A Havre, unlike the flying ships designed by the Machina, had a fatal weakness: its engine wasn't made to sustain long journeys. Hovering on itself wasn't the problem, in fact, the two ether circuits inside the Havre's belly could keep the vessel suspended a meter above the ground for many days on end. But each subsequent meter of air between solid ground and the ship's underside increased the ether consumption by a sizable margin. Moving terrain, water for example, had a similar effect.
All that was old news to Shulk. In fact, he had tinkered with an upgrade for the Havre fleet using some Machina technologies that circumvented this exact shortcoming.
This upgrade, however, had never made it past the blueprints on his workbench; not even he could invent an excuse to turn this project into a top priority when most Havre pilots never veered farther from their home dock than Colony 9. As such, the symbol that popped up on the main screen to warn Shulk of a reduced energy supply didn't surprise him. He could call himself fortunate that the engine had carried him over the ocean for an entire night as well as it had.
The ether circuits recharged themselves over time when left to cool down – a process lengthened by the lower ether concentration in this new world, but that was to be expected. Meaning Shulk only needed to find a place to land and wait a couple hours. Not an easy task with nothing but ocean waves to fill the landscape.
And here came another shortcoming of the average Havre to play: navigation. As long as the Havre remained in familiar territory, say with the Bionis' Shoulder in view at all times, a pilot had little to fear. But in the middle of the ocean and with no landmarks in sight, the lack of scanners turned navigation into a rather daunting challenge.
Shulk called the main engine's ether supply onto the screen. Fifteen percent. That gave him an hour and a safety puffer to find the next landmass.
In theory, he knew where to look for said landmass. But he had only flown this distance once, several years ago for a supply quest from an Alcamoth citizen. And in truth, assuming he had taken a straight path, he should have seen the shape of his destination on the horizon by now.
Shulk pulled at the altitude regulator to save energy. The Havre now almost hopped from crest to crest like the actual boats to which it owed its design. Foam splashed onto Shulk's face.
He opened up the ether consumption curve for the last hours. Using the data displayed on the screen and his memory, Shulk tried to recreate his course from when he had left Alcamoth. The result left plenty to be desired. All the while, the ether level ticked down.
Ten percent.
Shulk steered starboard to correct course. Although he might very well find his end in the midst of this vast ocean should the engine collapse before he reached a place to land, his hands wandered across the controls without the slightest trembling. If he crashed, it would be the result of his own doing. If he failed, only he would pay the price.
But he didn't fail. After the number on the screen flipped from seven to six percent, he made out a dark shape on the horizon, a few degrees to the right. A slight course-correction later, the Havre skipped across the waves, its nose set for the dark shape that grew larger by the second. Rich vegetation basked in the sun, ferns and palm trees that promised life. And as Shulk drew nearer still, metal constructions peeked out of the jungle. Massive gears the size of houses rusted away between the trees, and steel beams that had once supported the largest machine in the known world stabbed the sky.
The Fallen Arm.
Or rather its broken remains.
Shulk breathed easier and directed the Havre towards the green canopy that covered the Fallen Arm near the elbow. A beach or the plains around the palm would have made for a better landing spot, but the systems declared an ether supply level below five percent with a consistent, loud ping, and at this point, Shulk rather risked a rough landing than no landing at all.
The manoeuvre jets howled, stuttered, and then resigned their duty about ten meters above ground. And that would make for the second Havre crash Shulk had fabricated within two weeks. Not exactly a shining display of his talents.
The Havre tore through branches and vines on its way down, and a flock of shocked Flamiis fled the area. Entire palm trees snapped as the Havre ploughed through. The ship squealed and shook and skidded forward until its momentum finally depleted, and it stood still near a bubbling spring. Quietness returned to the jungle.
Shulk climbed out of the tilted Havre on shaky legs. But a brief check revealed no major injuries, and the Havre would likewise recover after some minor repairs and sufficient time to recharge its ether circuits. Aside from the main engine. The grey box had taken a fatal hit to its main port and would not reconnect to the circuits no matter how long Shulk berated the bent part with a hammer.
A serious problem, to be fair. But not impossible to solve.
Shulk already had pieces of blue chain in his bag. Now he only needed a core coil to get the Havre back into the air. Since he was standing on a piece of machinery the size of an island, he had a solid chance to find the missing piece somewhere between the pipe roots and gear archways rising above the canopy.
Still, Shulk had no reason to relax yet. His noisy entrance had likely alarmed the local wildlife, and if hostile eyes resided anywhere on the Fallen Arm, they had turned their gazes towards the crash side and the unnatural aisle the Havre had cut into the jungle.
Shulk flipped through his memories to figure out what kind of enemies he might have to face off against. He could rule out all Mechon; no one had seen a single of Egil's creations since the birth of the new world. A loss only Shulk seemed to mourn, despite how difficult it had become to scavenge for mechanical parts. Any Flamiis or Ponios nearby would likely shy a confrontation. Which left Caelum Volffs as the most dangerous threat.
He needed to stay sharp. Wasn't that something Dunban liked to say?
With one hand on the Monado's hilt, Shulk crept through the thicket. Scouting the area seemed like the soundest strategy, after all, the Havre could recharge without him. The repairs could wait. For now, Shulk could use the time to stock up on supplies. So, he kept his eyes open for the give-away glister of a tree with white plums or a tuft of sour turnips. He might even stumble over a core coil on his way.
Compared to the Shoulder, the air in the jungle clasped Shulk with its heat. He rolled up his sleeves, and even the stroll downhill covered his forehead in sweat. When he leaned against a broken metal pillar to catch his breath, the brief contact burned his fingertips.
Shulk flinched and held his throbbing hand. Then realisation hit him. Of course – the scaffold of the Fallen Arm and the ground underneath patches of moss and lichen consisted of metal. Metal that warmed up when exposed to the sun. On the beaches near the palm of the Mechonis' hand, the sea breeze made the heat bearable, but up here, on the crest of the arm bulge, each metal strut and gear heated the jungle until the air itself seemed to boil.
All the more reason to follow the path downhill. Shulk would return to the Havre and complete the repairs after sunset.
So much for his plan at least.
At this point, Shulk stumbled more than he walked. All attempts at stealth had dissolved in the heat, and the uneven terrain slowed him considerably. Twice he stubbed his toes on a half-overgrown tube on the ground, which sent an echo across the jungle that sounded like an invitation to every predator for an easy midday snack. He tossed his head to the far right every other moment to cover for his damaged ear, listening for danger.
Nothing. His breath rattled.
Think, think, think – survival skills, he needed to remember those. What would Reyn do in this situation? Complain. Curse the heat. And what else?
Shulk never reached a conclusion to his inner debate. A twig snapped somewhere to his left. Screeching and blue feathers flaking, a trio of Flamiis took flight. Shulk's sweaty palm tightened around the Monado's hilt.
And then the first Volff broke through the thicket. It growled and revealed a series of deadly fangs. Underneath the sand-coloured fur, muscles tensed for the leap. The hungry eyes glowed.
Slowly, Shulk unclipped the Monado from his back. The ether circuit sprang to life, and blue hues danced across the tree barks. He steadied his stance. Even breaths.
Then the Volff pounced.
Shulk was out of shape; he realised as much after the first three slashes. The Monado weighed in his hand like a misshapen club twice its size, and his movements came sluggish, sloppy. He stumbled too often. His attacks struck air.
The Volff leaped this way and that, and while Shulk could fend off its greedy claws, he found no opening to land a solid blow himself. Always, as far back as he could remember, he had leaned on teammates to fight alongside with; a heavy-hitter like Reyn to distract the enemy or a healer to keep him alive long enough to wear down his opponent's defences. But Shulk had no one to back him up now.
He slipped. His flank was exposed.
And that was when the second and third Volff joined the fray.
Fangs sliced through the air, and the growls of hungry throats drowned all other sounds. Shulk wrestled one attacker from him, evaded the next, put all his efforts into surviving the next heartbeat.
His head spun.
The stench of sweat roused the creatures all the more, they pawed and snapped and pounced. And Shulk had no way to track all of them at once. In the dim light underneath the canopy, their fur blurred with their surroundings.
No vision came forth to save him. Nothing kept him alive except for the next desperate sidestep, the next aimless slash.
Think, think, think – the Monado. In his hand Shulk held perhaps the most powerful tool in existence. It had the power to shape the flow of ether. And even in a world with reduced concentration, that had to be enough to win.
An ether field would hardly deter the Volffs for long; the skirmish had wetted their appetite. But the sequential burst of light might tip the scales. It was worth the try.
Because if Shulk didn't win within the next minute, he wouldn't win at all.
Although his left leg quivered, Shulk planted his feet where he stood. He breathed in. A gesture of his deactivated the main insulator mechanism. The Monado overflew with ether, and the exhausts crackled until the heat scorched Shulk's fingertips. He breathed out.
And before the Volffs fell upon him, he activated the ether field.
The explosion of energy knocked him from his feet. Brightness, a spinning horizon. Only a timely roll prevented him from a major head injury.
He had miscalculated. Without the main insulator, the ether field enacted a far greater force than he had anticipated. If he had deactivated the secondary insulators too, the burst might have shredded the Monado and him with it. Likely, the sword's more sensitive systems would suffer the consequences and collapse soon. Before then, Shulk had a battle to win.
The Volffs staggered and struggled to shake off the disorientation that followed the ether explosion. Maybe they had adapted to the lower ether concentration of this world, and the sudden burst shook them all the more.
Shulk wasted no more time with theories. He ran, and mid-motion, he sliced through the largest Volff. The creature fainted.
A small victory. And it didn't last long either.
Something crashed into Shulk's side and knocked the air out of his lungs. His shoulder twisted under him, and he tasted copper-heavy earth. Claws ripped through his shirt, and the Volff's maw inched closer and closer, its foul breath struck his neck.
Shulk couldn't lift the Monado to protect himself.
He would die here.
It was okay, right? These things happened, right? A short rush of pain, and he would be gone. Maybe after he died, he would be with her.
But Shulk didn't die.
The patter of footsteps reached his left ear, and all of a sudden, the weight lifted from his chest. An agonised howl and then a second one. The jangle of a sword as it cut through enemies with the same ease with which it hissed through air. No, these sounds didn't belong to a plain sword. This was the war song of a katana.
As fast as they had erupted, the noises of combat died down. In their stead remained the pat-pat of hunter boots on the mossy ground.
"You're pretty far away from Colony 9, Shulk."
Shulk forced himself to his knees to look at his saviour, who extended a single hand towards him.
"I could say the same to you, Dunban."
26/06/22: And so, Duncan Idaho - I mean, Dunban, Hero of the Homs, returns to the story. In case the chapter title didn't gave it away already. You probably realised this ages ago, but I'm using titles from the soundtracks, sometimes because the track fits the mood of the given chapter and sometimes just because it was the right combination of words at the right time. In this case, I think it made for a fun piece of foreshadowing.