

A young corporal stumbled in, his face streaked with soot and sweat. He saluted clumsily, breathing hard.

"Message from the field, sir. Convoy Delta-Four, ambushed outside Antipolo. Three trucks destroyed, survivors still unaccounted for."

Patton's jaw clenched. "By who? The Germans?"

The corporal shook his head. "Locals, sir. Mixed group. Some in uniform, some not. They used captured Panzerfausts. We think the Krauts are supplying them directly now."

Patton swore, slamming his crop against the table again. Reed cursed under his breath, and Willis rubbed his temples.

Mallory just leaned back, expression unreadable.

"How many times does that make?" he asked.

Willis scanned his notes. "Eight in the last two weeks."

Mallory gave a small, humorless smile. "And we still call this a 'stabilized region.'"

Reed rounded on him. "You seem awful pleased about it, Captain."

Mallory's gaze flicked up, steady and unflinching. "I'm not pleased, Colonel. I'm right. There's a difference."

Patton pointed the crop at him. "Watch your tone."

Mallory ignored it. "You can keep writing reports calling them bandits, but we're losing this theater one village at a time. They're not fighting us because they love the Germans. They're fighting us because they believe the Germans are fighting for them."

The corporal still lingered by the door, unsure if he was dismissed. Patton waved him off, muttering orders for reinforcements. When the boy left, the room sagged into silence again.

Outside, the sky had begun to darken with another incoming storm. The tropical kind that rolled in fast and left the air smelling of rot and iron.

Mallory lit a cigarette, the glow of it briefly illuminating the cuts on his knuckles. He'd been in a street fight two nights earlier with a pair of thieves wearing Transitional Police badges. The MPs pretended not to see it.

"You know what the locals call us now?" he said after a while. "The New Spaniards."

Willis frowned. "Meaning?"

"Meaning they think we're just another empire in a different uniform. The Germans tell them we'll never leave, and they believe it. Can you blame them?"

Reed snapped, "They'll believe whatever bastard has the loudest radio."

Mallory exhaled smoke through his nose. "Or the one who shoots fewer farmers."

Patton's patience finally broke. He slammed both hands on the table.

"Goddamn it, Mallory! You think we wanted this war? You think I enjoy watching my men die to keep a country stable that can't decide if it wants our help or our heads? You want to talk morality, fine. But you do it on your own time, not in my briefing room!"

Mallory looked up at him, calm as stone. "With respect, sir, this isn't morality. It's arithmetic. If the Germans keep arming the jungle, we'll need five men for every one insurgent. And there aren't enough men in the Pacific to fill that ratio. Frankly speaking, we should have been the ones to think of this from the get go. Weaponize the locals against the Germans. It's a shame nobody thought of that…."

Patton glared, but the logic was unassailable. The room quieted again. Even the rain had started to fall outside, thick and heavy, drumming on the twisted metal roof.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rain.

Then Willis spoke softly, almost to himself.=

"What do we tell Command?"

Patton didn't answer. He just stared at the map, the lines of red and blue bleeding together under the flickering light.

Mallory stubbed out his cigarette on the wall and stood. "Tell them what we always do," he said. "That the situation's under control."

He picked up his helmet, tucked it under his arm, and turned to leave.

"Where the hell do you think you're going, Captain?" Reed barked.

Mallory paused at the doorway, rain dripping from the shattered ceiling onto his shoulders.

"Back to the line," he said. "Someone's got to make sure the men who die next at least know why they're dying."

No one stopped him. The door creaked shut behind him, and the thunder rolled a heartbeat later.

Outside, the ruins of Manila glowed faintly with firelight. Somewhere in the jungle beyond, the sound of gunfire echoed, a distant, rhythmic pulse like a heartbeat growing stronger.

Mallory pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and watched the horizon flare with another explosion.

He smiled, not from joy, but from the grim satisfaction of knowing the inevitable had finally arrived.

"Called it," he muttered to himself. "Every damn time."

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