~April 26th, 140 AH~
~Joint Base Akra, Eidolon Hangar~
Long after he was safely barrier-side of the JFB, and long after Anamnium gel had dried onto his jumpsuit, General Ghata Vakta sat at the edge of his open cockpit, unwilling or unable to step into the world outside his Eidolon.
His heart rate remained elevated despite his outwardly neutral state. His hands, presently clasped together to support the weight of his chin, shook slightly as he relived the second most disastrous deployment of his career.
Somehow, of all the disasters that had (or hadn’t) visited Ghata Vakta at the Vulkan Coast, the keenest memories of them had all seeped into his hands and stayed there. Foremost was the sensation of losing his grip—not only of his Eidolon, but of everything and more that had mattered to him in the moment. He’d felt the same thing once before—on October 30th, 138 AH to be precise. That was the day he led a team of fifteen Reiters into battle, for only eight of them to return to base with him. It was the day he lost a best friend and a little brother.
The way today’s disasters played out had been eerily similar to those from the worst day of his life. Once again, he’d stared into the true and terrible immensity of his enemy, and once again, he’d lost his grip on everything he’d thought to be under his control. Last time, he’d listened helplessly as the news of Handles’s death—and Megha’s unauthorized ‘dive’ back into the Mothership—filtered through the radio. Today, he himself would’ve been the one to lose his life, if it hadn’t been for—
Ghata winced and bit down on one knuckle, if only to distract himself from a greater pain. The post-combat headaches had gotten worse and worse as the Uprising War wore on, but the latest episode had started up in-combat, moments after he lost the strength in his hands… and at the exact same instant when a midnight-blue Eidolon cut across a field of death and obsidian.
Something had happened then. Something that tore him and Kingfisher away from one reality and spliced them into another. That was when the certainty of death shifted into a desperate need for survival. And that was also when this latest headache had started—the worst of its kind Ghata had ever experienced.
Before today, and even after he’d been personally briefed by the Gen—by the late Fenix Duodecim, Ghata hadn’t quite grasped the power of Kingfisher’s Einkunst. Having received its boon (and suffered its side effects) first-hand, however, the thought that was foremost on his mind was…
Why?
Why, even with such miracles on their side, was humanity forced to cower under the Syntropy’s heel? A Reiter among them could literally rewrite the war as it was fought, and yet… humanity was still losing—had been brought so low as to fight for scraps among themselves.
Yet that wasn’t Ghata’s only question. A second, more urgent one burned, along with the searing heat at the base of his skull. Why did he let it happen? Why had Kingfisher, despite the miracles at his disposal, let Megha Vakta die—sunk and lost forever beneath a grave of dark waters and heartless metal?
Ghata bit into his knuckle until he drew and tasted blood. He then shook his head violently in an futile effort to rid himself of his worsening headache.
He had to snap out of it. Remove himself from loss and death, so to rejoin the land of the living and still fighting. If he allowed himself to sink and drown any further, he risked today becoming the worst—and perhaps last—day of his life.
He couldn’t let the fact of his survival—of Kingfisher’s miraculous hand in it—go to waste. For he’d fled a field of death and obsidian, not out of cowardice, but because he hungered for victory.
Something happened to him the moment Kingfisher had torn him away from a doomed reality and spliced him into another. He couldn’t quite grasp the shape of it. Whatever it was, perhaps it had no shape. Rather, it had voice, and not just one. A hundred, a thousand, a million voices all joined as one and reached across the Nexus, singing of the victory that yet awaited a warrior and his people—if only they never stopped kicking, punching, and clawing for every possibility. If not in this reality, then perhaps—
The clangor of hurried footsteps rang against Ghata’s headache, at the same time as it sent him lurching back into the here and now. He looked up with a severe frown, more due to pain than out of annoyance, as a stricken young Panzer rushed across the catwalk to reach him.
“Sir,” the young man blurted, along with a hasty salute that he neglected to hold, “we just received… unusual transmissions over at Gate 4. I think… I think maybe you’d want to—”
“How many are they?”
The Panzer looked up with round eyes, evidently startled by the quickness with which the General had cottoned onto the situation. “Just one. But it’s—”
“Let them in.”
“Are you… are you sure, sir? It’s just… I think she’s—”
“Let her in and park her machine in one of the pre-deployment bays. Get the Jaegers working on it pronto. I’ve no idea if any of our tech is compatible with… with that thing, but I’m sure it still runs on Anamnium. And get her to come see me as soon as she disembarks. Don’t bother changing. I have a feeling… both of us will be hopping back in our Eidolons soon enough.”
The Panzer stared a while in open-mouthed amazement, then flung another botched salute before turning and sprinting back the way he came. Ghata closed his eyes, rested his throbbing head against his hands, and waited.
By the time a new set of footsteps clattered onto the catwalk, Ghata Vakta’s headache had subsided somewhat. He reopened his eyes to find Asena Shiranui: barefoot, clad in an unfamiliar jumpsuit still slick with gel, and flanked by two more Panzers who both had their service pistols out. Ghata sighed, shooed away the improvised security detail with a wave of the hand, then took a moment to examine the traitor who stood before him.
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For one brief instant, Ghata was overcome by another sense of disorientation. The sight of Asena—shoulder-length charcoal hair wet and gleaming with a pale blue glow, thin gangling figure that stood tall and proud save for the slightest of slouches—was remarkably reminiscent of another Shiranui he knew well. But the illusion was soon broken as he focused on the curves accentuated by a form-fitting jumpsuit… and the earnest defiance that coloured the traitor’s visage—that certainly didn’t run in the family.
Ghata shook his head, slowly this time, and didn’t bother to hide a wry smile that had crept onto his lips. Up until now, the thought of a Kurator—a woman, no less!—piloting an Eidolon had felt like a farce of the highest order. Yet, confronted by the very real sight of it, the only question that shot to the fore of Ghata’s consciousness was: can you do it? Can you help us finally win this godforsaken war?
“Seeing how you came to us in such a hurry,” Ghata suddenly broke the silence, his thoughts forming even as he spoke them into being, “I have to assume you have something urgent to report. Are you perhaps finally ready to consider surrender? I can be persuaded to hear your terms, as long as—”
“We have no time for your grandstanding,” Asena shot back, in a snarling tone to match the hardness of her eyes. “I do bring urgent news, one that concerns all of us, on both sides of the conflict. Will you let me speak freely, or do I have to look for someone who actually has their priorities straight?”
Ghata blanched slightly. His first instinct was to spit out a snide retort. These Shiranuis really need to lighten up from time to time. But he quelled his own impulse, conceding that now wasn’t the time for levity. With a stiff nod, he gestured for Asena to continue.
And the General sat back and listened. To the direst sit rep of his life—delivered from a traitor's lips. He listened quietly, never interrupting the traitor for a second, even when she told him of the course of the Mothership’s flight… and about Kingfisher’s less than combat-ready status.
After Asena had finished, Ghata acknowledged her with a simple question, “ETA?”
“If the current velocity holds,” she was ready and prompt with her reply, “I’d say 40… at most 45 minutes. Like I said, we don’t have any time to lose.”
Ghata nodded, outwardly impassive but hiding another stab of pain. He appeared to give Asena’s words some thought, yet in truth, he’d already made up his mind. His mind had been made up from the moment Kingfisher had bought him more time. Kick, punch, claw. If not in this reality, then at least…
“Thank you for bringing us this valuable intel… Kurator Shiranui,” he eventually said. “The matter of your desertion and war crimes still needs to be addressed, all in due time, but for now, the Mothership’s impending assault on Akropolis takes precedence over all other concerns. Will you fight with us? To defend a city you once called home, and for the sake of people you once called family?”
“Of course I will,” she was ready and savage with her reply. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’m just glad you didn’t need much convincing.”
Ghata snorted, with almost genuine indignation. He then eyed one of the Panzers who’d ‘escorted’ Asena to the catwalk—the one that looked the less shell-shocked of the two.
“You. Run to your station now and activate Code Red. All Reiters—and I mean all of them, whether they’re on standby or half-dead in the infirmary—to sortie immediately, form up field-side, and await further instructions.”
The first Panzer saluted and ran off as bidden, looking almost relieved to have been given anything to do—anything to take his mind off the contents of Asena’s sit rep. Ghata then turned to the second one.
“You. Yes, you, who the fuck else? Radio the Jaeger crew chief and get them to expedite the pre-deployment checks on Tripod, and uh”—he nodded toward Asena—“you have a callsign for yourself and your... imitation Eidolon?”
At this, the traitor looked caught off guard for the first time since her arrival. She considered for a moment, then muttered, almost sheepishly, “Dancer.”
Ghata flashed another wry smile. “Dancer it is. Got that, Private? Now off you go!”
The General then waited a beat, watching to make sure that the second Panzer could still function as a human being. Satisfied, he turned in his makeshift seat to face the interior of his cockpit. He then began to fiddle with his empty Nexa-suit, checking for any leaks or loose—
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Ghata gave Asena a sidelong glance, genuinely mystified. “What do you mean? If you’re after rations or something, just ask around. I’m sure someone would be willing to—”
“What about the civilians?”
Ghata stopped what he was doing. He turned to face Asena again. “What about them?”
“You need to order their evacuation.”
“Why would they need to evacuate?”
“Did you not hear a single thing I said? The Mothership is coming for us, with her entire fleet. And a whole platoon of Vendettas. They will break through our defenses. We can buy time, but if we want anyone to survive, we need to start evacuating the civilians now.”
“Are you insane? What do you think will happen if we announce to the public that the fucking Mothership is flying toward Akropolis? Mass panic. Complete and utter breakdown of social order. We can’t—”
“What do you expect them to do instead? Just wait for their deaths? Without even knowing what killed them? Do you expect them, even now, to stay in the dark, just like they have all their—”
“Yes!”
Unbeknownst even to himself, Ghata had jumped off the cockpit and onto the catwalk proper. He now stood directly in front of Asena Shiranui, close enough for him to see his own wild rage reflected in her eyes.
“Yes!” he shouted again, sending spittle onto the traitor’s stony face. “To die in the name of the Syntropy War? To stand with Akropolis in her final moments, just as she’d watched over us all our lives? Yes! Yes! Yes! That’s exactly what I expect every one of your precious civilians to do. And why not? You’re ready to give your life. I am too. I’ve always been ready and willing to sacrifice myself, just like all the brothers I’ve lost and all the brothers who would fly with me today. If this should be the last time we stand against humanity’s enemy, then let us do so with courage, with honour, with—”
Ghata stopped. For he’d seen anew the look on the traitor’s face. There, flashing across eyes that had moments ago reflected his own impotent rage, were unmistakable sparks of ghostly blue.
A million voices. Singing of victory. Not in some other reality that neither a young general nor his most hated traitor could dream of… but in this very one.
When Asena spoke again, her voice was earnest, defiant, and remarkably calm.
“There’s no honour… in sacrifice without meaning. You may believe this to be your last fight, but I don’t. And there are thousands of people up and down the three Akras who would join me in my fight—a fight for our future—as long as there’s someone willing to lead them. My only question is… will you?”
Kick. Punch. Claw.
Not in someone else's reality, but in the here and now.
Ghata’s shaking hands slowly but surely curled into fists, better to grip the last of all that mattered to him.