Disclaimer: If I owned Megami Kouhosei, you'd know it. Believe me on this one. =o) #sadly, as if the words pain her# But, unfortunately for me and my sick mind, I don't own Megami Kouhosei, nor do I make any money off of it.
Author's Note: Rome Lotte was Erts's repairer when he was a candidate, before Ernest died #weeps# and Erts was promoted. Her name was attained through a fabulous site called The EX Files (found at web address http://www.satinflame.net/resuko/megami/main.html), which is run by the webmistress Resuko. Okay then…onward to the story! =o) Read and Enjoy.
Erts:
Hello and good tidings, old friend. As you can see, I've decided to write you a letter. Archaic, yes, but quaint.
It…it's been three weeks since your…promotion, and I've heard your performance has been exceptional. I'm glad for you; you've worked so hard to get where you are today. I sincerely hope that you are feeling all right. Remember: you're saving Zion, superboy. Be happy. Ernest would have wanted you to be…I want that as well.
Do you remember the first day we met, Erts? I do. You were, what? Ten, eleven? I don't remember; but that doesn't matter. I do, however, recall my first impression of you. I thought you were much too young, too small and weak to even be allowed on G.O.A as a tourist, much less as a prospective pilot. I thought you wouldn't make it.
I was wrong, though; you showed me that much. You had more potential for greatness than any of us ever realized, even those who'd approved your application into the training facility in the first place. You won me over, Erts, completely, totally, and unexpectedly. You converted us all, really; everyone you've ever known has been changed for the better. You've got to believe that, Erts, because it's true. I'm glad that, after all these years, you've finally gotten the chance to shine, though I am eternally saddened by the events that led to your early initiation as a pilot. I know you probably don't even care much for your new position; your renowned title; your newfound power. You never did, and you probably never will. That's just the kind of person you are, Erts; never let that die. It's too pure, Erts. Maybe I'm asking too much; I'm not sure how you've kept yourself from going crazy all these years. Life has no room for the qualities that you possess, but they're there anyway, rooted deep inside of you, and I am awed by that. You're so much stronger than anyone would ever think. You're so much stronger than me, Erts…if I were you, I'd have crumbled long before.
I want you to know that I don't blame you, okay? I don't blame anyone. Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about, so I'll elaborate.
I…I was sent back home, Erts. It came as quite a shock, but don't worry about me. I'll be fine in no time.
In retrospect, I should have seen it coming; I was a repairer without a candidate, a nobody--something useless. So I was sent back to Colony number 49. That's okay--the people at the orphanage I've been staying at say that it's never too late to learn something new. They say I could have a great future, someday. I'm even supposed to be interviewed by my possible foster family on Monday.
The problem with all of this is that I don't really want any of it. All I've ever wanted to be is a repairer, working to save Zion. I can't imagine ever being just a doctor or an engineer or an artist. As a repairer, I was all of those things, you know? There's no feeling that can ever compare with the potent combination of the horrible pangs of fear, the heady dose of power, the fierce thrill of victory that comes with every battle. Do you understand what I mean, Erts? Perhaps you don't. You've always been so serious. Is it all just one big responsibility to you? That is a very tragic thing. I hope that one day your profession will give you more than a sense of despair. Love life, Erts.
I'm sorry…I'm so sorry. I'm being hypocritical. I probably shouldn't send this…it will only bring you sadness. Please don't be sad, Erts. Please forgive me. I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry for what I'm about to do. Just try not to hate me, alright? I shouldn't send this…but I will, because I want you to know that I am very proud of you, and I'll never forget you. Never. Try to understand that I just can't be as strong as you, Erts…I can't handle the way things are. I'm sorry. Whatever happens…be happy. Life has its ups and downs, and you can make it, Erts, because you were meant to make it. You were meant to be something great. You are something great…you're you. I'm sorry. Even if you can't understand my actions, please just know that I'll always be with you, right there in your heart, to fight alongside you and try to protect you the best that I can. Forgive me.
Love always,
Rome Lotte, candidate repairer number fiveErts Cocteau felt his face drain of color as he read through the unexpected letter from his friend and former work partner.
"Oh dear God," he exclaimed in horror, swiftly bolting from the Pilot's Common Room towards the public computer terminal down the hall.
The letter was dated several days ago; too late to change anything now.
He only prayed that Rome hadn't done what he thought she had.
The blonde-haired pilot rapidly typed in commands onto the keyboard before him, calling up a search engine and frantically typing in the name "Rome Lotte."
He found a small article about her on a virtual newspaper based in Colony 49.
She was in the obituaries; cause of death, suicide.
Disbelief melted into horror.
Horror gradually warped into grief.
The room was immersed in sorrow as the dazed fourteen-year-old stared unblinkingly at the screen before him. Eventually his slight form slumped forward; he cradled his head in his hands as his heart beat painfully in his chest.
An eternity flew by before the silence was broken.
"Goodbye, Rome," he whispered.