~April 27th, 140 AH~

~The Final Briefing~

Zelen’s world was on the brink of collapse. And yet, his people had never been more united.

The final briefing of his war took place upon the Caverns’ main concourse, bathed in the diffuse blue glow of a hundred torches and under the discerning eyes of a thousand weary souls. All Akropolitans and Alliance members—all survivors—had been invited to attend, regardless of age, creed, or imagined standing. All of what was left of humanity joined as one for a ‘town hall’ that was inclusive and expansive beyond Akash Varana’s wildest dreams—all to give one answer to the call of a million voices.

There was no podium. No uniformed presenter with projector slides filled with outdated intel. Instead, a young (and ancient) warrior stood as tall as his narrow frame would allow, shoulder to shoulder with the allies who would fly alongside him into his final battle.

With eyes shining from more than the reflection of the Nexa-lamps around him, the warrior spoke and bared all. He spoke, not of intel but of memories, not of uncertainties but of realities, and not of objectives but of possibilities and the future that awaited beyond the planet’s haze. He spoke and the people listened, as each and every one of them woke from the fog of their own dreams.

“You’re telling us,” Ghata Vakta cut in at one point, fixing Zelen with his one eye that wasn’t covered by fresh bandages, “that all this… all we’ve ever fought for and suffered through… had been in service of one war that took place in a distant timeline… a separate dimension. And even that war has already gone to shit, thanks to your imaginary girlfriend being a vengeful psychopath? You expect us to not only believe that, but also to then turn around and follow you—the progenitor of this nonsense—into battle?”

“That’s certainly one interpretation,” this from Akash, rushing to Zelen’s defense as a murmurous clamour broke out among the gathered crowd, “but I think it’s more nuanced than that. It’s not so much that—”

“The dimensions aren’t separate,” a loud voice rose above the hubbub, absent hesitation. This belonged to Asena Shiranui, voice unusually hoarse, and with much of her body too wrapped in bandages to cover the burns she’d suffered at the Battle of Akropolis. She continued, “Overlap. Recursion. Convergence. Whatever you want to call it, clearly there are elements of each reality that bleed over and blend with the others. That’s what the Nexus is. That's the engine at the heart of our Seherschaft. Manifesting memories into reality. The Reiters’ armaments. My [REVENANT] warrior. Maybe the war did start in that one distant and lost reality, but it ends with us. Everything we do in the here and now, we do for ourselves and our own future. Isn’t that right, Zelen?”

The warrior nodded with a faint smile, meeting Asena’s fire with his gentle sorrow.

“Everything that failed,” he spoke, “everything that went wrong before… this is our one last chance to make things right. Asena, that includes Makiri too.”

The Kurator let out a small gasp of surprise, her determined expression momentarily faltering. Behind her, somewhere within the gathered crowd, a thin husk of a father lost his balance and leaned against the diminutive frame of his weeping wife.

“In so many—too many—of my dreams, you and Makiri ended up on opposing sides. Stubborn in your own ways, looking for different answers, and ending up in each other’s way. This time, I want to give Makiri a different choice. Not everything leads to one inevitable conclusion. And even a solitary killer can find a home among people who value and honour his person above his kill count. I want us to build that home, for Makiri, for you, and for all.”

Now the warrior turned his sorrowful smile onto Akash Varana, and just for a moment, the Gaertner was shaken by a jolt of nostalgia. Something about that smile and the sorrow contained therein matched exactly the signals of a faceless nameless [ALLY], one that had set Akash’s war in motion some twelve years ago.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Akash,” Zelen continued, “I now remember that I’d known you long ago. Maybe not in the form you see me in today, but as an ally nonetheless. One that had washed ashore onto a strange land and an alien war, along with the abandoned home I’d failed to protect. And in my desperation, I’d called out for an ally—someone that could carry out my will in this reality… lest it also fall to ruin like mine and all the others. Dutiful as you are, Akash, you answered my call, even though you had to leave behind your family and everything you held dear to do it. For that, I’m sorry… and I’m also glad. I’m glad that here, at the end of all things, we’re joined toward one purpose. You did the right thing, you’ll see. We’ll finish what we started… together.”

The Gaertner held the warrior’s gaze for a while, wearing an almost stricken expression as he did. Then his face softened to let out a wry chuckle as he shook his head. Behind him, somewhere within the gathered crowd, a boy and his mother held each other close and watched on in fragile silence.

“Ghata,” the warrior now turned to the General—his erstwhile superior officer. Despite the swift and utter breakdown of the facade over his own world, the young general allowed Zelen to speak, making no attempt to wrest back authority. “There’s more that I remember, and there are things I want us to remember together. Because you and I once shared a brother. And in my inexperience, ignorance, and naivete, I failed that brother. Megha saved me when I’d needed him most… and I failed to do the same for him.”

“If this is your idea of offering me closure,” Ghata did interrupt then, finding voice in anger, “you can save your breath, Kingfisher. I’ve been in this business far longer than you, and I don’t need you to—”

“Not closure, but remembrance,” Zelen insisted, in his gentle sorrowful way. “Memories are what make us who we are. For too long, I’d tried to run from them. Tried to find false solace in the act of forgetting. No more. Let us remember everything, together. Let us remember our dead, our lost, and our long-suffering… even if we ourselves had been the ones to condemn them to that suffering. Let us remember Megha. Let us remember our lost brothers and sisters. Let us remember the Spiegels… Let us carry them with us into our final battle, not as burdens and shackles, but as mantras. Let them guide us toward the victory they’d sacrificed for.”

Ghata too stared at Zelen for some time, unhappily and with his one good eye unblinking. Then he let out a steadying sigh by way of response, before turning toward his Reiter Regiment and meeting their hard eyes with a single nod.

Finally, the warrior turned his full attention onto the thousand strong that made up the rest of the town hall. For all survivors, to a one, were his allies, even if they lacked the wings with which to fly into battle.

“And to those of you waiting, those who’d been waiting all their lives because you believed you had no choice but to wait…. I have this to say. Fight with us. Rise out of the hovels you’d believed was your lot in life and fight, in ways only you can. Even if you have no Eidolon to pilot, even if you have no strength with which to take up arms, you still have voice. Call to the Nexus, and the Nexus will hear your call. I and all of my brothers and sisters will hear your call, and we’ll be stronger for it. We are not servants to some unknowable force in the universe that cares not whether we live or die. We all have our own fights, our own destinies to master and fulfill, but for once—just this once—let us join our voices as one and sing. Let us sing of [THE POSSIBLE]. Let us sing of victory!”

The warrior raised his voice, and his clenched fist along with it, high into the Caverns’ faintly glowing air.

“Victory!”

The Reiter Regiment were the first to answer, led from the front by their young general, as well as certain sensibilities shared by men of a certain age—especially those that contended with death as a matter of routine. The Warrior stands tall where his Enemies lie.

“Victory!”

The Apfel Alliance joined in, young and old, men and women, ice and fire. They too raised their fists into the air, grasping for a dream that now felt more within reach than ever.

“Victory! Victory! Victory!”

The cries—the song—of a thousand strong survivors rose and echoed against the cavernous walls of humanity’s last hiding hole. No. Their last Forward Operating Base. For this was where they would launch their final operation, the one that would finally and once and for all end the war—an operation that garnered the one codename that no human before them in and across all the Syntropy Wars had been brave, determined, and united enough to utter.

Operation Victory.

A hundred torches brightened the dayless night, as a thousand fists rose into the air that echoed with a million singing voices—past, present, and future. Amidst it all, a warrior stood as tall as his narrow frame would allow, eyes shining with far more than the blue that flickered all around him.

And amidst the growing blue of his allies’ song, the fading blackness within Zelen’s chest yet roiled, agitated by a gentle sorrow that was his and his alone.