A/N: Hi all! First post in a while-for which I make no apologies. My writing brain needed a break, and I took it. That said, I'm stoked to finally be adding this AU. I originally planned on making this into a large one-shot. But by the popular vote on Twitter, I changed to make it a small chapter fic so I could release a bit sooner.
Anyway, this piece is inspired by the lovely SocNau, whose "Special Force" artwork can be found on Twitter under her handles artsquirrelb and alt_squirrelb. She has lots of other spectacular pieces, too. Check her out on Twitter if you haven't already!
The gist of the concept: Rex & gang are living in the Land of Morytha before it sank beneath the Cloud Sea, with major dystopic/apocalyptic vibes. Instead of Blades, they have modern-ish weapons.
A few other notes before we dive in. There will be several little easter eggs throughout giving nods to a few other games/shows. So if you think I'm alluding to something else, I probably am. And last but not least, the Torna gang and the Drivers from the main game are both present in the same timeline. I thought it would be fun to explore them together a bit. Not a ton, but somewhat.
Anyway, hope you enjoy!
Where We Used to Be
Chapter 1: Disappearing World
Everyone called it the Calamity.
An ironic title, really. After all, the true calamity occurred more than a decade before Klaus even touched the Conduit: people squabbling over copyrights and medical patents and technological equipment, tearing themselves and their cities apart in a mad quest for immortality. The experiments went horribly wrong.
Containing and subduing the failed results of those experiments for further study—that was the job of the Special Force. Or at least it had been until the Calamity.
But then Klaus's Conduit experiment literally ripped the world apart. Entire counties vanished, flung into the nether regions of space. Maybe even into other dimensions. Somehow, by sheer dumb luck or an anomaly of physics, their small collection of city-states survived, as if the blast hadn't tossed them as far as everything else. Not that they hadn't sustained heavy damage in the crash. Entire skyscrapers lay toppled. The power grid was unreliable at best. Strange energy anomalies surged through the air unchecked. Their hydrokinetic power plants lay dormant, too; a mysterious mass of clouds had replaced the ocean. Somehow, they could still sail through it. But if this "cloud sea" had any energy potential, no one knew it yet.
For now, however, the Special Force had a far more difficult task than simply containing a group of autonomous cybernetic organisms.
"We lost sector 17 yesterday," Hugo said grimly.
Addam scowled and marked off the section with a red marker. Yet another giant X on the map. A life-or-death match of tic-tac-toe. And the X's were winning.
"That's two this week."
"Thankfully, we evacuated that area last month. But it had two working greenhouses. We're running out of places to grow food."
We're running out of mouths to eat that food, too, Addam thought. But he kept it to himself.
"How much longer do we have?"
Hugo frowned again. "It's impossible to know for sure. But given the current rate of decay, combined with the structural integrity of our primary landmass, I'd estimate...two months. Maybe three."
Addam felt as though someone had just turned his heart into a gong and tolled a death-knell against it. Two months. Eight weeks before the land under their feet sank beneath the clouds forever.
Fifty-six days until they all died.
"I think we have to try for the S.S. Elysium, then."
The S.S. Elysium—a large naval vessel that had fallen onto the mainland during the Calamity. Lora, one of their best scouts, discovered it one afternoon while rappelling down one of the region's few intact skyscrapers. During the crash, the ship must have wedged itself between two buildings. That in itself wasn't the issue; they confirmed that the vessel was one of those hybrid types that could traverse both air and water. It was one of the old military's best technological advances just before the world went to shit. So in theory, they ought to have been able to go inside the ship, start it up, and fly it to search for additional land. But it needed repairs. The good news? They knew which repairs were needed. The bad news? It required a specific catalytic converter that precious few of their salvage-mechanics knew how to install. And the parts would have to be carried in on foot.
And the worst news: the area was completely infested with Guldo. It could aptly be called their nest.
"Do you really think the boy can get it to work?" Addam asked.
Hugo nodded. "He's better at tinkering than I am. If anyone can salvage the engine, it's Rex."
"Then let's strategize, shall we?"
"Get your grubby, greasy paws off my potato salad, metal head!"
"OUCH!" Rex cried. "Nia, it wasn't me! I swear! Blame Tora!"
"It not Tora's fault that cook hate all Nopon! Tora never get enough food in cafeteria line, meh."
"Tora, it's not that they hate you. It's just that people aren't used to Nopons yet."
Rex's voice was eager and empathetic—albeit a bit naive. Most people (the cafeteria lady included) didn't trust the Nopon, not even the scarce few enlisted in the Special Force. On one hand, that distrust was understandable. After all, the Nopons had been created from some weird experiment by the Conduit Project a decade ago. Born from test tubes, as the story went. They hadn't joined human society until after the Calamity; presumably, the crash destroyed the lab where they were "contained." Eventually the survivors must have found their way to the Special Force's encampment. Some, like Tora, proved their usefulness. He boasted surprising proficiency with a hand cannon and an uncanny understanding of robotics—indispensable talents. But despite everything he accomplished so far, people seemed wary around him and the other Nopon.
People were wary around those like Nia, but less so. The Gormotti—why the Conduit Project named them that was anybody's guess—were one of the earlier experiments of the Project, back when they were busy fusing human DNA with other data in desperate attempts to increase the longevity of the human race. But unlike the Guldo, the cat-like people were regarded as a partial success. They were nimble, had keen eyesight, and functioned better at night than most humans. So the Conduit Project released them into society far sooner than the Nopon. Between longer exposure and more human features, the Gormotti suffered less distrust. But neither race was on the "favored friends" list for most members of the Special Force.
Rex, however, was the exception. He befriended everyone with nary a thought for their reputation. And Tora and Nia stuck to him like glue. A lot of people did, really. After all, his optimism was contagious. And well-founded or not, they all craved that positivity. With the ground threatening to collapse under their very feet, hope was exceedingly hard to come by.
"Look, Tora. If you're still hungry, say so. I'll get you more," Rex volunteered. "Just don't go stealing it from Nia."
"You can have some of mine, Tora!" someone offered.
The voice was warm, alto in tone but somehow soft like a hug. They all knew who it was without looking. Lora pulled her plasma whip off her belt and set it on the bench beside her; her long kodachi stayed sheathed on her back. It was an almost comically large sword, but Lora wielded it with surprising skill. Everyone knew she was even more deadly with her plasma whip, though. The whip was the closest she came to long-range combat styles. Between it and her kodachi, she stuck with melee styles.
Lots of Special Force veterans said it was a foolish approach. After all, most cadets kept a mix of long- and short-range weapons. Tora had his flame cannon. Nia shot lightning-fast with two pistols; a collection of daggers got her out of tight spots. Rex favored a shotgun, but he handled himself equally well with his shortsword. Only the most confident fighters used melee weapons exclusively. After all, Guldos could only copy and mimic elemental attacks—a phenomenon they were only just beginning to understand—if their opponent stood closeby. So most soldiers opted to shoot them from a distance instead. Granted, swords and whips were far more effective at damaging the Guldo. But "better safe than sorry" won out in most fights. Even Hugo and Addam, the oldest members of the Force, kept both a sword and a gun or two in their daily arsenal. Lora was one of two people who had the guts to fight the Guldo head-on. Mòrag was the other. It worked out rather well that they were roommates.
The redheaded woman sat down beside the Nopon and slid a few of her sausages onto his plate. "Eat up!" she said cheerfully.
Tora's eyes lit up with disbelief. "Lora-Lora most generous! Tora indebted for life!"
Lora simply smiled in return, patting the tuft of hair-like feathers (or maybe it was feather-like hair) on top of his head.
"Say, Lora. Where's Mòrag?" Rex asked. "I thought you two were on patrol today."
"Assignments got swapped. Mòrag and Zeke had patrols this morning. I'm working this afternoon instead. They want me to teach Lyta the basics of climbing and rappelling today. They're training her to be a scout."
Nia frowned. "Isn't she awful young to be a scout?" Not that Nia had much right to criticize young soldiers.
"I suppose. But I'm the only scout left right now. And they want someone else to know the ropes in case, well...you know."
She didn't need to finish that statement; after all, they'd all resigned themselves to the fact that death lurked around every corner. But life went on if someone "snuffed it," as Nia put it. If one person died, the Special Force would find someone else to fill their gap, like interchangeable cogs in a machine. A bit cold, perhaps, but a necessity.
And training young recruits wasn't unheard of for the Special Force either, Lora thought. Just last year, Addam lowered the minimum age to thirteen. And Tora, Nia, and Rex were all only a few years over that threshold. She herself had a bit of a soft spot for their youngest members. Stepping up to help the greater good at such a tender age…she envied their courage. So she did what she could to keep their spirits up—even if that meant losing a sausage or two.
"Rex, have you done your shift yet today?" Lora asked.
"Nope! I'm going out on a salvaging run today. Addam said there's still some scrap in the rubble at the Ontos district. So I'm going to check it out. Should find some decent parts or something. I'm going to try to augment my sword with any spare parts the Force doesn't need."
His voice was excited, as if the Ontos sector didn't sit two blocks away from the edge of the Guldo's territory. She opened her mouth to warn him to be cautious.
Nia cut her off. "Relax, Lora. I'm his assigned buddy. I'll keep his rusty arse safe."
Lora nodded. At least Addam strictly enforced the policy that no one went off base alone (with the exception of scouting, although that was discouraged whenever possible). Safety in numbers was especially important for their younger members.
"I'd be fine on my own," Rex insisted.
"Rex-Rex not safe on his own," Tora interjected. "Gets tunnel vision when hunting for scrap."
"Oi, I don't need a babysitter!"
That launched into a near-heated argument about Rex's safety practices in the field. Nia only had to recite four or five of his most recent visits to the medical tent before he gave up the fight. But to prove her own point, she continued. The scrap hunter was always getting himself into messes. Lora simply shook her head and kept eating.
Teaching Lyta wouldn't be too bad, she hoped. Maybe she'd even have some time to go scouting afterwards. She didn't particularly enjoy exploring the ruined skyscrapers by herself, but…She needed closure. She'd long since given up hope that Rynea would still be alive. But despite hundreds of scouting missions—those conveniently allowed her to look for clues simultaneously—Lora had yet to find anything that remained from her life before the Calamity. Not a single lock of hair. No trinkets. Not even the shell of their former apartment. If she could just find a piece, something to hold on to, she could move on. The pain of not knowing for sure ached. So did the stupid, childish hopes that Rynea had survived. She knew better than to hope, but her brain kept entertaining the possibility.
So she kept rappelling down the sides of buildings and climbing her way through rubble in hopes that today—of all days—would be the day she finally spotted some clue. At least in the meantime, she could help the Special Force find new materials, keep track of the land mass's decay, monitor the Guldo's movements, and more.
Her mind kept jumping back to the memory of that ship she'd found a few months ago. Something about Hugo and Addam's expressions when she reported it made her hair stand on end. Just what did they intend to do with it? They had slapped her with a gag order right after she found it. As for why—maybe they didn't want any civilians to get any nutty ideas and try to scrap the ship for parts? Some snuck out and braved the Guldo threat. They usually sold the pieces they found on Morytha's budding black market. But the more she thought about it, the more that seemed an unlikely reason.
A tap on the shoulder pulled Lora from her daydreams.
"Lora. Ma'am, you're wanted at command. Master Addam asked for you to join him immediately."
Everyone at the table stared at her; Addam usually came to speak with people and issue his orders face-to-face. He insisted that a good leader kept up morale by being "in the thick of things" and "not being a suit in the corner office." Lora had never quite understood what he meant by that. Some old leadership lingo from before the Calamity, maybe? She nodded and wiped some of the Tricolor sauce from her chin. If Addam was summoning her instead of coming here himself, it had to be urgent.
"I'll be right there."
A knot formed in the pit of her stomach the moment she entered the command room, and she doubted it was her daily rations. Everyone was already there, it seemed; Zeke and Mòrag must have gotten their summons when they re-entered base after their patrol. They both looked tired, but not the sort of exhaustion that came from fighting. So they hadn't fought with any Guldo. But for some reason, that didn't reassure her. Judging by their expressions, they knew as much as she did.
Addam cleared his throat the moment the door shut behind her. He didn't bother with any pleasantries.
"Mòrag. Zeke. Lora," he began. "Do you stand by your vows as soldiers to do whatever it takes to help humanity survive? Would you give your lives if you had to?"
The three soldiers looked at each other, all questioning if this was another one of Addam's overdramatic narrations. He tended to exaggerate at times. But the stern expression never faded from his brows. All business this time.
Mòrag spoke first. "Of course, sir."
Addam gave an approving nod before turning to Zeke and Lora again. Lora nodded hastily.
"I mean, the goal's not to kick the bucket," Zeke began. "But if I have to die, I'm going to go down fighting, yeah? Why do you ask?"
Hugo shook his head at Zeke's informality. But if he had a lecture to give, he kept it to himself.
"You three are here because you are the best soldiers the Special Force has to offer. And now humanity is in dire need of your skills," Hugo began. "Morytha is crumbling. That in itself is no secret, but I'm afraid the decay is far worse than our public reports have indicated. We likely have two or three months before our entire city sinks beneath these clouds."
An awful hush ran swept over the room. They all faced the threat of death every day. But to hear that death was now so imminent made them feel sick to their stomachs. And at least they could do something about the Guldo. But the ground beneath their feet melting away? That left them helpless.
Addam picked up where Hugo left off. "We have one last chance at survival. It's a slim one, and the odds are stacked against us. But we have to try. A few weeks ago, near the Genome Center, Lora discovered a grounded ship, the S.S. Elysium. It's mostly intact, but it's unflyable without the proper repairs. It's our hope that Rex can repair it. But we have to get him there first.
"That's where you three come in. On this mission, it'll be your job to protect Rex. Get him through to the Elysium. Protect him while he repairs the ship at all costs. And then help him bring the ship back here. Those are your orders."
The three soldiers stood silent for a while, thinking about the assignment they'd just been given. No one had to tell them how many Guldos stood between them and the ship. They knew. And the thought made all three swallow hard. Sending just four soldiers in there was a gamble. The group might prove small enough to slip through undetected. But if they drew the attention of the Guldo lurking in the streets, the expedition would quickly turn into a suicide mission with so few soldiers.
It was Lora who spoke first. "And what happens when we have the vessel?"
"We load it with all our remaining fuel stores. Then we get everyone on board and sail until we find more land. Or until we run out of fuel. Whichever comes first."
"Then there's a crummy chance of surviving even if we do succeed," Zeke pointed out.
"By our estimates, we have enough fuel to fly for about four months. We won't last even that long if we stay here. Maybe we'll get lucky. After all, we don't have any reason to believe that ours is the only landmass to survive. Surely there are others out there."
"We ought to at least try," Lora added.
"Mòrag, you're being very quiet," Hugo said. "Care to share what's on your mind?"
"I'm familiar with the class of ship that the S.S. Elysium belongs to," she began, her voice filled with dread. "My father had one in his private fleet. It's a class four amphibious frigate. That's a highly versatile, maneuverable vessel. But one thing it lacks is a large cargo hold. I'm quite familiar with how much space there is on deck. Addam, our fuel tanks are six cubic feet each, are they not?"
"Yes."
The leader of the Special Force lowered his gaze; he knew exactly what Mòrag was driving at. As a politician's daughter—and cousin to Hugo, one of the military's best—she grew up around military-class ships. If anyone knew the nuances of obscure military ships, she did. A second later, Zeke made his own pained expression, having finished the mental math. His calculations didn't yield a promising answer.
"If we take all the fuel stores we have, there won't be enough room left onboard the ship," the raven-haired soldier continued.
"...We'll have to leave people behind. If we escape on the Elysium, some people will die in the process." Lora brought her hands to her mouth as soon as the sentence left her lips.
Mòrag frowned at Addam, her arms crossed. "Rex will detest the idea. He won't want anything to do with it. You realize that, don't you?"
"Rex is the only one savvy enough to fix that ship. We can't do it without him," Addam replied. "That's why we're not going to tell him about the space issue until we have to. I know what you're thinking: how can we lie to the purest person left on this godforsaken planet? And trust me, I know. I feel like a villain just thinking about it. But we have to give humanity its best chance at survival, even if it means Rex doesn't have the whole story."
"I still don't like it," Mòrag protested.
"For now, it's a moot point anyway," Hugo interrupted. "After all, we can't discuss who will be left behind until we recover the Elysium to begin with. And that will be no small feat."
"He's right," Lora sighed. "That area is overrun. It would take a small army to kill them all."
"We're not asking you to exterminate them. Just get Rex through no matter what. But...try to stay alive. Losing any of you would be a great blow to our forces."
"It'll take more than a bunch of cyborg monsters to bump us off." Zeke forced a grin. Even his usual enthusiasm seemed...lackluster. "Between the three of us, they'll be cannon fodder."
Mòrag scowled at him, as if to say, Don't you dare underestimate them. Zeke shrugged dramatically, which only deepened Mòrag's frown. Lora shook her head. At least her teammates worked better together than their nonverbal banter let on.
"We'll leave the specifics of the mission to you," Hugo said, turning to his computer. "You are authorized to take any supplies you need. No tactics are off-limits, either. The only restriction is that this mission must remain confidential. We don't want to stir up any false hopes in the people."
With one click of a button, the entire meeting table transformed into a holographic map of the target area. The location of the Elysium gleamed a pale green, surrounded by red orbs designating the hostiles in the area.
"I will go brief Rex on his role in this," Addam volunteered.
And without another word, the leaders of the Special Force left their elite soldiers to discuss their mission. A long, tense silence passed.
"Well, Mòrag. You're the best tactician out of the three of us. What do you think?"
"No matter how many scenarios I devise, the odds are stacked against us. If we're lucky, three out of the four of us will make it out alive. Two out of four is more likely."
Zeke wanted to believe that Mòrag made a mistake in her calculations. But it was wishful thinking. Mòrag grew up in a military family, then lived with her cousin Hugo after her parents died—that kind of exposure almost guaranteed immutable tactics on her part. And together, the three of them had poured over the maps for hours on end. If she expected a fifty percent survival rate, then they might as well resign themselves to carrying bodies home. Or worse, abandoning them in the field.
Rex had to survive. That much was non-negotiable. And assuming Mòrag's strategies played out as predicted, only one other person would survive with him.
Zeke swallowed hard. He knew who he wanted to survive. Not that he wanted Lora to die, though. Or himself, for that matter. His stomach lurched—how wrong it felt to even entertain the thought of picking who lived and died. And yet the thought of having to carry Mòrag's body back sickened him just as much. He himself didn't mind the thought of dying. But her…
He at least had to ask. Surely Addam would understand, right?
Zeke peered through the window of the virtual reality training simulator, wishing he had the courage to ask Addam himself to go instead. The Special Force's leader was truly a force to be reckoned with. One glance told him that Addam had upped the simulator's difficulty level to its toughest setting. And yet the lieutenant general never missed a beat. Holographic representations of enemies—Guldo and human alike—disintegrated like digital jigsaw puzzles with every move Addam made. A single shot from his simulated pistol, and a virtual Guldo fell. A hologram of an assassin lunged from behind a fake tree, only to collapse, stabbed by his sword.
No matter how many holograms attacked, Addam always came out on top. Zeke stared, entranced. Even after all these years of studying Addam's fighting style—even before he joined the Force, he'd idolized their leader—Zeke had yet to master all of the older man's techniques. Whenever he asked Addam for pointers about a specific move, he got the same admonition: "Be your own soldier, Zeke. Don't carbon copy another's technique. Find the style that works best for you."
After what felt like an eternity, the holograms stopped reappearing; Addam finally reached the end of the training scenario. His score burst on the screen in bold green numerals: 98/100. Near perfection. No one ever got such high scores. It was almost as if Addam could see the attacks before they happened. He set down his training weapons and mopped the sweat from his brow.
Zeke tapped on the glass of the observation window. Addam beckoned him in.
"Ah, Thunderbolt! Come on in! We can do a duo scenario," Addam offered.
Zeke couldn't help smiling a bit at the nickname. Yes, he boasted the most raw speed of anyone on the force. But to have Addam acknowledge it made his chest swell with pride.
"I'm done with training for the day, actually," Zeke replied.
"Probably best you don't overdo it, I suppose. Not with the mission tomorrow."
"About that, sir...I was wondering if the team roster for the mission was set in stone?"
"Meaning?"
Damn it. Addam wasn't going to conveniently read between the lines and guess his true request. Somehow that made his nerves worse.
"I...um, I want Mòrag to stay behind."
Addam gave a pained smile. "You two should really just get on with it and tell each other how you feel."
Zeke gulped. Sure, it was no secret that he had a crush on Mòrag. He'd never acted on those feelings, though. Well, maybe a few little flirts here and there. And mostly friendly sparring matches. Dinner together once or twice. But nothing truly serious; fraternization laws forbade it. And yet somehow the lieutenant general knew? And mentioned it? He feigned ignorance. "I'm sorry?"
"Mòrag asked Hugo the same thing. But regarding you, of course."
"I'm going," Zeke insisted. "I just don't want her to get hurt. I-I can't lose her."
Addam simply nodded. "I understand your feelings. But the Elysium is our best chance. Rex is our best chance of getting it. We have to get him through. That's going to take our best fighters, which includes you and Mòrag. Do you deny that?"
"...No."
"In times like these, we must do our duty, no matter how painful. We're talking about the impending end of humanity here."
"I know. I just...I don't want my duty to sacrifice her."
Addam's face at that moment made Zeke wish he'd launched himself off a building. The lieutenant general looked hurt, angry, and sympathetic all at once. "I know how you're feeling better than anyone. I...the Calamity claimed my wife and infant son. Our apartment collapsed in the crash. Sometimes, every night before I sleep, I wonder if I had been with them at the time, I might have been able to get them to solid ground in time. But I was here, doing my duty as a soldier. No. I know I would have been able to get them out in time. If I'd come to help them, they'd still be alive. But hundreds of people here would have died in the Guldo attacks if I'd been gone from my post. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I'd saved my loved ones and damned hundreds of others in the process...Sometimes duty is a horrid, horrid thing."
Zeke didn't know how to respond to that. Everyone knew that Addam Origo's family died in the Calamity. But to hear him speak of it so candidly, with tears on the edge of his voice…
"Tell me, Zeke. Let's say I did as you asked, and we successfully repaired the ship without her on the team. Could you get on board and pull Mòrag into your arms, all the while knowing that saving her would force others to die because the mission took longer? Because if you could, I'll need your dog tags. And your gun."
What a shitty situation. But he knew his answer. Mòrag would never forgive him for such a choice, anyway. The only way they'd both survive would be if they managed to protect Rex and each other in the Guldo's nest. Talk about slim odds.
"I'll keep my creds," Zeke murmured at last.
Addam gave an approving nod. "Now go tell her how you feel."
"B-but the frat laws—"
"Screw them."
Zeke felt his jaw drop to the floor. Had he heard that right?
"Love is precious, especially when death lurks around every corner," the lieutenant general explained. "Don't waste it. And anyway, you'll probably fight better if you get it off your chest. Give yourselves something worth fighting for."
"So, are you like giving me your blessing or something?"
Addam smiled. "I'm saying I'll look the other way if you two end up together. Think of it as the Special Force's way of saying thanks for getting us out of here alive."
If we manage it, Zeke thought. But that idea was quickly overwhelmed by the fact that his idol, mentor, and leader had just eradicated what he hoped was the last barrier between himself and Mòrag. Sure, he did have one last unknown: Mòrag never explicitly said how she felt. But if she asked Hugo to pull him from the mission, surely she felt the same way, right?
That possibility alone propelled him to go looking for her right away. At this hour, she ought to be in the cafeteria, eating whatever slop the cooks whipped up on Tuesday nights. The usual table, however, held no Mòrag. That took the wind out of his sails. Where could she be? It wasn't like he could just tell her later. Tomorrow would be too stressful, right from the get-go. It was tonight, or nothing. But if he ran about searching wildly, he might miss her and lose his chance. Worst case scenario, he could just wait outside the girl's dorm and talk to her before she went to bed.
And outside the girl's dorm was precisely where he found her.
She didn't look up as he approached, apparently lost in thought. She sat with one leg extended out in front of her, and she hugged the opposite knee to her chest. He never did figure out how on earth that position was comfortable, but somehow, seeing her sit like that made her cute—in a "I could murder you and no one would find the body" sort of way.
"Of course the martyr of the family wouldn't understand," she murmured under her breath, brow furrowed and lips set in a firm line.
"You okay there?" Zeke asked.
She gave him a sideways glance, as if unsurprised by his presence after all. "He's not the king of the world, you know."
'He.' Ah. That was it.
"Fight with Hugo again?"
Mòrag nodded. Zeke should have guessed as much. Only a scuffle with her last remaining relative would rattle her so badly as to skip dinner. Unlike most Force recruits—who found the cafeteria food appalling—Mòrag had the ability to eat anything, even the foulest dishes. And the meat dish tonight was her favorite. But fighting with Hugo would rob her appetite, he supposed.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
Zeke hesitated, unsure if he should press the subject or let the matter drop. Everyone knew she had a rocky relationship with her cousin. A shame, really—they both used to be practically inseparable. Yes, a six-year age gap separated them. But Mòrag's politically affluent father traveled abroad so frequently that she'd gone to live with her cousins Hugo and Niall. What ought to have been a summer-long visit lasted for so long that people took to calling them siblings. Even when the world went sour with nation-states vying for dwindling natural resources, they remained inseparable.
But all that changed when the Calamity struck.
Their kid brother (or cousin, in Mòrag's case) didn't make it. He'd stayed behind in their penthouse—both Mòrag and Hugo had urged him to sleep off the last remnants of a cold. And their building had been one of the last to go careening into the nether regions of space.
Zeke once suggested, to his own chagrin—it had been stupid thing to say, he now realized—that Mòrag and Hugo blamed each other for letting Niall stay behind. If the younger man had come to work that day, he would have been at the Command Center when the world crumbled. The ground would have stayed solid beneath his feet. No apartment buildings would have fallen on him. But deep down, the cousins knew that neither could take blame for it. Niall's death had been yet another tragic casualty of that awful day.
No, Mòrag's tense familial relationship stemmed from a much simpler cause. She'd told him as much:
"Hugo looks too much like Niall. I...I can't even look at him without tearing up."
A few terse words after the funeral, and they had never quite returned to their sibling-like relationship. Months had already passed since then. Hopefully, given enough time, they could work through it. But until then, their interactions remained professional. Mostly.
...Which brought Zeke to a (potentially) thrilling realization: if Addam spoke truly, then Mòrag had braved a pins-and-needles conversation to ask Hugo to pull him from their deadly mission. He hoped it was for the same reason he himself had asked Addam. But he couldn't be sure, either. And Addam tended to exaggerate.
"Why are you here?" Mòrag asked at last, hugging her knee a little tighter to her chest.
"F-figured you could use the company," Zeke murmured. "Mind if I join you?"
She shrugged and nodded at the space beside her. Zeke took that as a good sign; she might not be too angry after all. Usually, if she was really, truly upset, she demanded time alone. For her to accept his company anyway—that encouraged him. It did not, however, inspire any eloquent words. He blanked.
And so an uncomfortable silence grew between them. He focused on the sound of Mòrag's breathing: rhythmic, eerily calm. Didn't she know they would probably die tomorrow? Or was she trying to forget it? He never did understand how Mòrag always managed to hide her emotions. Damn, she was hard to read. Overly emotional girls could be annoying, and one of the things he adored about Mòrag was her cool-as-a-cucumber mentality. But just once, he'd like to see her react like a normal person. Anyone else in her place would be beside themselves with worry.
Meanwhile, his hands shook—and not because he was faking it for dramatic effect.
"You'll make it out alive. I promise," she whispered.
Such a statement directly contradicted her own tactical hypothesis. And yet somehow, the way she said it gave him a strange sense of calm.
"...I'm trying not to think about the odds too much," he lied.
She finally looked at him directly, her eyes meeting his. Zeke felt his heart do a little somersault; too often he saw her from behind military equipment. The panel of his CompuSpec lens usually blocked his view of her eyes. And what pretty eyes they were, he decided. Sure, some people called brown a drab color. But they didn't see what he did: the wisdom, the courage, the sparks of fiery spirit lingering in her gaze.
Her fierceness had been one of the first things he noticed about her during the military conference where they first met—back before the Calamity, when things like city-states still mattered. His own father forbade him to go (the isolationist twerp); naturally, that spurred his sneaking off to attend. And meeting Mòrag had made his father's anger worth it. As the children of prominent politicians in their respective city-states, they hit it off fairly quickly. Afterward they maintained a cordial friendship. Then the necessity of the Calamity drove them both to the Special Force ranks. A few life-or-death missions later, and "friends" no longer seemed an adequate term.
Granted, it wasn't an adequate term for Lora. Or Rex. Or Hugo. Or any of his comrades, really. But for Mòrag, it seemed even more inadequate.
"You're unusually quiet this evening," she pointed out at last.
His nerves got the better of him. "—Did you really ask Hugo to pull me from the mission?" he blurted.
Mòrag's face turned a distinct shade of crimson, but Zeke couldn't tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. She scowled, but her fingers twiddled with the pommel of her left dual blade—what she always did when she was nervous.
"W-where did you hear that?"
"Addam told me. I, uh, I kinda sorta went to ask him to, you know, pull you off the team."
She managed to reassemble her usual impassive expression—but only temporarily. "Why?"
Of course she was going to make him say it out loud. "Um, well, I was kind of hoping it was for the same reason you asked Hugo to pull me off."
One eyebrow shot up. "What if I asked him to because you're a liability? You do fall off more cliffs than an entire squad combined."
He flinched and gasped. Neither reaction was intentional, but he couldn't help it. After all this time, did she view him as a risk? Did she ask Hugo to pull him off the team so she wouldn't get distracted pulling up his slack?
"I'm kidding, of course," she said quickly. Then her fingers slipped underneath his collar and pulled out the chain, exposing the dogtags to the open air. Her eyes scanned over the engraving, as if there was something hypnotic about seeing her own name on what should have been his tags. "Why do you think I gave you these to begin with?"
"Do you still have mine?"
A quick tug at her own neck chain revealed the answer. Exchanging dog tags wasn't all that significant within the ranks; battle buddies did so frequently (despite rules forbidding such practices). Even Rex and Nia had traded theirs, with a very animated exchange:
"W-why are you giving me these?" Rex had asked.
"You and your cloud-stuffed idiot brain end up in all sorts of scrapes. Someone's probably going to find your puny unconscious body in a gutter somewhere one of these days. If you're wearing these, they'll know to return your sorry arse to me, not Personnel," Nia explained in response.
"So I'm like your lost puppy?"
"More like a lost idiot. But yeah."
Zeke had been excited when Mòrag didn't turn down his suggestion to swap tags (how long ago that seemed now). But deep down, he wondered if she viewed it as a simple exchange between friends, or as he did: more than friends. There was always the possibility that she thought of him like a brother or something. Apparently even Addam thought it was obvious, though. That counted for something, right?
She pressed the cool metal of the tag to her lips. The gesture startled him. His heart did a little somersault.
"I look at them every night," she murmured. "Right before I go to sleep."
The little somersault in his heart flipped in double-time. So his tags did mean something to her. The thought encouraged him a bit. Addam was right; he needed to tell her how he felt. Maybe then his heart wouldn't drum so rapidly every time he thought about her.
"Mòrag, I—"
He never finished that confession; her lips cut him off. Electricity seemed to rocket down his spine at the touch. He'd imagined kissing her a few times—well, more than a few times, if he was honest with himself—but no daydream could have prepared him for his. Her skin was warm, her lips impossibly soft. Her perfume smelled of fir balsam, cedarwood, and pine (where she even got such a luxury with today's markets was anyone's guess). And to have her initiate it! She began tentatively at first, pecking gently at his lips. But his own little gasp emboldened her. Before he quite knew what was happening, her slight nibble on his lower lip morphed into a complete parting of his lips. By the time he finally processed the sensation of her tongue mingling with his own, she'd climbed into his lap, her hands full of his collar.
By the Conduit, hopefully she couldn't hear the gong going off each time his heart beat.
He finally managed to collect himself enough to respond in kind, both mimicking and deepening the kisses she'd already given. He broke away from her lips and found her chin, then the base of her neck. She made a little purring noise and pulled him back to her mouth. He didn't want to leave the luxurious softness, the scent of the skin there just yet—a mark just above her collar would look nice, after all—but he wouldn't complain about the taste of her, either. He let one hand settle her thigh, teasing at the exposed skin between her tall boots and the bottom of her shorts; the other caressed the ends of her ponytail. That silk alone merited savoring. And the way her tongue quivered when he—
"Holy ether shells. It's about bloody time you two played tonsil hockey!"
Mòrag practically chomped his lower lip in her hurry to pull away. "N-Nia."
Zeke fought down a chuckle at the expression on Mòrag's face. She seemed equal parts annoyed and flustered that the younger soldier caught them in that compromising position. And of course, there was Nia's propensity to word things in such outrageous ways. Although "tonsil hockey" was probably one of her tamer ideas.
"So, spill. Who finally broke down and confessed?"
Mòrag scowled again and did a very out of character thing: she pawed at the ground, picked up a little fist of gravel, and tossed it at their interloper. Apparently she wasn't in the mood for talking.
He had to agree. "Nia, this isn't a drive-in movie. Please go away."
The girl dusted herself off with a cheeky grin. "Oi, it's not my fault you guys decided to have a makeout sesh right in front of my dorm! You might wanna get a room before the others get out of dinner. Or if you're gonna make a lot of noise, I hear there's an abandoned industrial van over on Alvis street."
"If you're not gone in five seconds, I will light your bear statuettes on fire," Mòrag warned.
Nia made a little hissing noise and moved to the doorway. "Fine. Enjoy yourselves, you lovestruck dorks. Just make sure you get some sleep tonight. You're supposed to be guarding Rex tomorrow, yeah?" And with nothing more than a wink, she finally made herself scarce.
Zeke finally let out the chuckle he'd been withholding, his hands settling on Mòrag's hips. "What a lovable little brat. Tonsil hockey."
The name might have been a bit crude, but it gave him an idea. Not that Mòrag really needed much encouragement right now, but...she was extremely competitive.
He lowered his voice to a whisper. "But who's winning that hockey match, hm?"
She rewarded him with her most aggressive kiss yet.
Looked like he wouldn't be needing to finish his confession after all.
A/N: ...the next chapter will get intense in places. I'm bracing myself to write it!
I won't make any promises about when the next chapter will be up (which is potentially the last one; I don't know how long this will end up being). It'll definitely be sooner than a month, but real life has been crazy busy lately. I freelance write for work, and some days when I finish my brain doesn't want to write anymore, not even "for fun." So I won't set any unrealistic expectations for myself. Thank you for your patience.
This is my first stab at dystopic fiction in a LONG time. Hopefully I can make it work! 'Til next time!