~April 28th, 140 AH~
~Sector Capricorn, inside the Mothership~
Kingfisher swam into a Leviathan’s innards, against currents that rippled from the origin of nightmares, and toward the resting place of shared dreams.
His war—his race—had whittled down to its final moments: a final sprint at the end of an interminable marathon. He carried with him the fading strength of [ALLIANCE], voices that yet sang as one of victory. He held gratitude for his allies: the last, the best, and the bravest of warriors that had quelled an obsidian storm, clearing the path for Kingfisher to take his final dive into the Mothership’s innards. Most of all, he filled the hollow in his chest with hope, that much-needed ballast against the constant instability of a young Reiter’s Reserves.
For he needed all the Reserves he could spare. For he knew that this time would be different. That this iteration of the Mothership waited not with empty corridors nor beguiling darkness. That she meant to punish and annihilate all enemies who would deny her warrior his salvation.
Even if—and especially because—that enemy was the warrior himself.
Everything was different. Yet nothing had changed. In many ways, this final test felt to Zelen like his very first. A proto-Reiter proving his worth by conquering the Gauntlet, culminating in a Trial against his most feared examiner. This final dive-sprint-test now served as a warrior’s ultimate Gauntlet—to prove the worth of his dreams against the weight of stardust that had long turned to ash.
And as if to highlight the enormity of the occasion, this Mothership’s corridors were lit—dimly but surely by redly glowing [TEARS] that seeped from the walls and pooled upon the floors. Viscous, adhesive, and nourishing… like saps upon trees that once grew in realities far removed from this one. Even now, broken creatures both obsidian and ash-laden fed upon this sap, to be mended by [TEARS] that only knew the shape of what things ought to be… and not what they could.
The creatures rose and accosted Kingfisher as he committed to his Gauntlet. Some were readily familiar to a young Reiter that fought on in the Year 140 Anno Hominis. Others were entirely alien. Yet all emitted signals that echoed from a million failed and remembered realities.
The creatures rose, and Kingfisher fought—killed—them all. Even as hope ballasted his Reserves, he committed to his Gauntlet, his final mission. He would gladly turn killer one last time—cede autonomy to the loneliest and most violent of his remembered selves—if it meant that he could end the war. Right here. Right now.
A swarm of Hornets he set aflame with sprays of [FLAMMENWERFER]. A platoon of Brutuses he shredded with [CLUSTER LAUNCHER]. A hive of Vorases he flushed out with bursts of [GATLING]. And a wall of Kentavroses fell away to a sweeping [BARDICHE].
Then an Eidolon stood in his way, model ES-F to be exact, unmistakable for its muscular frame, brutish strength, and familiar charcoal-grey paintwork. Whether this was the Mothership’s unwitting trick or the ghost of his own tortured past, it made no difference to Kingfisher in the moment. He took to the task with the grim resolve of a seasoned killer, and finished the fight with a [MISERICORDE] dagger to the central chassis.
And this time, the kill meant something. Kingfisher’s chest ached and sang with memories and intents that were decidedly not nothing. He remembered the hard eyes and expansive smile of a tyrant—one of too many across a million realities. He remembered the tyrant and the War he'd fought in his own ways, and this recollection itself became another test amidst this final Gauntlet. For Kingfisher had something to prove… not just to himself but to all those who’d failed before him.
So, Kingfisher fought on. His enemies were many and varied like never before, straining a Reiter and his Eidolon to the limits of their loadouts and conventions. And Kingfisher broke through those limits. Rewrote his [POSSIBILITIES] into permanence in ways only he knew, at the end of a million and myriad more remembered wars.
[MISERICORDE] had been the fifth armament he’d mapped onto his Eidolon during this very battle. And Kingfisher continued to add, rotate, and create: switching loadouts at will to fit his most immediate needs.
A pair of ES-Vs folded at the ends of double [GLADIUS] extended to the sides like wings of death. Against an M-024, which wielded a pair of throwing blades Zelen had never seen, he ducked beneath the blades and dealt close-range death with [BLUNDERBUSS]. Then came a squadron of miniature Eidolons, as intrepid in attack as they were evasive in defense. Their flurries Kingfisher met with the absolute protection provided by [AEGIS], before crushing the lot of them with the impact-and-shockwave of [MJOLNIR].
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Everything he’d learned from dying a million and myriad more times. Everything he’d absorbed from watching others fight, kill, and die by his side. All that and more surged and fluxed through Zelen’s entire being, blending inextricably with the Nexus that empowered them. Here was Kingfisher at his last, best, and bravest. For he’d finally learned what it was to fight as one—not alone, but as the unbroken whole of all that he remembered, loved, and grieved for.
His ultimate test—the Trial—came in the form of anti-Eidolon unit ZT-∞, designation Vendetta. A svelte obsidian beast, the spitting image of an ES-V. This iteration of it also wore on its back a pair of glassen wings—butterfly wings. Whether they were the Mothership’s idle playthings or one last nightmare meant to extinguish a young Reiter’s Reserves, it made no difference to Kingfisher in the moment.
Even though the Vendetta had fed upon red [TEARS], the energy that fluxed from its obsidian frame was Nexus blue. The way things ought to be. The cruel juxtaposition toyed with Zelen’s ever-tenuous Psyche, but he nevertheless set to his task with the grim resolve of an old friend.
[SCUTUM] to meet [FUSILIER]. Quickthrust to dodge the point of [GUNGNIR]. Counter with [BOMBARDIER], only to be swept aside by a mighty gust, borne by a butterfly’s wings. This told Kingfisher that this Vendetta too had evolved, beyond limitations that had been but drawings upon sand. The way things could be… if they were determined enough to change their destiny.
Two destinies collided then. One of a selfish need to survive, to build, to love. The other of a naive need to save, to mend… and to love. Two unresolvable destinies collided in explosions of blue-on-blue. The Nexus didn’t discriminate. For it only knew to heed the calls of those who sang loudest.
The Vendetta’s mended [WINGS] swept through a dimly lit corridor, unleashing blue waves upon ashen sand. The ensuing flares of energy tore through the sinewed walls of the Mothership’s innards, thereby collapsing pathways and merging corridors on top of another.
Kingfisher suffered through the worst of it, as he lost his footing and balance to the shifting arena. The energy radiated through his person, as much as it’d stripped an Eidolon clean of its Armour. He felt it like rays of remembered sunlight, at once invigorating in its splendour and scorching in its menace.
Zelen steeled himself against the pain. He leaned anew into hope, the better for it to ballast his dwindling Reserves. For the first time since the Gauntlet began, Kingfisher had come face to face with the very real [POSSIBILITY] of death. At the same time, however, his desire and determination to live had never been stronger.
When next the Vendetta spread its [WINGS] again, Kingfisher was ready. Instead of trying to dodge, he engaged maximum forward thrust, simultaneously launching [HARPOON] from both shoulders.
Two spearpoints flew at speed and led an Eidolon by their ephemeral chains. The points of [HARPOON] skewered the Vendetta’s [WINGS] through their centres, thereby disrupting its second wave of energy. The energy then backfired as localized bursts of blue against an obsidian frame.
Kingfisher didn’t let up. He allowed the chains of [HARPOON] to extend fully, before pinning the Vendetta against a falling fragment of the Mothership’s innards. He then flew into the explosion, breaking through columns of blue light twisting against black smoke.
Gap-closer into melee finish. It was one of the very basic fundamentals of proto-Reiter training. Yet, it now graced the final manoeuvre of Kingfisher’s war, as he buried [MISERICORDE] deep into the Vendetta’s central chassis.
Zelen knew that no human sat nestled within the metallic prison of this mended Syntropy unit. All the same, he felt the give of flesh and life as his blade found and shattered the inner mechanisms of a synthetic warrior. He then held his SPU-mediated gaze upon the Vendetta’s monocular optic, as the last of its blue glow faded into nothingness.
No. It wasn’t nothing. He wouldn’t let it be. He would remember this fight, this kill, this death, as surely as he remembered again and again and again the final moments of a dear friend. He would remember it, and carry it with him into his next destination.
It was time. Two voices sang to the Nexus, and one rang louder and longer. Two destinies collided… then rose as one mote of stardust.
Kingfisher swam into a Leviathan’s core, past the nightmarish currents that had tried to pull him under, and toward the final reckoning of his remembered dreams.
The room at the end of the collapsed corridors was red. Redness was its one and only defining feature, glowing with uniform reflections from [TEARS] that had congealed upon its walls. The ‘Engine Core’ sat in the middle of this redness, and even its shape had changed and evolved. Mended to reflect the way things ought to have been.
A container. Grey, metallic, windowless, and roughly cylindrical. Adorned by bags, tubings, and pipes that made up its system of plumbing. Input. Output. Input. Output. Lies. Truth.
The last time Zelen saw a sustainment unit, its size had been modest enough to be a snug fit for a child or a very small adult. This time, it was enormous. So much so that it all but towered over his model ES-V. So much so that it blended seamlessly with the Mothership’s immensity and incomprehensibility.
No. There was nothing incomprehensible about the Mothership. Not anymore. For Zelen Athelstan of the Year 140 Anno Hominis saw and understood the purpose of every piece of obsidian metal that made up the Mothership’s innards. He saw, understood, and had been the source of her endless war.
It was time to put an end to that war. It was the finish line to an interminable marathon.
Hope rocked against gentle sorrow within the hollow of Zelen’s chest. He reached with a steady metallic hand, absent fear or hesitation, and pulled the handle.
That was how he opened the window into the most secret depths of Silon’s soul. And the first thing he saw therein was himself.