Sleep did not come easy, fever and nausea being the least of his concerns as psychosomatic wounds manifested in raw flesh and vivid bruising. Chemical balancers kept the worst of an MIU crash at bay, but enough of it was left to leave Grant shaky and weak the following morning.
Everything was less defined, somehow less real, he knew it was just a result of having his visual spectrum of light and the amount of information his brain could process being limited to a flesh and blood body. The flesh was weak, and he felt it more than ever.
"Throne damn it," he mumbled, rolling out of bed before trying to clear his thoughts enough to make any sort of decision on his next steps.
He staggered towards the bathroom, wondering if there was any point in visiting the medicae ward if they'd just give him more of the same stabilizers. It seemed that haste contact with a Warlord class titan with a half-built single crew configuration and then immediately going into combat was a bad idea, but that was a secondary concern compared to rinsing the taste of bile out of his mouth.
It was early in the morning, but he could already hear the sounds of people moving about and machines operating. He shuffled along to the window and looked out at the already bustling city of groundcars and trains. By now the scholam would be in session, but he had no intentions of attending until he had made a full recovery. In the meantime he would do his best to prepare a primer for the repair teams, the Aquilis Redemptor needed proper ministrations from people who wouldn't upset its machine spirit.
The view outside was somewhat inspiring, a gleaming white metal and rockcrete city that was still alive with civilian activity despite the huge xenos corpse currently being dissected in the downtown area for disposal. The logistics of such rapid repairs and cleanup operations were staggering, usually, a titan legion would leave the job to local authorities.
There was a keening buzz, and it irritated Grant, even more, when he realized it was coming from outside rather than from his currently addled brain. He'd heard it before on the rooftop of the scholam, but it hadn't been nearly as annoying.
Right, the scholam. Ikari, Soryu, Ayanami.
Thinking back to the previous night, he might have been a little less than cordial. All things considered, Shinji had saved his life and secured a solid kill against a titanic classed foe that would have otherwise cut his own engine into pieces. He'd made a mistake and potentially alienated another pilot, and as much as it grated on him an apology was probably in order.
Catching a glance of himself in a mirror, Grant decided to give it a few more days. Delivering an apology while looking like a walking corpse and shuffling like a badly doctrined servitor would do more harm than good.
It had been three days and Grant had only ventured out of his home twice to pick up caffeine and fresh food, the quality of the prior being far ahead of what he'd had back in Orestes Principal. He'd returned from his second trip and had just passed the threshold of his door when his communicator pinged, a message from an individual named "Subcommander Fuyutsuki".
You are requested for an audience in two days by the Human Instrumentality Commission and NERV Director Ikari. Details on the HIC are attached to this message.
Grant skimmed the few details he'd been provided, and it seemed the HIC was an oversight body for NERV. It didn't include where their authority was derived from, or their membership. Scant details meant uncertainty in any following negotiations and even more uncertainty in introductions. Were the members of the HIC comparable to the Archmagi of a forge or were they parallel to Director Ikari's own position?
Grant had no idea, but it was clear that the HIC was important and he needed to be prepared. The phrasing of the message as a request rather than a demand had soothed his fears somewhat, but no risks could be taken.
Focusing on the task at hand, Grant did his best to finish the primer for at least surface repairs. For the time being, he'd have to be satisfied with the refabrication of his titan's armor and the de-stressing of support struts, the stress on the machine spirit from poorly done rituals during the realignment of his auspex arrays and sensori suite would be more a liability than the existing damage.
Sending them by the terminal network to Doctor Akagi attached to a request to meet his team in person within the next week, Grant took the rest of the time he had to prepare for the meeting.
The meeting with the HIC came faster than Grant had expected, and his research in the proceeding days had turned up even less than the Subcommander's document. He'd done his best to summarize his own technical and historical knowledge, but he had been careful not to write anything down. His advantages were twofold, information that no other person he was aware of could possibly possess and the sole capability to pilot his titan.
As he walked towards the door of the room indicated on the invitation, he adjusted his pistol and power sword. He was wearing his uniform minus his helmet, greaves, and shrapnel gorget, but his sidearms were still fixed at his waist.
The doors to the room opened automatically, and Grant stepped inside. Before him was a room seeming to consist of dark stone, polished to a perfect smoothness yet reflecting little light as Grant's boots stomped against the ground. There were no windows, and the only illumination came from the floor lumens set as cool colored lines on the floor. Across the room slightly offset and sitting at a desk of the same material, fingers interlaced before his face, was Director Ikari.
"Director," greeted Grant, standing center just beyond the doorway.
Ikari made no gestures, his eyeglasses reflecting as if mirrors, "Thank you for attending Princeps, we can begin."
Rank for rank, he was off to a good start. Still, the room was set oddly with only a single off-center seat. Before he could form a question, the answer materialized. Five colored objects, probably from a lithic projector hidden in the room, sprang to life. Five separate colors, with white arrayed mirrored from where the Director sat.
"Greetings Princeps," the words were certainly not originating from inside the room but rather by speaker, yet Grant could hear some sort of augmetic undertone. No face to the name, the white monolith just brightened slightly to indicate who was speaking.
"Who am I addressing," asked Grant, a little irritated that whoever it was hadn't decided to attend in person.
"We are the Human Instrumentality Commission. We are pleased that you accepted our invitation." spoke the white.
"I understand that, but I have no indication of your identity." Grant replied, "I can't trust someone who won't show themselves, who hides behind a mask."
"This is for reasons of security, though by no means do we consider you a potential enemy."
Grant thought that was a little unreasonable in both directions, he held no special loyalty other than to anyone who'd help him save perhaps the pilots and knowing their faces wouldn't help someone with no connections outside of an organization they controlled.
"Security?" he balked a bit, "I believed NERV was a human-wide project, how would harm against its leaders benefit anyone?"
"NERV has not been as unopposed as we have originally hoped," the white monolith answered, "We have already seen at least one attempt by other groups to supplant it. While we may hold the power we hold is great, NERV's position as a force against the angels is not absolute."
Not absolute then, Grant thought, probably even shakier than the original Triad Ferrum Morgulus since there weren't any STCs to work from. His own historical lessons told of the tenuous balance between the first three titan legions, Tempestus being one, and if even more varieties of titanic war engines beyond the usual four or five were introduced to even more factions, it would have made the situation disastrous. Even with Terra, or Earth, somewhat united with NERV as its bastion every nation and non-national power would be racing to replicate or parallel the Evangelions.
White continued, "Therefore, no risks can be taken. If the HIC were to come under threat the survival of humanity would be at stake. The existence of what you call a Warlord demonstrates the potential for other designs that can truly match an Evangelion."
"What does that mean for me?"
"The Human Instrumentality Commission wishes for you to continue to fight alongside the Evangelions and their pilots as well as provide what expertise you can in combating the threats we face, in exchange NERV will accommodate you and your Warlord."
Grant considered that for a moment. What would he gain from a group he couldn't trust? He could see no advantage to having another entity operating in the shadows, and he doubted that NERV's hands were clean either.
"If I'm going to commit fully to NERV, I'm going to need a stronger guarantee." Grant said, "I'm requesting formal power within NERV, to run my engine, deployment, and image in any way I see fit."
"That is quite reasonable," spoke the white, "But there is a simple question we would like you to answer."
"Sure." Grant replied, "And that is?"
"Who is the Emperor?"
A city of steel burns under the hand of its own machines, a gilded age teetering on the brink from tides of silver hubris. When the last mind is severed, a single breath is taken before falling totally into screaming darkness.
A man with golden eyes steps from a mountain fortress with crude sons, lightning banners wave as a shattered globe is made whole. Eighteen or twenty heirs are scattered to the stars to find their own sufferings.
The man of gold steps onto the red soil to find an injured machine suffering wounds from an old battle, and his touch brings prophecy. The skies of Mars weep as the trinity is made whole.
The heirs are reclaimed, titles bestowed and legions march as grandsons to a god as the universe knows the Master of Mankind. Something happens that remains untold by the choice of forebearers, the brothers feud. The galaxy burns, the homeworld is besieged, and the Stormlords make their stand.
The man called Revelation is cast down as his dying breath ends the treachery, and he rises to a new height on a golden throne. His loyal sons swear new oaths, but all vanish in time.
A planet breaks as its defenders still stand firm. The man of gold shows mercy again as the sea is split in two, and returns an heir to a dying world, determined to create a new age.
Grant stood in the still silence of the room, the monoliths did not speak. Neither did the Director.
"Thank you for your time, Princeps," said the white monolith, their voice set with the smallest wavering.
Grant himself could see why the white speaker was having difficulty maintaining his composure, the simple scale of history was something only known to few, and he had only been told what he needed to know. Knowledge was power, and it should be guarded well. Had he made a mistake by telling them so much? He'd left out anything that could indicate capabilities or his own history, but the amount of information they could infer was only something an outsider could measure.
The monoliths disappeared, and the Director still sat at the desk across the room.
Grant spoke, "I'll expect the conditions of this offer to be respected at all times, and I will do the same."
"Of course, Princeps." Ikari nodded, "We wish to work with you, not control you."
"Call upon me when the angels next attack, until then I must attend to my engine. Thank you, Director. I'll take my leave now."