Full summary: Become a Handler, they said. It will be fun, they said.
No one mentioned anything about the so-called 'unmanned' drones being piloted by the Eighty-Six.
On one side, there was myself - a new Handler originally intent on having fun strategising and commandeering drones to pass the time until the Legion's deactivation. On the other were twenty Eighty-Six acting as my Processors, fighting for their lives everyday on the battlefield. It won't be quite what I expected, but trying to win a game with no established victory condition would at least be entertaining.
OC-centric story, initially set parallel to volume 1, and later converging onto the main plotline.
Haven't really tried OC-fiction before, but I liked the world of 86 enough to dabble around. Hope you enjoy!
I was starting to regret ever having signed up for command school to become a Handler.
There were three main types of people who bothered with a military career these days – the unemployed, the failed politicians, and those who had already been part of the chain of command prior to the outbreak of war.
"Hey, pig-blood!"
Well, there's still a fourth kind, I suppose, correcting my earlier thought. I didn't bother turning to face the one who had hurled that insult – all things considered, that was one of the tamer things I'd been called over the past few months.
"Pig-blood!" The annoyance repeated, deliberately forcing himself into view, dragging another crony of his along by the arm. "Feeing pig-headed today, Brandt?"
They snickered, jabbing each other in the side, as though still surprised by their inherent humour on the 73rd retelling of the same line. Might just be true, though – they hadn't exactly been particularly impressive in the way they conducted themselves in the farce of a course leading up to their appointment as officers. With the decline of interest into the Republic's military, standards were lax, and the proud mantle of command that had once allowed the secession of the Republic of San Magnolia from the Giadian Empire had since fallen into a truly pitiful state.
They, like myself, were fresh graduates from the Officer's Academy, an achievement that served more as an insult than an honour these days. Evidently, they already knew someone else who worked in this unfortunate line of employment – probably the one who recruited them in the first place – as an unfamiliar face I hadn't seen before joined them.
"So you're the famous pig-blooded Handler-to-be I've been hearing about." The unfamiliar man – Major, I recognised his rank – loomed closer, scrutinising me carefully. Judging my worth. "My boys here have been telling me a lot about you."
Once, I would have fumed at the insult. Once, I would have charged at all three of them – chances of victory be damned – and demand that they give an apology.
Nine years of hearing variations of the same set of inaccurate insults, however, sapped away at that indignation.
I shrugged. "It's true," I said. No point denying it. The records were freely available there. I injected boredom and vehemence in equal measure, hoping to sell the performance. "My idiot uncle went and married himself to an animal, bore an animal daughter, and went off to chase them in the Eighty-Sixth Sector, before promptly disappearing."
That must not have been the answer he wanted, because whatever inane insult of his own he had come up with died on his lips at my flat agreement with their sentiment.
"Tch," he spat, turning away. The other two narrowed their eyes at me, but followed after their leader. As they skulked off, I heard a snippet of their conversation.
"Now that one – that's a true animal lover." At the corner of my eye, I saw him point at a passing figure, who – unlike me – did not bother to acknowledge the jibe at all, save for a brief twitch. "Such a shame that Commodore Karlstahl could bear such a stain in his own family."
Hmm. Karlstahl, he said? That caught my interest – as I turned, I caught a brief glimpse of a girl's face, contorted with silent anger, just barely able to refrain from snapping back in rage. As she stomped off into the Handler's Wing, pointedly ignoring the trio, they continued dishing out their taunts.
"Did you cry again, little girl? Did another of your precious little piggies get a boo-boo?"
"So you're the famous new Spearhead Handler! Vladilena Milizé, right? Maybe you'll get those ones killed too, just like your previous Squadron!"
"Still playing with your dolls, princess?"
It was easy to read her, even for a stranger like me. Her hardened eyes glistened, clearly visible in the instant before she disappeared round the corner.
That had to be the legendary fifth type of people in the military. The ones who went against the grain, and who protested against the present state of affairs. The empathetic, and the naïve, and the idealistic.
That was most definitely not me.
Contrary to those who might have called me any variation of names ranging from 'pig-blooded' to 'swine-lover', I didn't belong to that group.
Only two types belonged there – the first were those, like Milizé, who had the right connections and backing behind them to avoid the worst repercussions that sympathy to the Eighty-Six could bring; the second were the ones like dear old uncle who carted himself off to the internment camps, voluntarily enlisted, and tried against all probability of success to find my aunt and cousin. He had probably changed his name, too – no matter how much I foolishly tried in the first three years after he had left, I had never found any word of him.
Nine years did plenty of things to impressionable children. Nine years spent living under my uncle's legacy. Nine years of realising that even without the Colorata in San Magnolian society, life went on as usual. In some ways, I had to thank my uncle – it was his absence that finally allowed me to give up on the last shackles of my past, leave the memories of all the Colorata friends I knew where they belonged, and step into the new future of the Republic.
Nine years growing up in the state-sponsored orphanage for the colloquial 'pig-blooded'; pitiable little Alba orphans who were seen as having their family line tainted by Colorata in their extended family. It was a brilliant political move by the one who had come up with the scheme, appealing both to hatred directed at the Colorata and the masses' heartstrings.
Within the first year, I already learned that life was inherently unfair, and that attempting to change the system was pointless. I was but one man – a child, even, at the time – and deduced that the winning strategy was to follow as the majority willed. There had been movements to reverse the Special Wartime Peace Preservation Act, but those had mostly fizzled out within the first six months of the war.
The one time I had spoken out on behalf of the Eighty-Six and struck out against the playground bully – apparently fracturing his arm in the process, though I'd never seen his face again – I had been suspended from school, had been forced to attend the farce that was the social rehabilitation programme. That hadn't been enough, however, so I had been slapped with a lifelong ban on the only constant comfort that had been left in the full monotony that was life after the Legion's assault.
I learnt quickly that the only way to win was to not play.
Sure, I had Colorata friends, once. The moment they left to the camps, I never heard any word from them ever again. There was no sense in thinking about the past. It would change nothing. As with all things, one had to adapt.
Fighting back was fruitless. Going against the flow was pointless. Here, within the Republic, just as it was in the unseen war against the Legion, numbers were king. Stick to what the majority dictated was right, and there would be no problems.
It was the winning strategy, and I'd be a fool not to capitalise on it.
I was good at games.
It was why I was here, having graduated from the useless slog that was Command School, in the hopes of becoming a Handler. I was the sixth type of Handler.
As of yesterday, I was now Lieutenant Spencer Brandt. Former so-called child prodigy for all that meant in an outskirt city that housed only a little number of people; and now alternatively called one of several hundred derogatory terms I was convinced could be procedurally generated within a few set permutations.
I loved games. Chess, tag, checkers, Conquest, Siege, shogi, King of the Hill, Armada, and more recently, Legionbreak – I was good at them all.
For a time, anyway. It was hard to know where I stood, since only undisputed citizens of strong moral character were ever allowed to participate in tournaments anymore, and my little indiscretions those years ago had segregated me from that group. Besides, what with all contact being lost from the rest of the world, the competition pool wasn't exactly that intense either.
Still, even without active play, I had kept my skills sharp. There wasn't much else to do when everyone kept you at arms' length for being pig-blooded.
I had chosen to work toward becoming a Handler on a whim, really. Controlling unmanned drones sounded like good fun – if I couldn't move pieces on a chessboard against a serious opponent that wasn't myself, then I might as well kill two birds with one stone, and make it seem like I was being a productive Alba citizen while having fun finding maximally efficient strategies of blowing up the Legion to bits. If there was one thing I appreciated more than a well-designed game, it was the thrill that came with winning.
Unfortunately, it had all been a scam, as I'd come to learn in Command School. Turns out, the Eighty-Six weren't all just in internment camps, and the drones weren't quite as unmanned as the propaganda's vernacular would lead one to believe. Were I a better man, and had I the ability to fight for more than just myself, I might have shed a tear.
But a job was a job, and even though the game was horribly rigged, I could still try and derive some enjoyment out of this. Trying to get the Eighty-Six out there beyond the Gran Mur to listen to my instructions would be a handicap of sorts, I had convinced myself.
It was no fun to do as the unpleasant trio I came across earlier obvious did – deliberately ruining what was already horrible odds and calling that a victory was stupid. What would bring the biggest thrill would be emerging victorious with minimal losses, despite the fact that both most of my peers and the people soon under my command would jump at the chance to smother me in my sleep if ever allowed to do so.
And so, like a good little Handler, I made my way to my designated room, activated the console, put on my collar, and readied myself for the game to begin. I had already studied the personnel files given unto me – this Squadron was newly reformed, created from both fresh recruits and the scattered remnants of twelve other Squadrons that had been on the brink of annihilation.
The oldest was my age – seventeen – and the youngest was but eleven. The area under their jurisdiction didn't see as much Legion activity as those off to the east, but I already had enough of a handicap as it was.
"Para-RAID – activate. Confirming Resonance targets – all Processors of the Northern Front's Second Ward's Third Defensive Squadron."
A Processor could not reject an incoming Resonance from their Handler, while the same did not hold true for the converse. Though they would likely have loved nothing more than to disconnect the transmission, alas, today they had to deal with me.
"Handler One to all Processors," I spoke, going as protocol dictated. "I hope you're adjusting to the formation of your new roster. We will now commence with standard Resonance calibration and roll call."
There was only one Name Bearer among them. Beyond Starfall, only two others had seen more than a year of combat. Three were straight up fresh from the internment camps.
Not a good hand – but the most elegant games came from turning unwinnable situations around.
"Starfall."
"… Starfall to Handler One; affirmative. Resonance is loud and clear," she forced out, clearly unwilling. I carried on nonetheless.
"A-2."
"… acknowledged."
"A-3."
"Yes."
On and on it went, until at last it reached E-4. I had no idea who had pooled together this current roster, but as far as I could tell, there was no pattern to its composition.
"Good afternoon, Third Squadron. I look forward to working with you," I continued. "Now, I do not have any sorties assigned to your Squadron yet, but for the sake of our continued cooperation in future missions, I would like to take a brief stock of your current skillsets and expertise. I only have access to your personnel files, but –"
"Go fuck yourself, Handler One."
B-3, a thirteen-year-old boy, spoke up, his voice twisted with rage and grief. Pretty easy to guess why – he was one of the two survivors of his Squadron after a sortie gone horribly wrong just yesterday, and the other had been posted somewhere else.
The Para-RAID was silent for a moment, and all I felt was the sheer rage coming from a single Processor on the other end of the link. Heavy breathing, zero regret.
I'd give him points for effort, although he was rather unimaginative. It wouldn't rank among even the top five hundred insults I'd been subjected to by my dear old fellow Alba.
"I shall pretend I didn't hear that, although I will point out for future reference that under Section 34, subsection 5-A, clause 3 of the Special Wartime Peace Preservation Act, Processors are strictly disallowed from disobeying or demonstrating any form of contempt for the Handler assigned unto them."
I suspected that I was the only one who bothered reading that document – made available only to those who knew the truth of the Republic's drones, of course – and if I wasn't, then I was the only one who ever brought it up. One had to know the rules of the game before playing, after all.
"Or what? You'll kill us?" He barked out a laugh. "Come on, then! Do it!"
I made a note on my file for B-3. Anger issues. Spirited. Swayed by emotion.
"What is it? No balls? Is the little white piggy scared of us subhuman Eighty-Six?"
Insults need further work, I added on.
"You think I'm scared of you?" he taunted, and now, I could hear some faint unease from his fellow Processors, as his tirade drew on. "Well, I'm not! I won't listen to your stupid orders, or hear your stupid voice! I'll fight the Legion myself!"
Potentially suicidal? Irrational?
One thing for sure was this – I was going to have a hell of a rough time trying to get him in line. First impressions – considering that he had all of six weeks of combat, appealing to his senses did not seem worth the effort, not when there were more valuable members in the team.
I shrugged – not much good that gesture did, though. "Done?
"Done?!" I could picture him frothing with rage.
"Way I see it, you have two choices. The first – humour me and follow through with my requests. The second – I turn it into an order, and under the Special Wartime Peace Preservation Act, should any Processor under my charge fail to comply, I am allowed by martial law to enforce my command with sanctions and penalties of progressive severity."
I had been thorough with reading the damned Act. Picturing it as just another rulebook helped.
"Screw you! Here's what I think of you damned white pigs!"
With that, I had the distinct sensation of B-3 shutting off the Para-RAID line on his side. I frowned. I'd expected things to go badly, but not by this much.
"Starfall to Handler One."
Perhaps cooler heads could prevail? She breathed in deeply –
"… go screw yourself."
– and promptly disconnected from the call. One by one, the others followed suit.
Well, that would not do.
I was good at games – which made me a horribly sore loser.
"Activate. Synchronisation target – Third Squadron Processors."
They could not turn down the Resonance – only disconnect from it once already initiated. I had taken that into account from the rulebook.
"Handler One to all Processors," I said, still calm. "Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot, and maybe I failed to properly clarify myself. My intention is to provide maximum tactical effectiveness out in the field, and in order to do that, I need to first understand your respective strengths and weaknesses, and –"
"Screw you!"
Again, they disconnected.
I sighed. "Activate. Synchronisation target – Third Squadron Processors."
This was starting to become a mouthful. One of these days, I would need to see if there might be a way to get a shortcut made.
"– and correct any deficiencies that might be present, and well as create functional divisions within your organisational structure to –"
…
"Synchronisation target – Third Squadron Processors."
Third time was the charm. At least this time, I managed to finish my sentence.
"- to be able to independently function in modular units, as well as allow for specialisation of tasks best suited for each of you."
A-2, one of the veterans, laughed mockingly. "You're full of hot shit, aren't you, Handler One?" he taunted. "What, did you go to officer's school and think you know all about how to fight the Legion? Have you even seen an Ameise in person, never mind a Löwe?"
Fair point.
"Not in the slightest."
I would need to get that corrected soon, but the bigwigs at Headquarters were being obtusely stubborn. I knew descriptions of what they could do, as well as reconstructed what I thought they might be capable of from battle data I had seen in the Handler database – but there was nothing that made one appreciate what a piece could do until experiencing it firsthand.
Still, at least I was going to finally start working on correcting one small part of that deficiency in the evening.
"You're one arrogant bastard, aren't you?" A-2 said, and I could picture the sneer on his face.
"So I've been told. Give me a self-assessment of your own skills, and we can all move on with our day."
They must have sensed that I was fully willing to be one hell of a stubborn ass, because they finally complied.
Starfall – as her name suggested – favoured the use of artillery and long-range options of the Juggernaut, limited in number though the actual options may be. A-2 and A-3 had both previously been in the same unit, working as vanguard and fire support recently.
Of the rest, they had such a smidgeon of skills between them, that I simply made a note to try and discover what each of them were capable of in our first actual mission. The three fresh-faced recruits hadn't even been on the inside of a Juggernaut just yet.
Beyond just their skills, however, this was an attempt to get an initial read at their personalities. Some – particularly those who were newly recruited, or who had recently suffered terrifying defeats from the Legion – were downright terrified as I spoke, and I didn't know whether to feel flattered or insulted. Others, such as B-3, would clearly prove difficult to command.
Some others yet, however, were resigned to their fates as Processors – passive, like myself– and I knew that if I wanted to drive a wedge inside their structure and at least be able to influence the movements of the pieces I had for the upcoming games, they were the ones I most needed to influence.
"Satisfied now?" C-2 commented sarcastically. I had him pegged in the third set. "Well, Handler One, have a good day. Try not to let the Legion bite."
"Third Squadron, you are to now begin practicing drills inside your Juggernauts. I understand that some of you may be dealing with grief, but prevention of further grief will come with the right preparation before a battle occurs. Starfall, A-2, A-3; you three get E-2, E-3, and E-4 up to speed. There are no incoming Legion targets sighted and Einstagfliege jamming is minimal. Proceed to Area 112. You will undergo free practice, and I will then discern which areas require improvement."
There was a moment of stunned disbelief. Then –
"Screw you!"
"That is an order, Third Squadron. I will not hesitate to file a report for the appropriate punishment for insubordination."
"Here's what I think of your orders, Handler One!"
B-2 disconnected. B-3 did likewise. Starfall stayed for a moment longer, only to deliver a single scathing remark, loathing dripping in her words.
"Handler One," she said. "You are by far the most arrogant, and most useless Handler I have ever had the displeasure of knowing. You Alba call us pigs, but Handlers like you make me question whether you're even human. Contact us only if there's an actual mission. Otherwise, screw off."
Few remained on the Para-RAID. Mostly the greenhorns, who didn't know what my fellow Handlers' threats amounted to, and two of the more curious and/or resigned ones among the bunch.
I had expected failure, of course.
"… very well, then. All remaining Processors, please make sure that E-2, E-3, and E-4 are taught the basics of Juggernaut control. Don't say I didn't give ample warning."
I disconnected from the link.
I liked games. This was just another horribly rigged one, almost as if chess had pieces that had minds of their own, and who actively and unpredictably defied the player's moves, and if every single piece save one or two were all pawns.
That being said, I would proudly admit to being a sore loser.
And so, I shook my head, and began to head down the route of plan B. Few knew this option existed, and fewer still bothered acting on it.
Should a Processor defy their superior, one was well within their rights to fire a warning shot with the interception cannons in the vicinity of their home base. The problem was that requisitioning this required filing a thirty-page report, filled with bureaucratic and legal nonsense, at an administrative building two hours away. It was stupid that even that was easier than using the cannons to fire at an actual Legion target – procuring the firing codes was legally impossible in that instance, actually – but that was the way that the rules were written. I loved a good old-fashioned rule-break, but this was beyond even me.
Few Handlers with malicious intentions would bother with what I now intended to do because of the sheer inconvenience involved, and many of those that knewof the option's existence were those bleeding heart-on-sleeve types who wouldn't want to invoke it in the first place.
Unfortunately for Third Squadron, they had me.
And with that, I got to work. Thirty pages of writing was nothing compared to the thrill of winning.
-x-x-x-
Althea Teresi grimaced, awkwardly trying to console little Leopold, who still looked white as a sheet.
"Leo," she spoke gently, trying to be as comforting as she could. "It's going to be alright, okay? Your new big brothers and sisters are going to look after you."
At those words, he tensed – and bawled even harder. Silently, she cursed. Those had been poor choice of words.
They all went through this at some point or another. She remembered the first day as a Processor. Without any training whatsoever, she had been forced to pilot one of the moving coffins that were the Juggernauts. Leo's brother had just lost his life, and now he was the next in his family to be hauled out of the camps and into the Eighty-Six's weeding grounds.
She was herself now in her third year as a Processor, having just recently taken up the Personal Name of Starfall. It would have been an honour, had it not been for the facts that the title was absolutely meaningless, and that the only reason she had been given it was because she had finally killed enough Legion to earn it after emerging as one of the three survivors of her squadron in the most desperate battle of her life.
The others were trying to once more make sense of their lives. It was a familiar experience for her – already, this would be the fifth squadron she was rotated to, each of her previous teams having slowly been whittled down by the Legion until they could no longer function. At least Tien and Sonia had apparently been part of the same Squadron before, and were now attempting to help their team come together as one.
"The – the Handler," Leo forced out between gasps as he cried. "He said he would punish us if we didn't do what he wanted! I… I need to learn how to pilot the Juggernaut, if not –"
"Don't worry about that white pig," she said, unable to control the coldness entering her voice. "We won't let him hurt you. Besides, no matter what the Handlers say, they can't do anything to hurt us other than with their words. You just try and hang out with everyone, and once you are ready, your big brothers and sisters can show you how to use it, okay?"
"I – I don't want anyone to get hurt because of me…" he spoke, eyes averted from her, so softly that it was just barely audible.
Damn that new Handler of theirs. Of the five unfortunate ones that had been attached to her previous squadrons, all they did was throw insults and jeers at them or mislead them with inaccurate information, but beyond that they were simply arrogant and miserable white pigs. This new Handler was a power-hungry and twisted maniac – since when did any Processor even have the luxury of time to engage in drills? They fought on the front lines day after day, tirelessly, engaging in patrols and sorties. They had neither time nor energy to be drilling if it meant being so tired that they couldn't fight properly in battle when it actually mattered.
Thankfully, he finally got the message to kindly screw off to whichever unholy cesspit he crawled out of, because after the fifth time that his Resonance was immediately terminated, he hadn't returned. Now already several hours later, they had just finished the synthesised garbage the Alba's called lunch.
A pity that he would remain as their Handler, and try to interject or show off how smart he thought he was during their future missions. She would much rather the previous one, even though all he did was curse at them, laugh with glee as each of her precious friends died, and cheered the Legion drones on in every battle. What they had now was a new breed of ego-hungry monster.
She suppressed her indignation, slowly loosening her clenched fists. "You just focus on being in Third Squadron, okay?" She glanced to the side, where Tien and Sonia were now trying to draw Petra and Raphael into the conversation with the rest of their new team. "Come on! Come make some friends with big sister Althea!"
She was the one with the most experience in this team, but she didn't really know how to lead. Her survival thus far had been more a matter of luck, since she had always been placed in the rear to provide artillery support with her excellent aim.
The truth was this – she was scared right now. She had been second-in-command in her previous Squadron, but at least that meant she didn't have to make the big decisions. Now, as the only Name Bearer, she had unanimously been nominated by her team as their leader, despite all her protests. In the field, they would listen to her orders.
She didn't show it, but she was shaking in her boots. Her? Lead?
It was laughable.
Still, she had to keep up pretences. Her team was depending on her. Eden had lashed out against the Handler, but in truth, he was deathly afraid of dying just as the members of his previous squadron had. If they saw her panicking, their resolve would suffer, and that would be far worse than any tactical mistake she could make out in the field.
"Well, how about we have our new captain kick-start the introductions? Name Bearers start first; it's tradition!"
She forced herself out of those thoughts. She needed to focus. Tien had scooted over to make room for Leo, and now they were seated at the table in the common area, ready to begin their first real meeting as a new squadron. Leo, Petra, and Raphael, as well as some of those who hadn't yet had much experience in battle, were looking at her with awe, as though being labelled 'Starfall' meant anything at all.
She hated that. Hated how she was being given respect she hadn't earned. Hated how she had to pretend it was perfectly normal; hated how she couldn't admit that she was bloody terrified of what the future now held for them.
"Well, you already know my name's Althea Teresi, and that my Personal Name is Starfall," she began saying. "I've been a Processor for three years now, and I'm sixteen years' old. My parents were both Heliodors, and we lived further north before the Legion attacked –"
On and on she spoke, introducing herself, noting the laughs and smiles on the faces of her peers, but it did nothing to quell that fear she felt. Firing at Legion drones; pelting them with explosive shells or sniping them from afar – she could do all that. Back as a child, she'd always been known as the best shot among the city block's children no matter what game it was that they played. Those skills had been retained and translated over the years – but for all her experience, she could not bear the thought that lives now rested on her shoulder.
How could all the Alba Handlers possibly call themselves human, when they cycled through squadron after squadron, listening over the Para-RAID to dozens of their Processor's dying moments and feeling no emotion except for glee?
Half-heartedly, she listened to Sonia begin her own introduction, now that she was finished. She had to learn, and learn quickly. As she glanced aside, she saw Leopold, Petra, and Raphael – the three of them looking so small and fragile – and knew that she had to do everything in her power to keep all twenty members of her new Squadron safe.