~April 25th, 140 AH~

~The Fog of War~

The war went on, and Zelen Athelstan remembered everything.

Every fight, every kill, every death, every debrief that focused on the human rather than the synthetic dead. Along the way, he fulfilled every role that had been asked of him and more that hadn’t, from team leader to decoy to solo saboteur. Kingfisher remained in the thick of every Alliance victory and every moving piece upon an ashen-grey chessboard. And the Uprising War’s every ebb and flow carved permanent marks upon a warrior’s vaults of Bone, as rivers and oceans unto long-forsaken valleys and shores.

As his memories of WAR built itself back up, so too did his dreams of long-faded realities recede. His nights were still restless (always restless), but they were no longer visited by the ghosts of someone else’s war. In the ghosts’ absence, he found the presence of mind to stay present, to offer himself to his war and the comrades with whom he flew into battle—lest he let his most immediate reality slip away, like he had with too many others.

Zelen’s presence in his chosen reality also afforded him the vantage point from which to sift through the fog of war. A month into the Uprising War, the Apfel Alliance were already past the deadline of exhausting their meagre Anamnium stores. They’d managed to buy themselves more time by wresting key strategic locations from Joint Forces control, but both sides of the conflict knew their own limitations in sustaining the war effort for long.

Over 140 years of fighting only the Syntropy, Akropolitans had become accustomed to an enemy that served more as ‘obstacles’ rather than a dynamic threat. The more or less static nature of the Syntropic presence across the planet gave the Joint Forces the illusion that war could be fought on their own terms—with ample preparation in between deployments as well as continual maintenance of a steady supply of Reiters on standby.

Not so when the ‘enemy’ happened to be a ragtag team of humans with their own urgent agenda. What the Alliance lacked in resources and manpower, they made up for with mercurial tactics and fleetness of mobility. They hit the Joint Forces hard and often, leaving their enemies with little in the way of breathing room. They were able to do this, not only due to their disregard for well-established military traditions, but also because of Kingfisher—or more specifically, his Einkunst.

No one could claim to know the full extent of how [ENTROPY] had sown its seeds of chaos upon the battlefield—and how that chaos had settled and matured into the shape of two warring factions’ shared future. No one… except Zelen himself. For in his quest to break through his own limitations—to kick past his line in the sand—he’d learned to attune himself fully to the myriad possibilities conveyed to him via the Nexus.

So, even as friend and foe alike lived and died with the realities he’d chosen for them, Zelen remembered everything. Eddy Vesnin. Tino Lluvia. Sebastian Zhao. Chai Dukhan. Deaths to be mourned, lives to be remembered, and more that left its secret marks only upon a warrior’s Bones.

Zelen remembered them all, even when others wouldn’t or couldn’t, because to forget would be to deny the true weight of his choices. That he could never allow himself to do. Never again. The Nexus had blessed Zelen with the power to rewrite scripts—to mold the very war to his designs. And on the same token, it’d cursed him with the harrowing memories of unwritten pages that would never see the light of day.

The curse of his Einkunst—and his sustained choice to push it to its fullest potential—also incurred a tremendous burden on his person. The mountainous toll, both Psychic and Somatic, was unlike any he (could recall) experiencing before, and manifested itself as physical jitters during the heat of battle as well as a severe headache that dogged him in the quieter hours.

Two things kept Zelen from entirely losing his sanity to this curse. First, the knowledge that this was the just price of fighting his war—of leading his allies to victory—in ways only he could. Second, the constant companionship of one Asena Shiranui, and the concomitant reminder that the ‘burden’ wasn’t his alone to bear.

The young Tetrarch deserters, now released from their false obligations, had nevertheless become ‘family’ in one true sense of the word. The pair became each other’s closest confidants, as much as they were each other’s most trusted and capable wingmen in battle.

In the few quiet hours between deployments, they could be found sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the cool glow of a flickering Nexa-Lamp, heads downcast, lost in conversation or silent meditation. Asena availed herself, not to pry or deceive or ‘re-educate’, but simply to listen. In turn, Zelen laid himself bare, not out of a desperate and forlorn longing, but simply to share with his friend the moments that mattered to both of them. Theirs was a Reiter-Kurator partnership as it’d always been intended, with or without the Nexus acting as a bridge.

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But even as Zelen, Asena, their allies, and every embattled soul on both sides sought comfort in each other’s shoulders, the war itself hurtled toward its natural conclusion.

The Apfel Alliance had taken territory, but they’d also stretched themselves thin, leaving them vulnerable to pinpoint counteroffensives as well as opportunistic Syntropy attacks. The Joint Forces had been hemmed into their fragile stronghold of Akropolis, where an increasingly agitated population threatened the stability of a foundation that had stood for 140 years.

Neither side could allow the other an opportunity to regroup and consolidate. Yet at the same time, neither side could afford to wait out the other in a staring contest of attrition.

Thus, almost by unspoken agreement, the war hurtled toward its necessary conclusion.

“Intel indicates that they intend to make a decisive push at the Vulkan Coast.”

The ‘town hall’, as Akash Varana insisted on dubbing his briefing sessions, even as attendance dwindled, took place barrier-side of the Gold Rush FOB. Night had long fallen, but Zelen and several of his key allies were wide awake, in varying states of undress, yet all united in anticipating a large-scale Joint Forces operation to take place in the coming hours.

“They’ve sniffed out our supply routes, and their thinking must be that taking the Coast would give them the footing from which to push onto the Caverns and capture our main base. And… I’m afraid they’re not entirely off-track in that regard. We’ll have to meet them, strength for strength, which will leave us vulnerable elsewhere, but—”

“But at the same time,” Asena cut in, along with a nod of understanding and determination, “if we win this battle, we’ll well and truly have the Joint Forces on the ropes. Then the war will be almost as good as won.”

“As much as I’d be loath to count our chickens before they hatch... yes, that’s about the gist of it. If we manage to defend the Coast, absorb and perhaps even neutralize the JF’s main fighting force… This will be the closest thing to a decisive victory we’re likely to get.”

Silence fell amongst the gathered personnel, one of shared misery, of exhaustion, and of hope. Zelen scanned the battered and stained faces of his comrades, even as the sight of them tugged at the edges of a half-forgotten memory.

He’d once taken part in a ‘town hall’ not unlike this one. In that one too, a charismatic leader had promised uniformed men and women that their years of sacrifice would soon be at a triumphant end. But what was different about tonight’s briefing that imbued the attendees’ faces with hope rather than fear? What was the source of his allies’ hope, and by the same measure, what had been the source of his Reiter brothers’ fears?

Zelen felt around the edges of a half-forgotten memory… then stopped. Tendrils of something black crept along the unseen gutters of his chest, and he tried his best to put them out of his mind. He wanted to remember everything, but before that, he needed to be present in the present.

“Now, this brings us to our next question,” Akash was the first to break the silence. “Namely, who are we sending in? Any volunteers?”

“Shouldn’t it be obvious?” Asena again. “It has to be our most reliable strike team. Zelen and myself, along with the main support battery led by Feray and Graeme.”

“That was my first thought as well,” Akash answered with a thoughtful frown that suggested he’d since had a second thought, “but, sticking with my Old Earth poultry metaphor for a second, I’m wary of putting all our eggs in one basket. The Joint Forces, under Ghata Vakta’s leadership, have so far lacked a certain… subtlety to their approach. But that only makes me all the more cautious about a possible curveball. A feint, if you will.”

With this, Akash glanced over at Zelen, as if expecting the Reiter to finish the thought he’d started. Zelen obliged, but only after he blinked back the headache that seared the base of his skull.

“Akash is right,” he managed to say. “We can’t risk losing everything we’ve fought so hard to gain. Especially now that the end is in sight. I will spearhead the main strike team, by myself. Asena, I want you to hang back and lead a second team that will patrol the airspace over Sector Pisces. Be ready to respond in case of a diversionary tactic.”

Asena opened her mouth to protest, just as Zelen expected she might. Then, after a beat, she acknowledged him with a nod of understanding and determination, just as Zelen knew she would. She was his most trusted and capable wingman. And on this occasion, the knowledge that she would be the one to protect the roost gave him the license to fly far and deep into enemy territory.

“It’s decided then?”

This from Akash Varana. His prompt was met by a round of nods, as silent and resolute as Asena’s. Out here in the thick of the Uprising War, a briefing ended not with the zeroing of watches, creaking chairs, nor nervous chatter. There was only the shuffling of tired feet, as warrior hearts tried and failed to match the quietude of night.

“Everyone, get some rest if you can,” Akash ended things off with a half-hearted command. “We fly out at dawn.”

Zelen obeyed, but only after he gulped down the blackness that crept along the hollow of his chest.