~January 3rd, 140 AH~

~Sector Libra, the Extreme South~

Zelen Athelstan pointed his ash-laden phantom toward the southern abyss and the deaths that awaited beyond the planet’s haze.

His naked eyes, even when enhanced by the Nexus, could spy only the frozen tundra that stretched all around: cracked barren earth, ashen-white from the extreme weather conditions that enveloped the planet’s southern terminus. He saw no signs of life—organic, Syntropy, or otherwise—so he turned to his co-pilot to fill in the blanks.

“Are you sure we’re headed the right way?”

No answer. This lapse in communication was becoming a rather frequent occurrence of late, the genesis of which Zelen wasn’t entirely unsympathetic to. Yet, with so much at stake, he couldn’t afford for his Spiegel to be so reticent.

“Silon. I need you to focus. Do I need to adjust my bearings or not?”

The reply came after a brief pause, characterized by a mechanical monotone Zelen had come to interpret as tacit protest.

The answer to that question would depend on what exactly we’re looking for.

A stab of annoyance, yet Zelen’s affection for his Spiegel won out as he let out an abbreviated chuckle.

“You already know what we’re looking for.”

I know what you’re looking for, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I agree with the principles behind this mission.

“You don’t agree with ending the war? Don’t let anyone back home hear you say that.”

I don’t agree with your reasons for wanting to end the war, and I only wish you’d stop to… reassess your frame of mind. I’m worried about you, Zelen.

The annoyance grew, and this time, the Reiter didn’t have the heart to laugh it off. This wasn’t the first time he and Silon had argued about this. He still couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t come around to his point of view. Couldn’t she see that he was doing this for her?

… I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Zelen, but we did agree on perfect honesty. I don’t want to lie about how I feel.

Except you haven’t been perfectly honest. You still haven’t… haven’t told me everything about you.

“Never mind that, Silon. Let’s just get this done, then we can talk about… ‘reassessing my frame of mind’ afterwards, I promise. So… about those bearings?”

… Bearing zero-one-six. Just a slight adjustment, and you should come upon the enemy encampment shortly.

Zelen pointed his phantom toward the newly indicated direction. As he resumed his mission, his indignation with his Spiegel soon turned to more urgent matters: his desire—no, need—to end the war… to save Silon.

Soon, Zelen slowed his flight until he disengaged thrusters entirely, opting instead to continue the trek on foot. The Eidolon’s metallic feet left heavy imprints upon the friable tundra, yet these were erased almost as soon as they formed, buried beneath the ashstorm that raged relentlessly.

The poor visibility wasn’t the only reason for his caution. Rather, he’d sensed a shift within the planet’s haze, an increased density of imminent death.

Whose death? The Syntropy’s or his own? He couldn’t say. All he knew, with a certainty whose source was as amorphous as it was multitudinous, was that someone or something would die here—and perhaps not for the first time.

“Silon, we—”

Proceed with caution, Zelen. Multiple enemy units detected. Be warned, there are far more of them than what the radar can show. In fact…

“In fact what?”

I know it’s not my place to suggest this, Zelen, but… would you consider turning back? Consider aborting this mission?

“Why would I do that?”

I… I have a bad feeling about this. I think we’re walking into something far more dangerous than either of us could anticipate. Something… too much for you to handle.

A flash of that familiar dark anger. Zelen tried to suppress it, knowing that Silon only wanted to help. That was all she ever wanted. And it’d been long overdue for him to return the favour.

“If I can’t handle it, then who will?”

… We could contact the JFB for help. Ask for reinforcements.

“And what? Wait for months on end for the General to twiddle his thumbs and let the war slip him by?”

… Large-scale operations need intel. Preparation. Coordination. Tactics. It’s not something you can—

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Where have the General’s tactics led us, huh? And not just Duodecim, but all the generals and leaders before him. 140 years of empty promises! How many Reiters have given their lives to this futile war? How many… Akropolitans have suffered for it? Captain Vasseur. Megha. And… and you. How many more need to die and suffer before enough is fucking enough?”

Stop! I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. Let us… let us proceed with the mission.

Until the interruption, Zelen hadn’t been aware of his elevated heartbeat, his heavy breathing. He realized with a pang of guilt that what had finally brought about Silon’s acquiescence wasn’t the eloquence of his arguments but simply her fear. Fear of those ER numbers ticking down before the fighting even began. Fear of Zelen losing his mind, out here in the endless tundra, thousands of klicks away from the nearest FOB.

But as with any other emotion that could only distract from the mission, he pushed down the guilt, and turned his attention upon the red dots that clustered around the edges of his HUD.

“Engaging,” he announced tersely, then thrust himself into the ashstorm.

For all Silon’s trepidations—and Zelen’s own premonitions—the first few waves proved to be fairly routine.

A swarm of Hornets. A battalion of Brutuses. A trio of Kentavroses backed up by a row of Iaculi. The Syntropy came thick and fast, veiled and abetted by the all-encompassing ashstorm. The encampment certainly presented more of a challenge than what Zelen had come to expect, but it wasn’t anything that he ‘couldn’t handle’.

Yet, just as he’d slipped into the sustained euphoria of bloodlust, just as he’d convinced himself that the planet’s haze hid only the righteous deaths of his enemies… Zelen hit a wall. Literally.

The Eidolon bounced against what at first seemed like an invisible forcefield. Then, as Zelen sifted the buffeting ash to make sense of his surroundings, his Spiegel too made the same discovery.

A Syntropic shield! I apologize, Zelen. I should’ve alerted you earlier, but I… I suppose I was distracted by everything else.

Sure enough, a pale red barrier filled the whole of his visual field, such as it was, and surely spread much taller and wider. The shield’s scale and curvature evoked the image of an enormous dome, much like the one that wrapped around Akropolis. Or, if not a dome, then perhaps a sphere, much like the one that…

In any case, the shield was certainly prominent enough that a Spiegel should’ve detected it long ago. The mistake was uncharacteristic. The fact that Silon had only found the shield at the same time as her Reiter perhaps suggested that the preceding battle had been fierce and difficult enough to stretch the pair’s resources.

Or that the Spiegel had become more human than she wanted to admit.

Zelen let a wave of sympathy and helpless love wash over him, then pushed it down, as with all emotions that could only distract from the mission.

A shield of this size meant the Syntropy were protecting something of matching immensity and significance. Now his job was to cut through to the other side and identify—no, destroy—whatever that was.

First, he needed to find the generators, of which there were likely multiple. He fought through more waves of enemies as he hugged the shield along its curvature. Before he could make any real headway into his search, however, Silon came through with an update.

I’ve been analyzing the signals from the other side of the barrier, Zelen, and… I’m afraid it’s not good news.

Silon spoke in a slightly hurried monotone that Zelen had come to interpret as grave concern. He held his breath and let her finish.

I believe… I believe it’s a new iteration of the Mothership. This must be where it’s being rebuilt, even as we speak.

Somehow, Zelen had already anticipated this revelation, from the moment he felt the familiar curvature of the shield. But anticipation by itself hadn’t been enough to preempt the flood of dark thoughts that followed.

Anger. At the Syntropy, yes, but also at his fellow humans and their 140 years of empty promises. Frustration. At the newest—and biggest—obstacle to his mission to liberate Silon from her suffering.

Yet one thought above all others rose to the fore of his consciousness, colouring his entire being and his bridge to the Nexus with its addictive passion: vengeance.

The Mothership was where that cowardly imitation of an Eidolon had lain in wait. Where he’d lost his best friend to the frigid obsidian sea—permanently and irreversibly (what did that even mean?). It was the site of Zelen’s greatest and most horrific failure, and this was his chance at redemption.

Vengeance was redemption was elation. And unlike all the other emotions that had beset him on this mission, this one he let slide. This one he let fester and grow until his metallic frame churned with a feverish vigour.

Zelen? Did you hear me? The Mothership is being rebuilt inside these barriers. How will you proceed?

“Help me find the generators.”

… I don’t understand. You still intend to break through the shield, knowing what awaits on the other side?

“This is my chance to take down the Mothership before it’s fully operational. I could cripple the Syntropy, right here, right now. I could win the war, Silon!”

That’s madness, Zelen! Even in its incomplete form, the Mothership is far too powerful for you to deal with on your own. Need I remind you that it took 15 Reiters and five—

“I don’t need you to remind me of anything. I just need you to help me find the shield generators.”

I… I can’t abide by this folly. In my opinion, we should gather as much intel as we can, then return to—

“Are you one of my useless superior officers, or are you my Spiegel? Generators! Now!”

Suddenly, a flash of red perforated the haze of ice and ash.

Acting purely on instinct (or was it foreknowledge?), Zelen backthrust just in time, barely out of the arc of the attack. He caught sight of a blade of concentrated red energy as it whizzed past, and saw enough to identify its familiar shape: [GLADIUS]. Syntropic in origin.

Ever dutiful and faithful, Silon reached across the Nexus to give name to the source of Zelen’s unbridled elation.

Anti-Eidolon unit ZT-01, designation ‘Vendetta’. How will…

The Spiegel’s voice trailed off as a barrage of red missiles chased Zelen through the ashstorm. When she came back, she spoke in a fading monotone that Zelen couldn’t place—for he’d never before heard this variant of her monotone.

Please… be careful, Zelen.

Sympathy. Love. Sorrow and yearning. Zelen pushed down all extraneous emotions and gave himself fully to bloodlust.

The ash-laden phantom flew across the storm, itself surging with ghostly blue energy. Before long, the red blade of Syntropic [GLADIUS] cleaved through the haze anew, and this time, Zelen saw clearly the svelte obsidian arm that drove its arcing movement. This time, Zelen was ready.

He met the attack with his own RA [GLADIUS]. And the ashstorm momentarily broke, clearing the way for an explosion of blue on red.