DC20: Yay for no problems! Meh, the profile's for fun anyways, so there's not too much to say, other than… use your imagination. (Colon three cat smile.) Sucks that you can't save it… Narcissu is really touching. But whatever you do, don't read it when you're feeling sad. You just might feel like committing suicide after reading it. But the whole story is really good – although the ending might have been a bit more definitive. It's still awesome, though.
skycomv2: Yeah, yeah, every one of your reviews says that my writing is good… because that's the truth. *dodges deflating slap* I was using the in-game encyclopedia entry on ragnaid – which is really bare, just that it's a "controlled disinfectant and restorative agent". As to the phlebotinum behind that, well, I'll step away from that for now. As for wrench to the head, I'm being VERY careful to moderate the usage of this. Isara is levelheaded and calm, yes, but she also has an iron will – and if she's semiconscious and feels that she's being assaulted, I believe she would respond in kind. She will not turn into a smashing tsundere, which is most certainly not IC… but expect the wrench to return.
Runty Grunty: I'm going to watch my usage of wrenching, so every time this count increases, something relatively important or dramatic has happened. I hope. And it feels good to know I pulled the "flow of consciousness" thing off.
Cloner4000: Yeah, I got carried away. You could have sent me a private message bomb or something, I dunno. Well, putting the wrench back had nothing to do with not being caught, just that it seems like the sort of rule that a mechanic would always follow (PUT YOUR TOOLS BACK). I'll look "disability girl" up… once I finish writing, that is.
Rotten-Kraut: Sorry about that, but I ran the clock to the last second because of all my reading. I'll wait and write myself out of Lia before diving into any new ones. And… o.0 . Flattering to have such a devoted reader.
15 DOCUMENT LIMIT MY ARSE. Seriously, that is annoying – now if I want to make edits, I'll have to shuffle them around? Super lame. Edits on previous chapters just got so much harder…
So now we return back to Isara, several hours later. Super important flashback ahead…
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Consciousness returned gradually for Isara. There were happy feelings floating around her, although she didn't know exactly why. She thought she could see her hometown of Bruhl, before the Imperials had steamrolled over it in their push towards the capital, wide green meadows, lush foliage, but best of all the two Sister Mills towering above everything, almost like mothers in their appearance. Welkin might disagree and say that the wildlife was more beautiful, but she personally had found the mixture of utility and beauty in those mills to be the pinnacle of creation.
Of course, those mills had been one of the first victims of the attack, blown apart by artillery fire.
The light mist of sleep slowly faded away as she felt her ire rise, and she realized she was still on a hard table, still underneath concentrated light, and still naked from the waist up.
That was distressing. Couldn't someone have put at least a sheet over her?
Carefully, she opened her eyes – and then screwed them shut again. There was a bright lamp shining right onto her face. As silently as possible, she turned her head towards the sound of tinkling metal before looking once more.
A man – a young one – was kneeled in the corner of the smallish room, sifting through the contents of a bag on the floor. His clothes looked a bit strange, but she couldn't put a finger on why. After a few seconds, he pulled some object out – with annoyance, she realized her angle was too awkward to see exactly what it was – and turned, approaching her with it in hand, held in front of him like a weapon.
And with only one look at his determined face, the young features horribly mutated into an angry killing expression, she made sure that her eyes were closed again, as if still in sleep, as if all she had done was shift a bit. Her heart betrayed her apparent calm, racing with fear – and no small amount of anger.
Those eyes. One covered with a gauze band, its exposed mate a deep dark brown, like the depths of a huge pit. She knew those eyes all too well. They were her first and only exposure to an Imperial without the Edelweiss's armor in between, from the assault on Bruhl…
Martha, the matronly woman who had served as nanny to both her and Welkin both before and after they both were orphaned, dropped a basket full of bread and went to her knees, clasping at her swelled midsection. "Ooh!" was all she said, as the food spilled all over the stone floor of the kitchen.
Isara jumped from her packing. "Martha!" she cried, rushing down to her side. "What's happening!"
"The baby…" Martha had been due any day, but Isara had hoped they could evacuate Bruhl before it arrived. As it was, fate had its own agenda, and now Isara was torn between finishing the packing as fast as possible or helping out Martha and riding out the birth.
A rifle shot stopped her from having to make a choice.
Barging in through the brutally-unlocked door were two Imperials in full battle armor, although one had neglected to don the faceshield of his helmet. They quickly advanced forward, guns held ready towards the two of them.
Isara had heard of the standard Imperial brutality, civilians on the Federation front being mown down without pause. Her breath and heart rates spiked in terror, as she did her best to ignore them, instead calling "Martha!" once more. The only response she got back from her was a pained groan, but the Imperials decided to respond as well.
"What's her problem? She pregnant, or just fat?" sneered the one without a faceshield from behind an obviously overly-maintained mustache. Isara snapped her head towards him and his masked compatriot, resolving her fear into anger at this statement. The Imperials were perhaps going to have a little fun before killing them, as their conversation implied – she had to think of something before they got to that point.
"Who cares?" rasped Mask. "Not gonna make any difference when she's dead." The voice was dangerous, full of veiled threats in addition to the spoken one.
Now fully committed, Isara slowly stood up and squared herself against them, watching their guns rise to match her. "Stop this now," she declared, with as much authority as she could muster underneath the circumstances.
Mustache relaxed a bit, lowering his rifle, turning to Mask and pointing. "See what she's wearing? Take a good look at that shawl." Isara was in a conservative work dress, but she had thrown her personally-patterned shawl over it in a move of individuality – she had always worn it, never trying to hide her heritage. "She's a Darcsen," the Mustache stated as if Mask were stupid, some sort of retard who hadn't ever heard of them before. Darcsens were Europa's oldest indigenous race, after all.
Mask nodded a bit but didn't lower his guard as Mustache raised his weapon again. Isara stared him in the eye as he said his own piece. "Then that explains it," Mask said, as if explaining to a child as well. "I thought this place stunk. Now I know it does." She noted that one eye was covered in gauze, the other a brown approaching black, staring straight back at her with steel backing his gaze. "So, we got ourselves a fat one, and a stinky one," he continued mockingly. "Pee-eew, it's a regular pig farm in here." There was an edge of laughter in his voice now, but Isara felt none of the apparent humor.
Her gaze shifted left; the Gallian rifle that she had just finished cleaning – and loading – was still leaned behind a box out of view. She made the decision.
With only a shifted foot to telegraph the maneuver, she cartwheeled to it, snatched it up, and whipped it towards Mask – he was closer. She thought of a dozen different actions, but fearing Martha's fate if she simply shot, she spoke instead. "I will thank you to watch your tongue in this house," she snarled. Was there too much fear in her voice? She doubted it. All she felt now was determination and anger – especially anger. "You have to leave. NOW."
Mask seemed impressed, from the way his single pupil widened – but instead of backing off, he took a step forward. Isara scrambled to her own feet, shaken slightly by the show of confidence. "That's a big gun for such a little girl," Mask growled back. It was slightly overshadowed by the fact that he wasn't so much bigger than her, but the gun in his hands was enough of a threat. "Drop it."
She only shot him a look intended to kill. Despite only having a single eye to match her two, Mask let his own barely visible expression do the fighting. Out of the corner of her eye, Isara watched Mustache train his rifle on Martha, face almost bored, waiting, as if the end was a foregone conclusion. He took one step closer to her prone form, as if to kill her right then and there –
CRASH. "ISARA!" came Welkin's cry. He had burst through the same door that the two Imperials had rudely broken.
"Huh?" Mustache his head, keeping his weapon trained on Martha. Isara started as she saw her brother's face, full of the same determination she knew that her face had had moments earlier. "Hold it right there!" the Imperial shouted.
Time crawled as Isara snapped her gaze back to Mask. Instead of combat focus, though, all she saw was resignation, defeat, and almost a little embarassment. With a last, almost sheepish look, slowly, oh so slowly, he broke the look to turn his own head towards Welkin. But his rifle was not longer threatening her, but raised ever so slightly, almost as if he didn't want to hurt her.
Confusion went through her mind, questioning the charity. Mustache was turning his entire body, to get his rifle in line to shoot her Gallian brother. Why hadn't Mask shot, let his comrade delay Welkin and then handle Welkin with him?
It was then that Isara realized that Welkin had one of the fence poles from the yard in his hand. With a mighty swing, he brought it down into the side of Mask's head. He flew away with a choked cry and landed in a limp heap with a clatter of metal against stone. In a detached manner, Isara concluded that the impact probably broke his neck, or shattered his skull. Either way, Mask was dead. With that in mind, she pointed her rifle at Mustache, who was still only halfway turned.
Welkin was still recovering from the swing – but Mustache was almost done turning. "Die!" he cried as the rifle moved the last few inches.
CRACK. The recoil of the rifle was almost childlike against her shoulder, but its effects were anything but. For a moment, Mustache stood, frozen like they all were, rifle still raised but unfired. Smoke rose from a wound into his lower shoulder. Painfully, he turned his head enough to fire one last insult at Isara. "Darcsen… pig," and with that, he toppled like a felled tree.
Isara felt herself fill with horror. She'd killed him. She'd actually killed him. Her insides churned – she thought she was going to be sick.
Welkin saved her from that fate. "Isara, are you okay?" he called.
She closed off her feelings. There was an evacuation to be done.
"I'm okay, thanks to you." She lowered the rifle in a daze. "But Martha, I think she's…"
Minutes later, they were roaring out of the adjoining shed with a huge, unusual tank, the Edelweiss's first run in a long, long time.
And in the days to come, she watched Imperial after Imperial fall to the Edelweiss, torn apart by machinegun fire, evaporated in the blast of a shell, or worst of all crushed underneath the treads. She got over her killing horror, knew that it was the only course of action on the battlefield – kill or be killed.
But those eyes that had chosen the second option haunted her ever since.
Eyes still squeezed shut, she wondered as to how that man, so obviously broken by Welkin's smashing blow, was still here. But whatever the case, he seemed intent on revenge, advancing towards her cautiously – and armed.
She swallowed her insecurities as the-man-who-was-Mask stopped right at the table's side. The warmth of a hand's presence came close to her head. It was kill or be killed. As the hand gently touched her brow, she snapped, and snatched the largest wrench off of her skirt's holsters.
"WEEEELLLLKIN!" she cried as she whipped her entire body to the side, heavy metal tool in hand, whistling through the air at her assailant's skull. Welkin might have failed to kill him the first time, but she couldn't miss, not if she wanted to live.
Except she did, as the steel came to a clanging halt against another object of the same material, sounding how swords must have in the days of the Valkyrur.
Her eyes snapped open, and she rolled slightly, fearfully taking in the gaze of Mask – except he was no longer behind a mask; now his entire face was visible. Silhouetted against a lamp on the ceiling, Isara could still make out that his face was slightly twisted in pain, but still handsome, hair shining as if streaked with white – not merely glare from the lamp. Her wrench had been halted by the head of a small hammer, which he held carefully – not dangerously – over her form.
"Valkyrur, Isara, is this how you greet all your doctors?" he jibed. It was a bit weak, as she now realized that there was a slightly bloody bandage held in place by the gauze eyeband against the side of his head, but it was clear that he was not in any way trying to hurt her.
She had hit him earlier in her semi-consciousness, Isara realized. Oops. The word "doctor" suddenly switched on for her – someone had operated on her wound, and apparently, by the proud way he used the term, it had been him. Oops again. But wait, he didn't look nearly old enough to be that skilled –
There was a scrambling noise upstairs. Footsteps ran a short distance, jumped down a flight of stairs, landed hard enough to shake the floor, and shouldered the door open in haste – Welkin. "Isara! Are you –"
Isara and the doctor, respective weapons still locked together, could only look at him sheepishly as Welkin gaped.
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Long flashback is long. I'll have to do a second retelling of it from Celes's point of view when he explains to her later – but not now. Next blurb: just how is Welkin going to react to the sight of his half naked sister and the purported "doctor" locked in mortal wrench vs. hammer combat? And just what will Lieutenant Karst and Alicia think?
I was really hoping I could find a better way to insert this flashback, or at least trim it down – but I felt it was really important to show how Isara felt. I took some small liberties with it, but overall you should find that it matches the scene exactly.
Reviews, however, are going to be needed if you want to see how this pans out. They are the fuel that powers my rocket! No, not that rocket. Eeeeeewwwwww. *clasps hands over eyes*
But in all seriousness, go hit that button down there. Or else I'll insert in an omake scene involving a rocket. Or maybe I will if you do? The choice is yours! Review and leave your opinion. (NO, NOT THAT KIND OF ROCKET. NO LEMON TODAY. :3)
