"Been a while since I've worn this thing," Boxer says of his combat gear. Unlike most of us, he's been wearing casual clothes throughout the vigil. In contrast to the greens and grays of most Dahl Legion armor, combat medics are white and red, so they stand out more in the frenzy of battle. He fills his bright red backpack with supplies. I toss him a wad of gauze when he asks for it.
"Been a while since I've seen any action," I grin, likely looking manic. Eyes still glowing, skin still a marbled purple mess, one of Boxer's messy braids hanging down my back, armor covered in all sorts of eridian relics. I am not recognizable as a Sergeant anymore, I lack the mass I used to have, the luster of the armor, the pins and badges. The relics mask what my uniform used to look like.
Boxer snorts, "A siege on Hyperion doesn't sound like action to me. What are they going to do? Fight back with spreadsheets?"
"I told you, things have changed. They've got a—"
"Yeah," Boxer waves a hand dismissively, "The Colonel won't stop talking about it. Maybe I'll change my mind when I see this giant space station for myself."
"We're about to do that. You done packing?"
"What? Is the entire Lost Legion waiting on me? Let me get my things. If I'm not packed, I won't be able to save your ass on the big, scary space station."
I chuckle and ask him if he wants my help. He opens his mouth to say something, reconsiders, and sets the bag aside. "Actually, Montauk I was thinking—"
A familiar calm hits my spine.
I turn. In the doorway of the infirmary is The Watcher. One arm extended towards me, holding something in its spindly fingers. Boxer is quiet as I walk around the cots and stacks of supplies, eyes locked on whatever The Watcher holds. Already I feel it tugging at my psyche. I'm drawn like a moth to a flame.
It is a mask. Made of the same material as the other relics. A smooth, ovaline shape, swelling where the brow bone and nose would be. Two holes for the eyes. Crownlike protrusions sprout from the forehead. I take it from The Watcher, slowly, delicately. It bows its head at me and glides out. There's already a leathery cord wrapped around it, making it easy to slip on and off.
Behind me, Boxer lets out a breath.
I feel stronger holding this mask. More connected to . . . everything. It's as if the stars are close enough to hear.
"What were you . . ." I tear my eyes from the mask and turn back to Boxer. "What were you going to say?"
Boxer shakes his head, gaze locked on the mask in my hands. "Doesn't matter," He mutters, going back to packing.
When we get to the surface, we are greeted by a different world. A massive H-shaped space station floats in front of Elpis. So large I can't see the bottom as it stretches out of view. Looks like it was plastered to the front of Elpis, an eye to watch over Pandora. The present has left us behind.
What remains of our fleet sits haphazardly on the rocks in staggered rows. A few of the fighter jets are missing. Hijacked or scrapped for parts, I can't tell. The remaining jets are covered in graffiti and a film of moon dust. The Colonel informs us that before we depart, each jet has to be cleaned. I would drag my feet and groan like the marines, but I can't deny how the routine makes me feel less chaotic. This is the kind of thing we would do before a mission back in the legions. The kind of thing I can handle. It doesn't change the fact that we've been living in the center of a moon for the last four years, protecting alien artifacts from being used to end the universe as we know it, and only now leave to stop a megacorporation from bringing the apocalypse, but it helps with the nerves.
Most people don't even blink at the mask around my neck. They're used to my obsession with eridians by now. A few others have started doing the same. Granted, they're all as sleep-deprived, starved, and purple as me, but it's nice to not be completely alone in my affliction.
I lose Boxer while we prep the jets. The rare times I catch sight of him he's in a large group, usually surrounded by the other combat medics. Sometimes I glance over at him to catch him watching me as well. I know he hates The Watcher, the vault, and all it's done to us. I want to apologize, but what will that do? I'm still changed, I'm still wearing the relics.
Am I in the wrong here? Have I completely lost myself? I can't remember what I looked like before all of this. Sometimes I stare down at her face in the locket. I know we look similar, I know we share the same genes and bone structure and hair and eyes, but I can't see it anymore. I'm something else. It's been years since I've seen myself and longer since I've seen her. How much has she changed?
If I think about her too long I can't focus. So I don't. I push her face to the back of my mind, tuck the locket into my gear, and keep working.
Once the fighter jets are primed, The Colonel divides us into groups, each to a jet, where we further divide into smaller teams. The marines buzz with excitement as we pile into the bay, pilots exchanging information over the coms.
As The Colonel's ship gains air, she activates the master com, voice crackling over our ECHOs. "Protect the vaults—to the last." This sentiment is echoed throughout the ship as we take off. I've missed this feeling. The vibrations of the ship, the hum of the lights, the drone of excited chatter. The feeling of connectedness as we all enter the fray.
Corena finds me through the crowd, not a difficult task, I stand out like a sore thumb. She takes the seat opposite me, not bothering to strap herself in as we won't even break orbit. Her armor is lighter than the marines'. Dark grey fatigues, sparse armor plates, and gloves. Tech embedded into the wrist guards tracks and suppresses the pulse for pinpoint-accurate shots. The helmet is a standard Dahl make and accented with purple specs. The goggles track pulse, heat signatures, calculate wind speed, among other things. If Dahl does anything right, it's war.
She pulls her helmet off, braids spilling out and down her shoulders, she grins. "I cannot wait to use this," She pats the Pitchfork, slung across her back.
"Where's Best?" I ask. The young Corporal has become her shadow; never are the two seen apart.
Corena looks off to the side as if she can see outside the hull. "With Bob and Zarpedon. Zarpedon is planning to use her power suit."
"I didn't even know she had one," I reply. That'll be a sight to see. I wonder if it was custom made.
Corena tilts her head at me, eyes lingering on the mask. "Is The Watcher coming?"
"Does The Colonel go anywhere without it?"
She nods, thinking. Something across the bay catches her eye and she beckons someone over with a wave of her hand. I turn to see Boxer. His eyes hit the mask before finding my face. I wince, but as he gets closer, his lips crack into the start of a smile, eyes sparking when they meet mine. He takes the seat next to Corena.
"It's nice to finally be out of that pit," I stretch my legs for emphasis, hoping to brush past the awkwardness from earlier.
Boxer laughs, "Easy for you knuckleheads to say. I barely remember how to use this thing." He pats the Res-Gun on his hip. It's standard-issue Dahl tech, like what we all carry. Exclusive to medics, though. It patches up wounds in seconds while providing small doses of adrenaline and steroids. It doesn't truly mend anything, per se, all it does is apply an immediate covering on wounds to get the grunts back in action. I've had a Res-Gun used on me in the past. Weird feeling.
"Hopefully you won't have to use it that much," I say.
"Gone soft?" Corena sneers.
I shrug, "I've had four years to reflect on my life as a puppet for Dahl's monopolization of war profiteering." It's mostly a joke.
"And. . .?" Boxer leans forward. He seems genuinely interested in my answer, unlike Corena, who absently tugs on one of the straps holding her shoulder plate on.
"And I dunno. Yeah, I'd rather not be a soldier to protect some ancient power from destroying the universe. But I'm not going to just abandon the Legion."
"That's always how it is," Corena drawls, "the battle between what you want to do, and what you must do."
Boxer looks unconvinced but he knows not to argue with Corena. I don't argue either—she has a point. I'd go mad with guilt if I left the Legion now. Heavy on the if. Something still draws me to protecting the vault the same way I'm drawn to the relics.