Zelen watched himself fly toward a clash of crimson-on-gold. He saw the frantic distress painted plainly on his own face and wondered, with a placid detachment, where that emotion had come from.
The crimson centipede represented a fearsome shadow from a half-forgotten past. An enigma of a man that Zelen’s jumbled consciousness registered as friend and foe in equal measure—though the justifications for either were hazy at best. Could it be that he’d remembered something without knowing it? Or was he simply more in need of a friend than foe?
The dancer in faded gold was the family he’d chosen, guided by nothing more than a voice that spoke to him in riddles and dreams. He supposed rather than felt that it was only natural for him to fear for her safety. Then why did he feel no relief at the sight of her absolute advantage? Safe, victorious, moments away from a famous kill. Why did the sight of it only intensify his dread?
Perhaps he was asking the wrong questions again. Overcomplicating matters. Perhaps it mattered not where his emotions had come from—whether it be a half-forgotten friendship, misguided fears, or even the dreams of someone else’s war.
All that mattered was that his emotions weren’t nothing. Real or not, he felt something. And it was imperative that he see it through to its natural conclusion.
Only… he knew this wasn’t the conclusion to his reality. Or if it was, it was only one of many. With a placid detachment, he detected and examined the unknowable memories that had etched themselves into his bones. Alternate realities that had already played themselves out.
Within vaults of Bone rest the Mind’s secrets. Zelen’s bones remembered (without knowing) his secret failures. They informed (without revealing) the path he must take to ensure that this reality would be one he could learn to live with.
The dancer’s pale blue blade swung toward her defenseless opponent. Zelen held his secret memories within his chest, and took the one trajectory that allowed him to rewrite the future—to change what was otherwise inevitable.
He sent himself directly under the arc of the blade. The blade tore through his shoulder joint before partially embedding itself into a crimson central chassis.
The sheer shock of the pain jolted Zelen out of his detached observance of himself. It sent his consciousness back into his own reeling body. But not for long, he sensed. His earlier duel with Makiri—yes, Makiri was his name—had already left him hanging by a thread, and this latest blow from Asena had all but depleted his Reserves.
At the same time as Zelen came back to himself, two metallic giants detached themselves from his position. Makiri’s crimson frame promptly spun, flew away, and never looked back. Asena’s faded gold backed off by an arm’s length, letting go of her weapon as she did.
“Zelen?” Her voice, audibly strained, shouted into the radio. “What did you do?”
“We have to break the cycle.”
“What?”
“We have to—”
His strange words trailed off along with his fading consciousness. He himself didn’t know what he was saying. A phrase borrowed from a half-remembered war. With no meaning behind it other than what he could piece together from half-forgotten failures.
But perhaps that was enough. For even borrowed dreams were something for him to hold onto.
“Zelen? Are you still with me? Zelen, hold on!”
As his world faded back into blackness, Zelen felt the warmth of a friend’s embrace spread over the scars upon his bones.
~March 5th, 140 AH~
~Sector Capricorn, northbound from Vallemor Desert~
Makiri Shiranui flew over a barren earth. He flew amidst a thunderstorm of his own misery.
The pain had gone far past the point of nuisance and into fully disabling some of his faculties. He flew without sight nor much else in the way of awareness. He knew not his bearings, his surroundings, nor anything of his and his Eidolon’s conditions. Nor did a once familiar voice reach across the Nexus to reassure him.
If the deserters were to catch up to him… if the Syntropy were to find him in his current state, it would surely have been the end of him. For even if he might have held onto a shred of his Reserves, he was utterly bereft of the will to fight back.
How could he fight on, when—for the first time in his life—he’d seen the face of the enemy?
Another strange Eidolon. A giant of faded gold. Its metallic frame had been impersonal enough that he could almost fool himself into believing it was just another unidentified Syntropy unit. Yet its movements—especially when it started dancing—had been anything but.
And then its metallic mask too had fallen off. The moment it raised its strange weapon to strike him down. [THE INEVITABLE] had revealed itself to Makiri then, and it bore a face he recognized only too well.
He’d nearly killed his own sister. [THE INEVITABLE] had been averted only because she’d fought back with a ferocity he’d not seen in any other enemy, human or otherwise.
His sister had nearly killed him. [THE INEVITABLE] had then dissipated only with the timely intervention of a phantom who would’ve—should’ve—been dead in another reality.
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What had his solitary foray into ‘enemy’ territory earned him? Did he find what he was looking for? Did he find the answers he needed?
Whatever those answers might’ve been, all he was left with now was pain. Boundless, overwhelming, terrifying.
No. He had something else, didn’t he? Intel. Confirmation of the deserters’ location. He didn’t find the entrance to their hideout as he’d originally planned, but his additional intel could still help to narrow down the search.
Makiri lacked sight and awareness, but he held onto a semblance of instincts. His instincts pointed him and his crimson centipede in a roughly northerly direction. Back toward Sector Aquarius. Back to Akropolis.
Home.
… And then what?
What did ‘home’ mean to him? A place? People? A place and people he was duty-bound to protect. Even if it meant listening to his brother die on the radio. Even if it meant watching his father crumble under the weight of his own lies.
Even if it meant dying by his sister’s blade.
Makiri Shiranui flew over a barren earth. He flew amidst a thunderstorm of his own pain. As vast as the planet that stretched all around him. And just as terrifying.
He knew not his bearings, his surroundings, nor anything of his and his Eidolon’s condition. Nor did a once soothing voice reach across the Nexus to reorient him.
With nothing but pain to guide it, with nothing but fear to fuel its flight, a crimson giant veered off its northbound course and into the planet’s haze.
~March 5th, 140 AH~
~The Caverns, Comms Centre~
Akash Varana considered himself to be relatively well-read. Some of his fellow book-lovers—Asena Shiranui among them—naturally and understandably gravitated toward Old Earth literature. Whereas he himself had always preferred the immediacy and raw melancholy of contemporary Akropolitan work.
Such works were hard to come by. No one in Akropolis could expect to make a living purely from writing. Even among the so-called elites of society, art or self-expression of any form were considered novelties at best and frivolities at worst. As such, most of the books he managed to get his hands on had been authored by Sehers such as himself, written in the precious few hours of privacy in between military duties.
Among such books, the ones that spoke to him most clearly and stayed with him for longest often contained commentaries or autobiographical accounts of Einkunster life. He’d always been fascinated by Einkunsts, not least because he himself possessed one. He wondered about their origins and logic, if indeed there were any at all. He mused also about their purpose within the world at large, for it seemed inconceivable that the Nexus would specially elevate a chosen few in the absence of a grand design.
But what he found most fascinating about Einkunsters was their seemingly universal love-hate relationship with their own powers. He’d never met nor read about an Einkunster that was perfectly and unconditionally content to have been one. There was always something: an inconvenient quirk, an unpleasant drawback, or simply the angst that accompanied added responsibility.
He’d heard through the grapevine of Makiri Shiranui’s struggles with [THE INEVITABLE], of his dislike for large crowds and even simple day-to-day interactions. Asena too had confessed to her ambivalence toward [EVOCATION], of its undeniable value and potency, marred by the difficult and uncomfortable situations it forced her to confront. And Zelen’s [ENTROPY]… well, that was a whole other can of worms.
As for Akash himself, his [ALLIANCE] too had been both a blessing and a curse. It’d no doubt broadened his horizons and allowed him to see things other Akropolitans couldn’t even imagine. It’d ingrained in him the kind of empathy for his fellow man that was rare if not taboo among high society. At the same time, it’d also made him constantly and excessively anxious, in a manner that frustrated him to no end.
How could he force himself to be dispassionate in the heat of battle, when he could feel the flow of his [ALLIES]’ life forces within him? When he could hear their cries for help at their most vulnerable? Just nine days into a hastily cobbled-together coup, he’d been fortunate enough not to have ‘lost’ any of his [ALLIED] voices. But the notion that this was only a matter of time gripped him with an uncontrollable fear.
This latest battle was no exception. He kept his ears glued to his headset for any verbal updates that might stream his way, but a bulk of his Reserves was spent on attuning to the Nexus. To the flickering signals and trembling voices that originated from his [ALLIES] scattered upon the surface.
At one heart-stopping moment, the signals he recognized as belonging to Asena and Zelen—both of them—surged then died out at once.
The moment was truly fleeting, so much so that he almost believed that he’d imagined it. Perhaps he had. Or perhaps… the Nexus had, by one grand design or another, offered him a taste of what could have been in another reality.
After the moment passed, the signals returned. Still flickering, still trembling, but present all the same. Akash allowed himself a sigh of relief, then waited for a verbal confirmation of what had transpired.
“The hostile has disengaged!” Panzer Graeme’s disembodied voice crackled in excitement. “I say again, the hostile has disengaged. By god, the Kurator girl has done it! Lieutenant Athelstan appeared to have a hand in it too, but I couldn’t quite make out what he actually did there in the end.”
“Are Asena and Zelen alright?” Akash asked, unable to fully hide his worries. “Both of their Reserves are dangerously low.”
“Looks like the Lieutenant might be out cold, but Corporal Shiranui’s got a hold of him. I’ll send Falten out to collect them, but… should I pursue Major Shiranui? It looked like he might be on his last legs. Maybe I could take him by myself…”
Akash hesitated. The signal belonging to Makiri Shiranui was quickly fading, but it hadn’t fully left [ALLIANCE]’s range. Enough of it remained for him to feel its despondent misery, hear the timbre of its crippling pain.
Akash hesitated… then opened a private channel.
“No, it’s too risky,” he lied, both to Graeme and to himself. “Collect the young ones then return to base.”
“Are you sure?” the Panzer responded on the same channel. “We might not get another chance like this. As it is, he’ll be taking intel on our location back to the Joint Forces.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“… Forgive me for saying, sir, but I’ve a bad feeling about this. Our position is no longer secure. It’ll be a matter of time before the Joint Forces decide to send down a much larger force. And you know that we can’t turtle inside the Caverns forever.”
“If it turns out that we’re unable to defend our position,” Akash said, having regained his usual outward calm, “then we won’t. Instead, we’ll just have to take the war to Akropolis.”
The line was silent for some time. Then it crackled one last time with Graeme’s curt reply, “Understood, sir. Returning to base now.”
Akash lowered his headset with a heavy sigh. He leaned back in his creaking chair, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples on both sides, trying his best to sever his connection to the Nexus. Just this once. Just for one second.
It was no use. The signals and voices remained, as urgent as ever in their individual struggles for survival and agency. Whatever the Nexus’s grand design for him might be, this was his blessing and his curse.
There would be no rest for him. Until the entirety of his [ALLIANCE] achieved a collective and long-lasting peace. Or until all of their voices faded away.