~February 5th, 140 AH~

~Upper Akra, Shiranui Estate~

The day had been set up perfectly for painting. But as the brush reached the canvas—onto the amorphous figure staring down the handgun—Asena’s hand stopped.

She’d been granted another day leave, a rather un-Yuito-like precaution in light of yet another harrowing round of [EVOCATION]. Her father was of course impatient to proceed, but also cognizant of the severe strain—both Somatic and Psychic—the sessions had on his daughter and the only Kurator capable of completing the mission.

She was grateful for his concern, because the latest session had confronted her like no other. A night’s sleep hadn’t been nearly enough to wash away the horrors of Eidolon combat and its aftermath, as well as the torment of seeing herself through the lens of a fiancé she barely knew.

So, even though she had a whole day to herself, and even though the sky above the solarium was as cloudless as it was ever going to be, her hand paused upon the canvas and refused to move.

Eventually, she put the brush down and simply stared at the half-blank canvas. Her eyes pointed to the blotch of black-on-grey that she thought had represented a handgun, but what she saw now was something far, far darker.

The knock on the door came almost as a relief. The soft, almost hesitant timbre of the knock told Asena it came from her mother, so she didn’t hesitate to call out, “Come in.”

Tamamo Shiranui was by far the smallest member of the family, and she possessed an unobtrusive manner that was a legacy of her Sehermensch origin. Even now, she tiptoed into her daughter’s studio with an apologetic smile, back slightly hunched to make herself even smaller than she already was. In her hands was a tray of biscuits and two cups of tea.

“Do you mind if I sit in for a while, love? You’re rarely home these days, and I barely got to see you last time you were here.”

“Sure,” Asena half-sighed. “It’s not like I’m making much progress at the moment.”

She neglected to mention that, at the current rate her mission was going, her mother might expect to see her coming home with increasing regularity. The news would’ve delighted and worried Tamamo in equal measure, but Asena was loath to show weakness in front of anyone, let alone the smallest and most fragile member of her family.

Tamamo’s smile brightened as she set down the tray and pulled herself a spare stool. Asena didn’t grab a cup right away, and instead pretended to mix new paint, taking much longer than she needed to.

“Haven’t seen that one in a while. Were you looking through your old paintings?”

Asena looked up and followed her mother’s gaze. There, sitting atop a stack of other paintings was her piece from over five years ago, one she’d titled Couple for reasons she’d long forgotten. It was, of course, the same one that had appeared in Zelen’s latest recollection.

“You could say that,” she muttered with a shrug.

“It’s still one of my favourites, you know,” Tamamo enthused, oblivious to her daughter’s inner turmoil. “You know I love anything to do with Old Earth. The sheen on the duck’s feathers, the flutter of the butterfly’s wings, the rippling water… It’s like you brought them back to life!”

Asena broke into a wan smile. Funnily enough, Couple had also been one of her own favourites, for reasons far different from her mother’s.

It was the painting—or at least she thought so at the time—that had brought her and Zelen closer, the one that had given her the confidence to be the person and the artist she thought herself to be. For unlike Zelen, she still remembered every word he’d said about it, five years ago at that ill-advised ‘exhibit’.

I don’t know much about art, but I think I get this one. Two lonely souls that found each other, and even though they couldn’t be more different, one thing they share is this sense of belonging. I don’t mean that in, like, a possessive way. It’s just, when they’re in each other’s company, they feel like they belong.

Zelen had blushed then, and quickly laughed off his own comments like he’d said something strange. And even though Asena had been too shy to express it then, she wanted to tell him how much his words had meant to her—how they’d sustained her in the days, months, and years since.

That was, until she learned that they hadn’t meant anything to him. At least not enough for him to remember the meeting as anything more than cheering up an awkward artist at her disastrous debut.

The thought of it—and the accompanying anger and sadness—filled her with shame. For the latest round of [EVOCATION] had brought out a veritable avalanche of pain, trauma, and grief. Not just Zelen’s, but her own, her family’s, those of the city itself and more.

And yet, the one thing she kept coming back to was the fact that her fiancé hadn’t thought of her the way she’d thought of him.

What pettiness! What wanton disregard for the suffering of her fellow man! She shook her head briefly, as if to banish her unworthy thoughts. Then it occurred to her that there was something else on her mind, something for which her mother might be the perfect litmus test.

“Do you remember Otaga’s funeral?”

As soon as she’d brought it up, however, she realized with a pang of guilt the effect this topic might have on her mother. Sure enough, Tamamo’s smile faded in an instant, and a dark cloud came over her otherwise kindly features.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “How could I not?”

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“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so blunt,” Asena mumbled, suddenly hesitant to meet her mother’s eyes. She pressed on, “But I need to know, and I need you to answer me honestly. Did you know that there was a second memorial service that day? For a Captain Ambrose Vasseur, who died in the same mission as… as my brother?”

A strange expression came over Tamamo then, as hurt and embarrassment chased each other across her face. She eventually spoke, just as slowly, “I… can’t say I remember the man’s name, but yes, your father did tell me there was a second Reiter that died that day.”

Asena let out a sigh to steady her rising temper, then put down her paintbrush. She rounded on her mother, despite knowing that she wasn’t the one to blame.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why do we do this? What difference does it make if someone is Tetrarch or Sehermensch or Essential, if they’ve given themselves to the war? To Akropolis? Why do we prop these people up with the Ascension Standard, then with the same hands cast them aside when they’ve outlived their usefulness?”

Tamamo drew back sharply, as if she’d been slapped. But she quickly recovered, back fully straight now, and said with a stony expression, “I would’ve thought the reason should be clear to anyone who calls herself a Shiranui.”

“Oh? Enlighten me then,” Asena snapped, letting the momentum of her righteous anger speak for her. She didn’t stop to wonder how her mother’s presence suddenly loomed large within the room.

“It is the duty of all Akropolitans to avail themselves to the war, to sacrifice when sacrifice is called for,” Tamamo began, voice remarkably calm. “But duty alone is not enough to maintain order. For we are few, while they are many.

“The Tetrarchy must be seen to sacrifice, as we have been for 140 years. It’s the unspoken contract that has sustained the war and held this city together since its founding by the Four Horsemen. Our sacrifice is sacred, and it must be honoured and paraded and burnt into the minds of the masses.

“But the Sehermenschen—let alone the Essentials—must not, must never be accorded the same honour. For the moment their sacrifice is seen as equal to ours is the moment we lose the sanctity of our authority. And should this illusion of equality ever take hold of the masses, in a time when more and more of them are Ascending, what will become of the Tetrarchy? What will become of the civilization we’ve fought—and sacrificed—to protect? I’m sure you don’t need me to spell it out for you.

“So, it’s true, love. I know that a second Reiter died on the same mission that took my son. I mourn and thank him, as I do all Akropolitans who give themselves to the war. But I shan’t remember their names.”

A heavy silence filled the solarium, punctuated only by the sound of Tamamo taking another sip of her tea—a polite and humble gesture, as was befitting the Sehermensch wife of a Shiranui patriarch. Asena sat motionless, her hand still frozen over the paintbrush she’d put down earlier, eyes fixed yet wavering upon a mother she’d thought she knew well.

After some time, Tamamo stood up, back slightly hunched, then said with an almost apologetic smile, “I’ll leave you to your painting, dear. Don’t forget to drink your tea, before it gets cold.”

~February 6th, 140 AH~

~Joint Base Akra, the Gymnasium~

There were any number of excuses Asena could’ve conjured to justify her general apathy toward physical training.

First of course was the unpleasantness of it all. It wasn’t just the tedium, the pain, or the exertion. Most any female service member in PT gear was liable to draw unwanted attention, case in point being the two proto-Reiter cadets who leered at her now, as she completed a set of pec flies. She’d just started to think up the most ego-bruising thing she could say to them, when one of them recognized who she was and pulled the other back.

In that sense, this excuse wasn’t an excuse at all. Her name, coupled with the distinct physical features that were associated with that name, rendered her immune to harassment from all but the most oblivious of servicemen. She supposed many of the other women on base weren’t nearly as lucky.

Then there was the notion that she didn’t need physical training. Until recently, this used to be true to an extent. Whether by luck of the draw or possibly due to her father’s string-pulling, Asena went through the first two years of her Kurator career without ever being assigned to a Reiter. Her Somatic fitness was rarely put to the test when she’d spent most of her days assisting with research or counselling other Corpsmen.

That of course had changed dramatically with her newest assignment. Even after a handful of sessions, she was already feeling the punishing effects of emulated Eidolon combat: something she could’ve warded against, had she been a little more disciplined from the start.

Beyond the refutation of these excuses, however, there was another—far more shameful—reason she’d thrown herself back into PT. For she now knew the way Zelen had seen her—the way his eyes had lingered on her figure. And the same awkward girl who couldn’t let go of their interaction at the art exhibit now couldn’t help but imagine how her fiancé might see her the next time they met in person.

Finished with the pec flies, Asena consulted a crumpled printout that listed her old routines. As her eyes fell upon the next item, she immediately realized her mistake in not reviewing the list beforehand.

Tricep dips 10x5

She burst into tears, with an abrupt intensity that startled herself, let alone the pair of cadets in the vicinity who now retreated farther away in alarm.

She thought she’d long made peace with Otaga’s passing. His death had been just the kind of sacrifice that was expected of their family, just as Mother had said. But unbeknownst even to her, attending the funeral anew—albeit in someone else’s skin—had re-opened old wounds.

Her blurry eyes could no longer make out the rest of her list. Once again, her Somatic fitness would have to take a backseat, at least until she regained control over her Psychic stability.

It was in this state of heightened emotion that she stumbled out of the Gymnasium, and promptly crashed into someone that was crossing the hallway at speed.

Folders and envelopes cascaded onto the floor in a messy heap. The man who immediately bent to pick them up was dressed in a faded Essential’s uniform, with a blue cap that marked him out as a courier.

“Sorry,” Asena mumbled, voice still thick with fluids. Then she too bent to help clear the mess she’d made.

The courier made no protest, and wordlessly let her assist him. Even in her distracted state, Asena thought this strange, but she of course made no mention of it—with the argument with her mother still fresh on her mind.

After Asena picked up the last of the envelopes and handed it to the courier, he turned to go, eyes downcast and obscured by the visor of his cap. As their bodies brushed past each other again, however, he said in a low voice only she could hear:

“We’ll be in touch, Ms Shiranui.”

Asena froze, not quite registering what she’d heard. Before she could decide how to react, however, her bleary eyes fell upon one piece of paper that still lay on the floor. She bent to pick it up, and made to call back the courier, but he was already gone.

Asena stood in the hallway outside the Gymnasium, alone save for the folded sheet of paper in her hand. She examined it, first noting a diagram printed in black ink.

It was a solid black circle, with a slight depression at the top, from which extended a thin line crossed with a roughly elliptical shape. A stem and a leaf… was this… an apple? Yet another ghost of Old Earth that Akropolitans knew only in name and concept.

The folded edges of the paper had come apart, and Asena could see that there was writing underneath. She was suddenly gripped by a nameless sense of foreboding, though she knew not why a piece of paper that fell from a stranger’s hand could unnerve her so. She unfolded the paper, and read:

DEAR DREAMER,

FIRST, OPEN YOUR EYES