Stellar Year, 2148, May 14th
Republic of San Magnolia
Somewhere Inside District 1
Major Vladilena Milizé. Never had a name, in the admittedly short history of the Republic, stirred up as much trouble as hers.
For one, she was the niece of Brigadier General Jérôme Karlstahl, a connection that brought both admiration and suspicion in equal measure. And for two, she held the distinction of being the youngest Major ever enlisted in the Armed Forces of San Magnolia—a fact that irked her peers and set her apart in a military structure rigid with tradition and hierarchy.
Despite her age, Lena's meteoric rise wasn't the result of nepotism, as many critics were quick to claim. Her intelligence, sharp tactical mind, and unrelenting determination had earned her rank and responsibility. Yet, it wasn't just her skills or her lineage that made her infamous.
It was her refusal to follow the rules.
Unlike her colleagues, who saw the Eighty-Six as expendable tools, Lena treated them as what they were—human beings. She wasn't content to simply hold her beliefs in private; she tried to bring her message to the future leaders of San Magnolia, the offspring of the officer corps.
She entered schools, auditoriums, and public forums, using her rank and reputation to gain access. With an unwavering voice, she spoke to students about the harsh realities of the war and the humanity of the Eighty-Six. She shared stories of their sacrifices and the cruelty they endured, hoping to spark compassion in hearts that had been shielded from the truth.
But this wasn't without consequence. Her defiance often landed her in trouble with the Military Police, intelligence agencies, and, most frequently, her immediate command structure. She received reprimands, warnings, and veiled threats, but Lena refused to back down.
For every crowd that ignored her, there was always one face in the audience that listened. One person who nodded in quiet agreement or stayed behind to ask questions. And that was enough for Lena. Enough to keep her pushing forward despite the growing hostility she faced.
Her name became a rallying cry for those who dared to question the Republic's treatment of the Eighty-Six, but it also made her a target—a symbol of rebellion against a system built on lies and dehumanization.
There were many attempts to strip her of her rank or outright throw her out of the military structure entirely. Her speeches, her open defiance of doctrine, and her growing influence among the younger generation were seen as dangerous by the Republic's upper echelons. Yet, each time, her uncle had the last say in the matter, acting like an unyielding guardian angel.
His authority shielded her from the consequences others were so eager to impose. Every reprimand, every court-martial attempt, every written order to remove her from service was met with his signature and an unspoken warning: She stays.
But even Jérôme couldn't ignore the views she held or the way she openly spread them. He had his own career and reputation to protect, and Lena's actions put a strain on both. When the backlash grew too loud to silence, he would summon her for private talks, his voice heavy with anger and frustration.
"You're pushing the line, Vladilena," he'd say, his stern expression giving nothing away. "If I didn't have your back, you'd already be out on the streets. Do you realize the risks you're taking?"
More often than not, these talks ended in him threatening to throw her out of the military himself. His words were sharp, his tone firm, but Lena could see through it. They were just that—threats.
Despite his bluster, he never followed through. Whether it was out of familial love, respect for her unrelenting spirit, or his own conflicted conscience, Jérôme always let her walk out of his office with her rank intact. But Lena knew the cost. She saw the strain it put on him, the silent battle he waged between loyalty to the Republic and loyalty to her.
And so, the delicate balance continued. Lena pushed boundaries, Jérôme pulled her back, and the Republic watched, waiting for the day when one of them finally broke.
All the knowledge Lena had of the Eighty-Six wasn't illegally obtained or read out of books. No, her understanding came from something far more profound—experience. She had seen it firsthand.
The fateful day her father died was the moment her world shattered, and she realized just how horrifying war could be. The images of destruction, the screams of the dying, and the chaos that followed burned themselves into her memory. But it wasn't just the loss of her father that opened her eyes—it was the truth that came after.
It was then she learned of the Eighty-Six. The so-called "tools of war," the expendable soldiers forced to fight the Legion in place of the Republic's citizens. With that revelation came the sickening understanding of the Republic's lies—how they masked the horrors with propaganda, and how they discarded human lives as if they were nothing more than numbers on a ledger.
What they were doing to the Eighty-Six wasn't just wrong. It was a violation on every conceivable level—of morality, of legality, of basic human decency. And as Lena wrestled with the weight of this truth, one haunting question took root in her mind: Who are the real monsters here?
The Legion was a relentless, unfeeling force, programmed to fight, kill, and conquer. Its actions were driven by code, by algorithms. There was no malice, no cruelty—just cold, mechanical efficiency.
But the Republic? The people of San Magnolia? They were human. They had free will. They possessed the capacity for empathy, the ability to discern right from wrong, and yet they chose to perpetuate this nightmare. They chose to exploit, dehumanize, and abandon the Eighty-Six to their fates.
In Lena's eyes, the Legion was a product of its programming—a force of nature, dangerous but predictable. The Republic, on the other hand, had no such excuse. Their atrocities were not the result of necessity or inevitability. They were choices.
And that realization shattered what little faith she had left in her homeland.
For the first time, she truly questioned everything she had been taught. If the Republic could look at the Eighty-Six—living, breathing people—and see only tools, then what else had they lied about? What other truths had they buried beneath the veneer of their so-called "peace"?
As a result of that life-altering experience, Lena chose to become a Handler—the only position within the Republic's military, besides the Logistics officers, that had "direct" contact with the Eighty-Six. For most, it was a detached and faceless role, issuing orders from behind a screen, safely removed from the horrors of the battlefield. But for Lena, it was her chance to make a difference, however small it might seem.
Handlers were, in essence, the Eighty-Six's mission commanders, operating as the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) for the units on the ground. Their role was to guide the Eighty-Six in their fights against the Legion, coordinating tactics and relaying battlefield intelligence in real time. In theory, they were supposed to be an integral part of the team—a voice of support and strategy for the soldiers risking their lives day and night.
But in practice, most of Lena's comrades used the position to further dehumanize the Eighty-Six. They treated the link between Handler and Processor as nothing more than a tool for control, hurling insults and disdainful orders through the Para-RAID system. Many reveled in the power it gave them, deliberately pushing the Eighty-Six into dangerous situations to watch them struggle—or outright die.
Lena's stomach churned every time she heard her peers callously dismiss the Eighty-Six as expendable, referring to their deaths as mere "acceptable losses" or even sources of entertainment. It wasn't just cruelty—it was systemic, ingrained in the very culture of the Republic's military.
But Lena was different. She refused to treat the Eighty-Six as anything less than human. She learned their voices, and their stories. She listened to their fears, their pain, and their hopes, even when sometimes they didn't want her to.
To her, being a Handler wasn't about issuing orders from a place of comfort. It was about standing with the Eighty-Six in every way she could, even if that meant enduring the scorn of her peers and the growing frustration of her superiors.
Her methods were unconventional, her compassion often unwelcome—but it was what made her more than just another Handler. It made her an ally.
Today was nothing special to Lena. The routine felt as mechanical as ever.
She barely had time to process her cold, emotionless breakfast with her mother before the message arrived—a terse order to report to her uncle, Brigadier General Jérôme Karlstahl, to discuss "matters." That was the exact word: matters. Vague, ominous, and exactly the kind of prelude she had come to expect.
Lena made her way through the towering military building, its sterile halls echoing with the clipped rhythm of her boots. She navigated its maze-like corridors with ease, her steps as brisk as her mood. It wasn't long before she reached his office, the door heavy and imposing.
She took a deep breath before stepping inside, but her composure didn't stop the storm from hitting her the moment the door closed behind her.
"Do you have any idea what kind of chaos you're causing, Vladilena?!"
Karlstahl's voice boomed through the room, the sharp edge of his anger cutting through the air like a blade. Lena didn't flinch. She'd heard this tone before—too many times to count.
Her uncle stood behind his desk, his gloved hands resting on the edge as he glared at her with a mix of frustration and something she couldn't quite place. Concern, maybe?
She didn't interrupt, letting him vent as he paced the room, his outburst gathering momentum. "You're reckless, insubordinate, and—dammit, Lena—you're making me look like I can't control my own blood!"
Lena stood perfectly still, her silver eyes locked on him with quiet defiance. "Is that what this is about, Uncle? Your reputation?"
His jaw tightened, his pacing halting abruptly as he turned to face her. "It's about everything," he snapped. "Your speeches, your insubordination, your insistence on treating those tools like they're more than what they are. It's undermining the system, Lena. It's dangerous."
She didn't waver. "It's the truth."
A tense silence followed, the air between them heavy with unspoken words. For a moment, it felt like neither of them would back down. Then Karlstahl sighed, running a hand through his greying hair.
"Why can't you just follow orders like everyone else?" he muttered, his voice quieter now but no less tired.
"Because 'everyone else' is wrong," Lena replied, her tone unwavering.
Karlstahl stared at her, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He looked like he wanted to yell again, to lash out and let his anger mask whatever else he was feeling. But instead, he shook his head, the weight of the moment dragging him down as he sank heavily into his chair.
"I know…" he began, his voice quieter now, almost defeated. "I know what we're doing is morally wrong, Lena. But doing this—using them—it's kept us alive this long."
Lena's silver eyes softened, though her stance remained firm. She watched as Karlstahl's gaze drifted to a picture on the shelf behind his desk. The photo, slightly faded but well-kept, showed him, his brother, and a young Lena smiling together. It was a rare glimpse of happiness, frozen in time.
Karlstahl reached for the picture, his fingers brushing against the frame as a bitter sigh escaped him. "If he'd done that too…" His voice cracked slightly, the words heavier than he expected. "If he'd put survival over ideals… he'd still be alive."
He placed the picture back on the shelf and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk as he buried his face in his palms.
Lena remained silent, her heart twisting at the sight of her uncle's rare vulnerability. For all his outbursts and stern lectures, she could see the cracks beneath the surface—the guilt, the doubt, and the lingering pain of losing her father.
Finally, Lena spoke, her voice steady but tinged with a quiet, simmering resolve. "But what kind of life is this, Uncle? Surviving by sacrificing others—forcing them to bear the burden we should be carrying ourselves?"
She stepped closer, her silver eyes locking onto his, sharp and unyielding. "Is that really the legacy we want to leave behind?"
Her tone rose, cracking under the weight of her emotions as she jabbed a finger toward the picture on the shelf. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you can sleep well in your bed at night, knowing full well what these people are going through!"
Her voice broke, and a stray tear welled up in her eye, threatening to spill as she glared at him.
Karlstahl looked up at her, his expression frozen. For a moment, the office was deathly silent, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air. His mouth opened slightly, as if to respond, but no words came.
The tear finally fell, sliding down Lena's cheek, but she didn't bother to wipe it away. "I know you're trying to protect me, Uncle. I know you think this is the only way. But you're wrong. This isn't living—it's surviving at the cost of our humanity. And if you think that's enough, then you've already lost more than just him."
Karlstahl's gaze faltered, shifting back to the photo on the shelf. The crack in his resolve was small, but it was there. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders sagging as if the weight of her words had physically struck him.
Father did not die to set an example of why this system works," Lena said, her voice sharper now, regaining its edge. She straightened, regaining control over her emotions, though her silver eyes burned with intensity. "He died to show everyone that victory doesn't come without a cost."
She glanced at the picture on the shelf, her gaze softening for a fleeting moment before it hardened again. "And in this war, the cost is our lives. Not theirs. Ours."
Karlstahl flinched slightly at her words, his hands tightening into fists on the desk.
"The people here…" Lena continued, her tone laced with bitterness, "they're just too stubborn, too selfish to see it. They'd rather send others to fight the war for them, to die for them, so they can cling to their illusion of peace."
Her words hung in the air, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.
Karlstahl's jaw tightened as he looked at her, his expression a mix of guilt and frustration. "You think I don't know that, Lena? You think I don't see it every day? These people are cowards, yes, but they're also the ones I've sworn to protect. It's my job to keep this Republic standing, no matter how broken and rotten it is from the inside!"
Lena's gaze snapped back to him, her voice rising again. "And that's exactly the problem! We're not protecting them—we're letting them rot! Shielding them from the consequences of their own decisions while throwing the Eighty-Six to the wolves!"
She paused, her chest rising and falling as she took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Father knew the truth. He knew what it meant to fight, to sacrifice. He didn't hide behind anyone else. He didn't send someone else to die in his place."
Karlstahl's face twisted, the words hitting deeper than he wanted to admit. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face as he sighed heavily.
"Lena…" he began, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "I know you mean well. But this isn't about ideals. It's about survival."
"And survival at the cost of everything we stand for isn't survival at all," Lena shot back, her voice firm.
Karlstahl sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping under the weight of their conversation. He reached across his desk and picked up a piece of paper, scanning it briefly before meeting Lena's gaze.
"I'm on a tight schedule today, Lena," he said, his voice weary. "And I know I won't be able to push you out of your mindset. So, let's get this over with."
Lena raised an eyebrow, her stance guarded as she waited for him to continue.
"You'll be leaving your current squadron," he said, setting the paper down with a decisive thud. "Effective immediately. You're being reassigned to a new squadron."
The words hung in the air for a moment, sinking in. Lena's eyes narrowed, her mind racing with possibilities. "Reassigned?" she echoed, her tone sharp. "To where? And why?"
Karlstahl leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as though bracing himself for another argument. "To a squadron that could use your… particular brand of command," he replied vaguely.
Lena's jaw tightened. "You mean one that no one else wants to lead," she said coldly.
Her uncle didn't deny it. Instead, he slid the paper across the desk toward her. "You're to report to the Spearhead Squadron tomorrow. They're stationed in the contested regions, on the frontlines."
Lena's breath caught for a moment, but she quickly masked her surprise. The Spearhead Squadron. The name alone carried weight—infamous for being the graveyard of Handlers. The ones assigned to it rarely lasted long, either due to the squadron's brutal conditions or the crushing reality of its mission.
Karlstahl looked at her, his expression unreadable. "If you're so determined to make a difference, Lena, this is your chance. But don't say I didn't warn you."
Lena stared down at the paper, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossing her features before she forced it away. "Fine," she said, her voice steady. "If that's where I'm needed, that's where I'll go."
Karlstahl leaned forward, his gaze heavy as he fixed Lena with a stern expression. "Good," he said, his tone flat. "But I need to tell you this before you walk into this."
Lena raised an eyebrow, sensing the weight behind his words.
"The last Handler assigned to Spearhead," he began, his voice quieter now but no less intense, "put a bullet through his brain during a Legion attack."
The room fell into a tense silence, the gravity of his statement sinking in. Lena's breath hitched for a moment, but she quickly composed herself, her silver eyes steady as she stared back at him.
"I won't," she said firmly, her voice unwavering.
Karlstahl studied her for a long moment, searching her face for any sign of doubt. "You're not like them, Lena," he finally said, his tone softening just slightly. "I know that. But even you have limits. And this squadron? They'll push you to every single one of them."
Lena straightened her posture, her resolve hardening. "If that's what it takes to do what's right, then so be it."
Her uncle sighed, leaning back in his chair as he ran a hand through his hair. "You've always been stubborn. Just… don't let your idealism get you killed, Lena. The Spearhead Squadron doesn't need a martyr. They need someone who can lead them.
Stellar Year, 2148, May 15th
Republic of San Magnolia
Somewhere Inside District 86
"Wait, wait, wait! Back up a little," Paul said, holding up a hand as he leaned forward on the table. "You're telling me, you're out here fighting these… what are they called, Legion? Because some silver-haired, silver-eyed assholes threw you out of the Republic of San Mongolia—or whatever it's called—just because you guys… look different?"
The question hung heavily in the air, tension thickening in the dimly lit mess hall. The Eighty-Six Processors sitting around the room exchanged wary glances, some bristling at the bluntness of the statement, others wearing grim expressions as if the truth was a weight they had grown used to carrying.
Raiden Shuga, sitting at the head of the table, leaned back in his chair with a faint smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "That's the gist of it," he said, his tone flat.
"Well, fuck me sideways. Sounds awfully familiar," Theodore muttered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, the hint of a bitter smirk tugging at his lips.
"Yeah, no kidding," chimed in Warrant Officer Jack Leeman, the Challenger's gunner, his tone laced with equal parts disbelief and disdain. He sat forward, resting his forearms on the table as he scowled. "So, let me get this straight, lad: these Republic cunts couldn't be bothered to fight their own bloody war, so they booted you lot out, slapped you with a number, and sent you out here to die instead?"
Daiya Irma, holding a black cat with white paws, finally spoke up, his tone calm but tinged with bitterness. "Well, almost. Everything's right—except the part with the numbers."
Jack Leeman raised an eyebrow, looking over at Corporal Arthur Williams, the driver of the Challenger, for some clarification. Williams, leaning casually against the wall, simply shrugged.
"Care to explain that one, lad?" Noah Piers asked, his curiosity piqued.
A young woman with silver hair joined the conversation, her expression stoic as she took a seat next to Daiya. "The Republic is split into 85 official districts—"
She was abruptly cut off by Gunnery Sergeant Elijah Jones, the vehicle commander of the Bradley IFV. He pointed at the woman with a sharp glare. "Wait a second. Don't we hate these guys?"
Daiya leaned forward protectively, his glare now aimed directly at Jones. The tension in the room escalated as the Bradley commander seemed caught off guard by the hostility.
"Just let her finish, then we'll ask questions, alright?" Paul Keller called out from behind Jones, his voice calm but firm. He gestured to the young woman apologetically. "Go ahead. Sorry for that."
The woman took a deep breath, collecting herself before continuing. "As I was saying, the Republic is split into 85 official districts, populated by those white pigs called the Alba. They see themselves as superior—better than everyone else."
Her voice hardened as she gestured toward Daiya and then to another young woman with fiery red hair sitting nearby. "And then there's the 86th District. The Colaterata. People like him, or her. We were rounded up, thrown into concentration camps, and shipped out here when the Legion emerged. Some bullshit presidential law was enacted, and just like that, our rights to practically exist were erased."
The room fell into an uneasy silence as the weight of her words settled over them.
"They hunted us, killed us, and forced the rest of us into the unofficial '86th District.' It's the immediate area surrounding the Grand Mure, a massive wall built to keep the Legion—and us—out of the Republic's cities."
Her voice wavered slightly as she finished, but her expression remained resolute.
"Concentration camps," Leeman muttered under his breath, his scowl deepening. "Jesus Christ."
Noah Piers shook his head, his expression grim. "And they just… did this? Without any resistance?"
Daiya shrugged, his grip on the cat tightening slightly. "What could we do? The Alba had the power, the resources, and the laws to back them up. They made sure we didn't stand a chance."
Paul crossed his arms, his voice low and heavy with disgust. "This is wrong on so many levels… this is just blunt genocide."
Sergeant Matteo Miller, the gunner of the Bradley IFV, stepped forward, his expression a mix of sorrow and indignation. He gestured toward the group of Eighty-Six with a questioning look. "And what exactly keeps you guys fighting?" he asked, his tone direct but not unkind. "I mean, you could just… you know…"
He raised two fingers and made a walking gesture on his palm. "Hop into your fancy spider tank thingies and walk off. Ain't that deep… or is it?"
The room grew tense as Matteo's words hung in the air. Raiden Shuga leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. His dark eyes carried an edge as he addressed Matteo directly.
"Walk off to where, exactly?" Raiden asked, his voice calm but sharp, his dark eyes locking onto Matteo.
"The Grand Mure?" Anju Emma added, her silver hair catching the dim light as she crossed her arms. "You think they'd let us back into the Republic? Or maybe further into Legion territory, where we'd just get hunted down and killed anyway?"
Kaie Teniya, busy preparing food with a few others in the kitchen, poked her head over the counter, her expression thoughtful but firm. "We fight because we have hope," she said, her voice carrying a quiet strength.
Matteo raised an eyebrow, surprised by her words. "Hope?" he echoed, his skepticism evident.
Kaie nodded, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. "Hope that, after all this mess, there will be somewhere we can go. Somewhere far away from war, oppression, and all that other crap."
Her words hung in the air, the simplicity of her statement somehow making it even more impactful. The NATO soldiers exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from curiosity to quiet respect.
Anju, still standing near Raiden, added softly, "We don't fight because we think we can win. We fight because if we don't, there's no chance for anything better."
Theoto Rikka, busy sketching something in his notebook, paused and looked up, his expression dark and unyielding. "What happens to those Alba sons of bitches, we couldn't care less," he said flatly, his voice carrying an edge that made even the NATO soldiers shift uncomfortably in their seats.
"If we knew with the utmost certainty that there was something akin to a paradise in the afterlife, I'd run into the sword without a second thought," he continued, his tone cold and unwavering. "No remorse. Knowing full well that the white assholes back there will die too—and they'll all land in hell."
He smirked grimly, his eyes flicking back down to his notebook. "Exactly what they deserve."
The silence that followed was deafening. The NATO crews exchanged uneasy glances, unsure how to respond to the venom in Theoto's words. The usually jovial atmosphere of the mess hall had turned somber, the weight of his hatred palpable.
Paul Keller finally broke the silence, his voice calm but firm. "I get it, kid. Believe me, I do. But carrying that kind of anger? That's a heavy load."
Theoto snorted, not bothering to look up from his sketch. "Don't mistake it for anger. Anger fades. This? This is what's left when anger burns out. When there's nothing else to feel."
Raiden leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable but his tone steady. "He's not wrong. When everything's been stripped away, hatred is all we have left. It keeps us moving. Gives us something to hold onto."
Anju frowned, her silver eyes narrowing. "Not all of us want to hold onto that, Raiden."
"Then what?" Raiden asked, his voice sharp but not unkind. "Hope? Like Kaie said? That's fine if it works for you. But not everyone's built the same, Anju."
The tension in the room thickened again, each of them sitting with their own thoughts, their own pain, their own reasons for fighting.
Gregory frowned, his arms crossed, clearly struggling to wrap his head around their perspective. "You guys can't tell me that all of you hate all the Alba the same. I mean, come on. You must know not all of them are the same, right?"
The room went still, the NATO soldiers watching the interaction carefully.
Dayia exhaled sharply, setting the black cat into Anju's lap before standing. He walked over to the NATO soldiers, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite Gregory, his expression cold and unyielding.
"Look, man," Dayia began, his voice steady but laced with a venomous edge. "I know what I believe in. I hate them all the same. Their politicians, their teachers, their elderly, their children—every single one of them can die, and I'd piss on each of their graves all the same."
Gregory's eyes widened slightly at the raw hatred in Dayia's tone, but the Eighty-Six soldier didn't stop.
"So stop pretending to be some kind of good Samaritan," Dayia continued, his voice growing sharper, "when you have no idea what it feels like to be hunted out of your home, stripped of your name, and chased across the whole damn country. You sit there, trying to justify that maybe, just maybe, one of them isn't like the others. But let me tell you something, NATO boy—they all watched. They all stayed silent. And silence makes them just as guilty."
The air was thick with tension as Dayia's words hung heavily in the room.
Paul Keller leaned forward slightly, his voice low but firm. "Look, kid, I'm not saying you don't have the right to feel the way you do. Hell, I've seen my share of silent bastards standing by when shit goes south. But if you let that hatred consume you, it's going to burn you up inside. Trust me on that."
Dayia's sharp gaze turned to Paul, the unspoken challenge in his eyes clear. "Good thing I'm already burned out," he said quietly, his tone void of emotion.
Paul shook his head, watching as Dayia returned to his seat next to Anju, the black cat curling up in her lap. Paul's expression was calm but firm, the weight of his words measured.
"I don't think you're understanding me, kid," Paul began, his voice steady and carrying a note of hard-earned wisdom. "I've got a couple more years under my belt than you. I know what I'm talking about because I've been there. I've fought in wars for people I didn't know. In places I never thought I'd see in real life. I've stood in the same damn shoes you're wearing right now."
Dayia glanced at Paul but said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he listened.
Paul leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "I've seen my fair share of what a human can do to another human. It doesn't matter what flag you're flying or what side you're on—war brings out the worst in all of us. I've got a whole damn file of videos on my phone, kid. Footage from the war back in my world. Point-of-view shots taken by soldiers, drones, tanks, everything. I've seen comrades die. Brothers in arms get their legs blown off. Civilians caught in the crossfire, screaming for help that never comes."
His voice grew quieter, the weight of his memories pressing down on him. "You think you're the only one who's been through hell? You think you're the only one who's angry? Trust me, I get it. I've seen shit you wouldn't believe. But holding onto that rage? It eats at you. Little by little, it turns you into the very thing you hate."
The room fell silent again, the NATO crew and the Eighty-Six alike digesting his words. Dayia's jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him, but he didn't reply.
Paul exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. "I'm not saying what you feel isn't justified. But don't let it control you. Don't let it define you. Because once you go down that road, there's no coming back."
Dayia scoffed but didn't reply, his shoulders stiff as he stared down Gregory and the rest of the NATO soldiers.
Paul sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "You don't believe me? Fine, suit yourself. But don't come back to me or any of us saying I didn't warn you."
Before anyone could respond, Kurena Kukumila, the young woman with fiery red hair, stood abruptly. Her chair scraped harshly against the floor as she glared at Paul, her eyes blazing with anger and grief.
"And what about me?" she demanded, her voice trembling with barely restrained emotion. "These white pigs killed my parents. Do you know how? They used them for… for target practice."
The room went deathly quiet. Even the black cat in Anju's lap stirred uneasily as Kurena's words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn't waver. "I not only can't forgive them—I won't forgive them. Ever. Not for what they've done. That's where I stand behind Daiya."
Her glare intensified as she locked eyes with Paul, daring him to challenge her.
Paul met her gaze evenly, his expression softening slightly but his tone remaining firm. "I'm not asking you to forgive them," he said quietly. "Hell, if someone did that to my family, I'd probably feel the same way you do. But living with that kind of hatred—it's like carrying a loaded gun pointed at your own chest. You'll fire it one day, and the only one who's going to bleed is you."
Kurena's fists clenched at her sides, and for a moment, it seemed like she might lash out.
Noah Piers leaned forward, his usually lighthearted demeanor replaced by a rare seriousness. His British accent gave his words a certain weight as he spoke.
"One thing I've learned while serving in the military is this: you can forgive. But you can't let yourself forget." His gaze moved to Kurena, then to Dayia, before settling back on the group as a whole. "I forgave my enemy for taking my friends. For killing my brothers in arms. But I will never—never—forget the sacrifices they made to protect what they loved."
His voice was steady but carried an undertone of emotion that couldn't be ignored. "Forgiveness isn't about letting them off the hook or pretending it didn't happen. It's about not letting their actions consume you. If you let your hatred control you, it becomes a leash—and the people you hate? They're the ones holding the other end."
Kurena's eyes darted to Noah, her fiery defiance now mixed with uncertainty. Dayia shifted uncomfortably in his seat, crossing his arms as though shielding himself from the words.
Noah continued, his tone softening. "It's not easy. Hell, it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do. But carrying all that anger, all that pain? It's like dragging a bag of bricks everywhere you go. At some point, you have to put it down, or it'll break you."
He leaned back, letting the silence settle for a moment before adding, "I'm not saying you have to forgive them now. Or ever, for that matter. But don't let them win by turning you into something you're not. You're stronger than that."
The room was quiet again, the tension shifting into something more introspective. Even Paul nodded slightly, seemingly in agreement with Noah's sentiment.
Kurena looked away, her fists unclenching just slightly. Anju reached out and gave her a gentle pat on the arm, her expression warm but understanding.
"Maybe we're not ready to forgive," Anju said softly, "but maybe someday, we can learn to let go. Not for them—but for ourselves and for our fallen."
The room fell into a heavy yet strangely comfortable silence, the weight of the conversation settling over everyone like a thick blanket. The NATO soldiers and the Eighty-Six alike sat in quiet reflection, each lost in their own thoughts.
Paul leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the floor. Memories of battles fought and lives lost flitted through his mind, blending with the stories he'd just heard.
Noah tapped his fingers idly on the table, his usual grin absent as he stared into the distance. His words about forgiveness echoed in his mind, and he wondered if he truly believed them himself.
Kurena remained seated, her fiery red hair falling over her face as she stared at her hands. Her earlier outburst replayed in her head, and for the first time in a long while, she wondered if her hatred was the only thing keeping her moving—or the very thing holding her back.
Dayia scratched the black cat behind the ears, his expression unreadable as he focused on the soothing motion. The anger simmering inside him hadn't disappeared, but something about the soldiers' words had stirred something deep within him—something he wasn't ready to confront just yet.
Anju watched the group from her seat, her blue eyes soft but contemplative. She could feel the shift in the atmosphere, the unspoken understanding that, despite their differences, everyone in that room carried scars they couldn't quite heal.
Then, out of nowhere, the Para-RAID of the Processors suddenly went on and linked to something, or someone they had never heard before.
"Handler-1 to Spearhead Squadron." A young female voice crackled through the Para-RAID system, clear and direct.
The entire room froze. The sounds of chatter, the clinking of utensils in the kitchen, even the faint hum of activity—all of it came to an abrupt halt.
Dayia, who had been absentmindedly petting the black cat on his lap, stiffened. The cat, almost sensing the tension, stopped moving and stared straight at him. Around the table, the other Processors exchanged wary glances, their faces a mix of confusion and unease.
"Handler-1 to Spearhead Squadron, does anyone read me?" The young female voice repeated, this time carrying a slight edge of confusion.
The room remained deathly still. The tension was so thick it seemed to choke the air, and the silence was deafening. Even the cat on Dayia's lap didn't move, its tail frozen mid-swish.
Then, breaking the oppressive quiet, Shin finally moved. He set down the book he'd been reading and glanced around the room, his calm gaze sweeping over the frozen Processors and finally settling on the NATO soldiers.
The NATO crew, oblivious to the Para-RAID communication, exchanged confused glances.
Paul leaned closer to his gunner, Gregory, his voice low but laced with curiosity. "Why's everyone looking like they've seen a ghost?"
Gregory shrugged indifferently, his confusion mirroring Paul's. "Hell if I know. Maybe they all lost a bet or something?" he muttered, his tone trying to mask the unease creeping into his own chest.
Noah, seated nearby, leaned in with a smirk. "Looks more like someone just told them their favorite footie team lost the championship. Except… it's way creepier."
Shin's attention shifted back to the group of Processors. He noticed Kurena clutching the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. Anju sat stiffly, her gaze fixed on the floor. Dayia still hadn't moved, his hand hovering above the cat as if paralyzed.
With a slow, deliberate breath, Shin straightened and responded.
"Undertaker here. Loud and clear, Handler-1," he said, his voice calm and detached as always.
The words seemed to ripple through the room like a stone dropped into still water. The Processors exchanged uneasy glances, their dread palpable. The mere act of Shin acknowledging the new Handler felt like a shift in the air, a reminder of the ever-present burden they all carried.
Paul squinted at Shin. "Alright, who the fuck's Undertaker, and why does it sound like we just walked into a horror flick?"
Shin ignored him, his focus entirely on the Para-RAID. "Your orders, Handler-1?" he asked flatly, his tone betraying neither emotion nor expectation.
The person on the other end seemed momentarily taken aback, her hesitation evident through the Para-RAID. A faint rustling sound accompanied by a barely audible gasp escaped her lips before she finally spoke.
"Uh, nothing. No orders," she replied quickly, her words hurried and uncertain. A nervous, obviously forced chuckle followed. "I'm just here to chat with you guys. I want to… get to know you."
The room's tension didn't dissipate; if anything, it grew heavier. The Processors exchanged wary glances, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Kurena's grip on the counter tightened, her knuckles white as she glared at the floor. Raiden's expression hardened, and Dayia leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms and letting out a quiet scoff.
Shin's expression remained unreadable, but his sharp eyes flicked briefly to the corner of the room before focusing back on the unseen voice in his mind.
"Handler-1," he began flatly, but was abruptly cut off.
"I am Major Vladilena Milizé," the voice interjected quickly, her tone carrying a mix of formality and uncertainty. "Just call me Lena, or Handler-1."
The announcement hung in the air for a moment, and Raiden's smirk grew wider. He leaned back slightly, turning toward Theoto with a mischievous glint in his eye. Without saying a word, he raised his index finger and snapped it, pointing directly at him.
Theoto, catching on immediately, rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small grin tugging at his lips. He flipped to a fresh page in his sketchbook and began drawing furiously, his pencil scratching against the paper.
The NATO soldiers gathered in their own little corner, exchanging puzzled glances as they watched the Processors. It was clear to them that some sort of communication was happening—likely over a radio or some advanced system. But the odd part? There were no visible headsets, earpieces, or any traditional communication devices on the Processors.
Instead, each one of them had a strange metallic clasp-like object attached to the top of the helix of their ears. The device emitted a faint green glow, pulsing steadily like a heartbeat.
Paul furrowed his brows, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Alright, can anyone explain what the hell is going on? What's that thing on their ears?"
Gregory leaned in closer to Paul, nodding toward the device. "Looks like some sort of neural implant Mumbo-Jumbo."
The Processors remained entirely focused on their Para-RAID conversation, ignoring the NATO soldiers' murmured speculations about the strange glowing devices on their ears. For the Processors, the exchange with their new Handler was far more engaging—and far more important.
Shin sighed, his usual stoic demeanor unshaken despite the tension in the room. He decided to humor the new voice in his head. "I'm Undertaker," he said flatly, his tone carrying both detachment and authority. "The captain of the Spearhead Squadron."
There was a brief pause before the Handler's voice came through again, her nervousness still apparent despite her attempt to maintain a professional tone. "Thank you, Undertaker. I… I appreciate the introduction. And what about the others?" she asked, her tone sweet and curious, as if trying to put them at ease.
Shin's gaze shifted, locking onto his squadron with unblinking eyes. They stared back, their expressions weary and reluctant. "I'm not going to push them to—" he began, his voice calm but clipped, only to be abruptly cut off.
"First Lieutenant Wehrwolf. Executive Officer of the Spearhead Squadron and leader of the Second Platoon," Raiden interjected, his tone lighthearted, almost mocking in its delivery. His smirk widened as he leaned back, clearly enjoying himself.
Shin's neutral expression didn't shift, but his gaze lingered on Raiden for a moment.
Raiden, however, wasn't fazed. He knew full well that their new Handler wouldn't last long. None of them ever did. If she wanted to play the game, he'd give her a taste of what she'd signed up for.
"Good to meet you, Wehrwolf," Lena replied, her voice carrying genuine warmth despite the undercurrent of tension.
The room stayed silent for a moment, the Processors exchanging hesitant glances. Finally, Kurena sighed heavily, leaning against the table.
"Second Lieutenant Gunslinger. Sixth Platoon sharpshooter," she said curtly, her tone sharp enough to draw blood.
"Second Lieutenant Laughing Fox, CQC, Third Platoon leader," Theoto added dryly, not even looking up from his sketchbook.
"Fifth Platoon. Second Lieutenant Snow Witch. Rocket Artillery," Anju said with a faint smile, though it didn't reach her eyes.
Dayia remained silent, his expression dark as he stroked the black cat in his lap. The silence stretched uncomfortably, and Raiden, ever the instigator, nudged him with his foot.
Dayia scowled but finally muttered, "Second Lieutenant Black Dog. Fifth Platoon rocket artillery leader." His tone was clipped, his words barely audible over the tension in the air.
Kaie leaned over the counter, her tone more genuine than the others. "Second Lieutenant Kirschblüte. Fourth Platoon 'fire support' leader," she said with a calm but firm voice.
Lena hesitated for a moment, the weight of their introductions settling over her. "Thank you… all of you," she said softly, her sincerity palpable.
Unbeknownst to the Eighty-Six, Lena sat at her desk, a small lamp illuminating the scattered papers and notebooks before her. In the quiet of her room, her hand moved deftly across the page, sketching out rough outlines and features based on the voices and personalities of the Processors she'd spoken to.
Her Ink pen paused for a moment, hovering above the page as she reflected on each introduction. Wehrwolf, with his sharp wit and commanding tone—she imagined him with a confident posture and a sly smirk. Gunslinger, curt and to the point, seemed like someone who always stood on edge, ready for anything. Laughing Fox—creative and dry, his personality practically jumped off the page.
Her notebook was filled with details she had gleaned from their voices and the words they chose, from Snow Witch's faintly melancholic tone to Black Dog's simmering bitterness. Each sketch was accompanied by hastily scribbled notes:
Wehrwolf: confident, lighthearted under pressure, sharp instincts.
Kirschblüte: genuine, perhaps the calmest of the group—empathetic?
Black Dog: deeply hurt, carries a heavy burden.
Lena's lips tightened as her ink pen began moving again. She was determined to understand them, to see them as more than names and codenames on a screen. She had no illusions about the skepticism and distrust they harbored toward her. They had every reason to doubt her, but this was how she would begin to bridge the gap.
She glanced at a small portrait she had drawn earlier—a shadowy figure in a Juggernaut cockpit. "Undertaker," she whispered under her breath, her tone both contemplative and determined.
Lena knew this wasn't in the official protocol for Handlers. She wasn't supposed to think of the Processors as individuals, let alone sketch them like this. But she also knew the rules weren't designed to help the Eighty-Six survive—they were designed to maintain a lie.
"Not this time," she thought, gripping the ink pen tighter. "I'll prove to them that I'm not like the others."
Lena nearly jumped out of her seat at Shin's sudden voice, her pencil halting mid-stroke. His tone was, as always, cold and detached, carrying that unshakable calm that somehow still managed to unsettle her.
"Handler-1, I need a favor," he said simply, as if the request carried no weight.
"Uh—of course! Whatever you wish… UHH! No! I mean, whatever you need!" Lena's face turned crimson as the words tumbled out of her mouth, her professionalism utterly derailed.
For a moment, the Para-RAID line went deathly silent.
Then it started—first a chuckle from Raiden, quickly followed by a stifled snort from Endign Haruto, another of the Processors. In seconds, the entire Spearhead Squadron was howling with laughter.
Raiden's voice was the first to break through. "Oh, she's definitely new," he said between bouts of laughter.
"Major Milizé, do you want us to give you a moment to collect yourself?" Theoto asked mockingly, his tone dripping with amusement.
Kaie's voice cut through the lingering laughter, playful and teasing. "Careful, Handler-1. You'll scare off Undertaker and make someone else real mad if you keep that up," she said, her words dripping with mischief as she shot a pointed look at Kurena.
The reaction was immediate. Kurena's face turned an even deeper shade of red, rivaling Lena's earlier blush. "K-Kaie!" she sputtered, glaring daggers at her squadmate while trying to maintain her composure.
Even Shin, who rarely reacted to anything, gave a faint, almost imperceptible sigh. "…Are you done?" he asked flatly, his voice cutting through the laughter.
Lena buried her face in her hands, both mortified and flustered. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered, struggling to recover even a shred of dignity. "What… what favor do you need, Undertaker?"
Shin's tone remained as cold and detached as ever. Without missing a beat, he glanced over at the NATO soldiers and did a quick head count. "I need eleven more Para-RAID devices," he said flatly, as if asking for something as trivial as a spare pen.
The room fell silent, the air thick with tension as everyone processed his words.
Lena blinked, momentarily thrown off. "E-Eleven? Para-RAIDs?" she repeated, her voice laced with confusion.
Raiden whistled low, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. "Well, that's one way to break the ice," he muttered, earning a few chuckles from the squad.
The NATO soldiers, on the other hand, exchanged puzzled glances. Paul raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to Gregory. "What the hell's a Para-RAID?" he whispered.
"I was just about to ask you," Gregory replied, equally lost.
Lena, snapping out of her stupor, cleared her throat. "I… I'll see what I can do, but that's a tall order, Undertaker. Para-RAIDs aren't exactly something I can just hand out. Why do you need them?"
Shin's flat response was like a slap against the quiet tension in the room. "Ours broke," he said simply, his voice devoid of any emotion.
Lena blinked, momentarily thrown off by the abruptness of his statement. "But didn't you just—" she began, referencing how she had just heard all the members of the Spearhead Squadron introduce themselves.
"They broke," Shin cut her off, his tone sharper now, a glacial edge creeping into his voice.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost oppressive. Lena felt her stomach twist as the weight of his words sank in. The calm efficiency in his voice only served to underscore the harsh reality he was describing.
Raiden leaned back in his chair, a small smirk playing at his lips despite the gravity of the situation. "Yeah, they broke, Handler. Surprise, surprise. Can't exactly get good replacement parts out here in the middle of nowhere."
Theoto chimed in without looking up from his sketchbook, his tone dry. "And when we say 'broke,' we mean fried. Overloaded. Kaput. Not exactly something you can patch up with duct tape and a prayer."
Kurena sighed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "It's a miracle they lasted this long, to be honest. These things weren't exactly made to withstand constant use in a warzone."
Lena's mind raced as she tried to process the situation. "I… I'll have to check with Logistics, but if you've lost your Para-RAIDs… how have you been communicating with each other?"
"Don't worry about that," Anju replied softly, her tone light and teasing. The faintest hint of a smirk played on her lips as she leaned back in her chair.
"Can you get them or not, Handler-1?" Shin interjected, his tone cutting through the room like a blade.
Lena froze for a moment, the weight of his question crashing down on her. She could feel the pressure in his voice, the unspoken urgency behind the calm veneer.
"I…" she started, then stopped, her hands gripping the edge of her desk. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I'll do everything I can. I can't promise anything right now, but I'll get in touch with Logistics immediately. You'll have an answer soon."
Shin didn't respond immediately. The silence dragged for a moment before he finally spoke, his voice neutral but resolute. "Do it fast. We can't afford to wait long."
"Understood," Lena replied, her voice firm despite the knot forming in her stomach. She glanced down at her notebook, the names and notes about the Spearhead Squadron staring back at her like a reminder of the stakes.
The tension in the room was palpable as the Para-RAID connection went quiet for a brief moment. Raiden broke the silence with his usual casual tone. "Well, if that's settled, maybe Handler-1 can send us a pizza next time too."
The squad chuckled softly, the tension in the air easing just enough to feel almost normal. Lena allowed herself a faint smile, her professionalism momentarily giving way to a hint of warmth.
"Okay," she said, her tone lighter now, "I think that's enough for today. I'll make sure to follow up on those Para-RAIDs and get back to you tomorrow, same time. Rest up, and… good night, you guys."
The response was a mix of mumbled goodbyes, with Raiden chiming in, "Sweet dreams, Handler-1. Don't work too hard now."
Kurena muttered a reluctant "Good night," while Theoto simply waved dismissively, not bothering to look up from his sketchbook.
Shin, true to form, gave a curt, "Good night, Handler-1" before the Para-RAID went silent on his end.
The room went quiet again, the weight of the silence pressing down on everyone, until Noah suddenly jumped up from his seat. His boots thudded heavily against the floor as he strode over to Shin, spinning around to face the entire squadron.
"Alright," he began, his voice sharp and demanding, "someone's gotta tell me, right now, what the bloody fuck a Para-RAID is and what's all this about these… I guess call signs you lot keep throwing around. If no one starts talking, I swear to God, I'm gonna break shit."
The Eighty-Six stared at him, their expressions ranging from mild amusement to outright irritation. Raiden leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a smirk. "Well, you've got a lot of energy for someone who has no clue what's going on."
Noah shot him a glare, his frustration evident. "Don't test me, mate. You're all sitting around like this is normal, but to us, it looks like you're talking to thin air and calling each other by some code names straight out of a bloody war novel."
Shin's cold gaze settled on Noah, his tone as flat as ever. "Para-RAID is how we communicate. It's a neural link system. We don't need radios or earpieces to stay connected."
Noah blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. "A… neural link?" he repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Kurena rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "Great, now we have to explain it to the dinosaurs."
"Hey! Watch it, lassie!" Noah shot back, his irritation flaring as he jabbed a finger in her direction.
Dayia sighed, stroking the cat in his lap, his voice carrying an air of exhaustion. "Think of it as being able to hear someone's thoughts, but only when they let you. It's not complicated."
Theoto, still engrossed in his sketchbook, chimed in without looking up. "And the 'call signs,' as you put it, are just our code names. The Handlers can't know our real names… or rather, they don't want to know them. Because giving a name to something you use as a tool makes you feel empathetic toward it. That's why."
Noah frowned, his eyebrows furrowing deeply as he tried to process the information. "So, let me get this straight," he began slowly, his tone cautious but laced with disbelief. "You lot get stuck with these call signs because your handlers—those bastards who sit back nice and comfy—don't want to see you as people?"
Raiden shrugged casually, leaning back in his chair. "That's about the gist of it. Keeps their consciences clean, I guess."
Kurena crossed her arms tightly, glaring at the floor. "Clean enough to sleep at night, anyway. Or so they think."
The room grew heavy with tension, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on everyone. Noah let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. "That's bloody disgusting," he muttered, his voice low.
Dayia glanced up, his expression cold but weary. "Welcome to our world, NATO. This is what we live with every day."
Theoto suddenly jumped up, a sly grin plastered on his face, as he held his sketchbook high in the air. On the page was a cartoonish, humanized female pig, decked out in what could only be described as a military dress uniform. Above her head, a speech bubble read: "I'm not like the others."
The room erupted with laughter. The Eighty-Six pointed at the sketch, some nodding in approval, others leaning over to get a better look as they chuckled.
Kurena smirked, her earlier irritation replaced by genuine amusement. "That's perfect, Theoto. You've really outdone yourself this time."
Raiden clapped slowly, a mischievous grin on his face. "I'd say that's Handler-1 in a nutshell, but that's probably giving her too much credit."
Even Anju, usually the calmest among them, couldn't suppress a small smile. "It's not far off from how most Handlers act, though."
The NATO soldiers exchanged baffled glances, unsure whether to laugh or stay quiet. Paul finally broke the silence on their end, leaning forward with an amused but confused look. "Alright, I gotta ask. Is this supposed to represent your new handler or… all of them?"
Theoto smirked as he carefully tore the page from his sketchbook and placed it on the table for everyone to see. "Take your pick," he said with a shrug, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Stellar Year, 2148, May 15th
Republic of San Magnolia
Somewhere Inside District 1
The morning went by just as any other had for Lena over the last couple of years. Her alarm blared at precisely 0600, and she rolled out of bed with a groan, her silver hair a tangled mess as she shuffled to the bathroom. The usual cold shower did little to wake her up; her thoughts were already consumed with the task ahead.
Breakfast with her mother was a quiet, tense affair, as it always was. The elder Milizé sat at the head of the table, composed and distant, her every word laced with unspoken disapproval. Lena didn't bother trying to make conversation anymore. It was easier that way.
She finished her meal quickly, her mind already on the logistics of her new assignment. Spearhead Squadron. A name that carried weight and an undeniable air of finality. Every Handler in the Republic knew what it meant to be assigned to them.
By the time Lena reached the military headquarters, her usual calm mask was firmly in place. She breezed past the indifferent stares of her colleagues, their eyes following her every move but never daring to meet hers directly. She could feel their disdain, their whispered judgments, but she didn't care. She knew what she stood for, and she knew it was the right way.
As Lena reached the biometric scanner, she felt a light tap on her shoulder. Annoyed, she spun around sharply, a glare ready to sear through whoever thought it was a good idea to bother her this early.
But the harsh expression melted away the moment her eyes landed on the familiar face of Henrietta von Penrose. Her friend stood there, her usual tired expression framed by slightly disheveled hair, a tablet tucked under one arm and a coffee cup in the other.
"Good morning, Major," Henrietta said flatly, though a teasing undertone crept into her voice as a faint smirk tugged at her lips.
Lena exhaled, a mixture of relief and exasperation flooding her. "Annette, you scared me half to death. Do you have to sneak up on me like that?"
Henrietta took a sip from her coffee, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Scared? You? I thought the brave Major Vladilena Milizé didn't get scared." She gestured lazily toward the biometric scanner. "Besides, you looked like you were about to murder someone. I couldn't resist seeing that infamous glare in action."
Lena rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a small smile. "What are you doing here this early? Shouldn't you be buried in your lab, making everyone else's life miserable?"
Henrietta snorted softly. "Charming, as always. Actually, I came to find you. There's something we need to talk about in my Lab. Urgently."
The two made their way through the sterile hallways of the military building, Henrietta leading with brisk determination while Lena followed close behind. The hum of machinery and faint chatter of staff echoed around them, but neither woman paid it any mind.
Reaching the laboratory, Henrietta wasted no time pushing open the door, then heading straight to her office. She flicked on the lights, revealing a cluttered but methodically arranged space filled with monitors, files, and various technical equipment. She dropped her coffee cup on the desk and booted up her PC, motioning for Lena to take a seat.
"Alright, you've got to see this," Henrietta said, her voice low but tinged with urgency.
Lena sat down across from her, curiosity etched on her face. She leaned forward slightly as Henrietta navigated through a maze of folders, finally opening one labeled simply as Tank.
With a double-click, the file opened, displaying the interface of a radar system. A large play button sat in the middle of the screen, clearly marking it as a recorded video.
Henrietta turned the monitor slightly toward Lena and tapped the play button. The screen came to life, showing the radar sweep in real time. At first, there was nothing unusual—just standard readings. Then, suddenly, a sharp spike of static and a blip appeared on the screen, accompanied by a faint, distorted noise.
"Look at this," Henrietta said, pointing at the screen. The radar showed an anomaly materializing seemingly out of nowhere. "This is the exact moment that tank hit District-1," she said, her voice calm but loaded with significance.
She didn't wait for Lena's response before opening another file labeled Tank-2. It displayed the feed from a traffic camera positioned on the street where the tank had appeared. Henrietta quickly synchronized the two files, placing them side by side.
"Now watch," she instructed, her finger hovering over the play button.
She pressed it, and both feeds began to play simultaneously. On the radar, the sweep moved over a quiet area, showing nothing out of the ordinary. Meanwhile, the traffic camera displayed the usual bustling streets of San Magnolia. Civilians walked about, vehicles moved steadily, and everything seemed normal—until it didn't.
The camera feed abruptly turned grainy, distorting as static hissed faintly through the speakers. On the radar, a sudden spike appeared—jagged and unnatural. The traffic camera feed flickered violently before cutting out entirely, leaving only the radar screen to display the anomaly's presence.
Henrietta paused the footage. "See that?" she asked, pointing to the sharp spike on the radar. "This is when everything goes haywire."
She resumed the videos. The radar's signal spiked once more, marking the exact location where the anomaly materialized. Then, almost like clockwork, the traffic camera feed rebooted itself, the image gradually returning to show absolute chaos.
Out of nowhere, the massive tank slid into frame, its caterpillar treads grinding against the asphalt as it barreled down the street. Vehicles were crushed, civilians screamed and scattered, and debris flew everywhere as the tank finally came to a halt, smashing into a concrete wall.
Lena's face tightened as she leaned closer to the screen, her silver eyes narrowing. "It just… appeared. No prior disturbance, no thermal readings, no nothing. Just static, then devastation."
"Exactly," Henrietta confirmed, folding her arms. "But that wasn't it," she added, her tone growing darker. She turned back to her computer and searched for another file.
"This is a feed from another radar station—this time, over the Grand Mur. It captured something else entirely," she said, opening the file and hitting play.
The radar feed began to roll. As always during a Legion attack, the radar was a chaotic mess. Signals bounced everywhere, scrambled by the Eintagsfliegen's interference, creating static and false pings. The screen flickered and glitched, reflecting the battle raging beyond the Grand Mur.
But then something strange happened.
An area of interference suddenly cleared, as if something had swept the Eintagsfliegen aside. For a brief moment, the radar displayed an unobstructed view: Juggernauts skirmishing with Legion units, explosions lighting up the battlefield.
Henrietta froze the frame. "See this?" she asked, pointing to the radar.
Before Lena could respond, Henrietta resumed the playback. Another sharp spike appeared, identical to the one recorded in District-1. Only this time, it wasn't alone.
The radar registered not one, but three simultaneous spikes. The chaotic lines on the radar turned jagged as the interference cleared in three separate locations.
"What the…?" Lena leaned in, her eyes glued to the screen.
The feed continued, showing the radar signatures of the three massive tanks for a fleeting moment before chaos returned. The Eintagsfliegen, relentless in their interference, began to swarm back into the area. Their jamming capabilities overwhelmed the radar system once again, turning the display into a mess of static and erratic pings.
Henrietta sighed, pausing the video. "And just like that, the radar lost them. Whatever they are, they either moved out of range, or the Eintagsfliegen deliberately cloaked their exit."
Lena frowned, her mind churning with possibilities. "What about visuals? Drones, satellites, anything?"
Henrietta shook her head. "Nothing definitive. Any visual feeds we had were also compromised. The only thing we know for sure is that these vehicles are unlike anything we've ever encountered—and that they can stand toe-to-toe with the Legion and win."
Then an idea crept into Lena's mind. Her silver eyes sharpened with sudden urgency as she grabbed Henrietta firmly by the shoulders. "Where was this?" she demanded, her voice edged with determination.
Henrietta flinched, startled by Lena's sudden shift. "I—hold on!" she stammered, trying to free herself from the Major's grip while simultaneously searching her computer. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, opening a map overlay on her screen.
After a tense moment, Henrietta finally pulled up the location. "Here," she said, pointing to a marked spot on the map. "It's just beyond the Grand Mur, near Point Zero-One-Zero. That's where the radar captured the anomalies."
Lena leaned closer, her silver eyes narrowing as she scanned the coordinates. Slowly, her grip on Henrietta's shoulders loosened. "Point Zero-One-Zero…" she murmured. Her voice dropped to a near whisper as realization dawned. "That's the position of the Spearhead Squadron."
Henrietta's brows furrowed, concern flickering in her tired eyes. "Lena, what are you thinking? And what about the Spearhead Squadron? Why does it matter?"
The Major straightened, her determination etched into every line of her face. "I have to go," Lena said firmly. She grabbed her officer's cap, placed it on her head with purpose, and turned toward the door.
Henrietta blinked in confusion, reaching out instinctively. "What? Lena?! Hey!" she called after her, panic lacing her voice. But the Major was already out the door, her boots echoing sharply down the corridor.
Henrietta sank back into her chair, staring at the map on her screen. "She's going to get herself killed," she muttered under her breath. A nervous energy settled over her as she tapped her fingers against the desk. "Damn it, Lena…"
Current Character and Vehicles:
Iron Horse-1 (M1A5 Abrams):
Captain John Paul Keller—Iron Horse-1 VC
Lance Corporal Gregory Sampson—Iron Horse-1 Gunner
Specialist Felix Erickson—Iron Horse-1 Driver
Private First Class Theodore Meyer—Iron Horse-1 Loader
Wardog-2 (Challenger 4):
Lieutenant Noah Piers—Wardog-2 VC
Warrant Officer Jack Leeman—Wardog-2 Gunner
Corporal Arthur Williams—Wardog-2 Driver
Lance Corporal Jasper Robinson—Wardog-2 Loader
Kaiser-1 (KF-51 Panther):
Feldwebel Adrian Koch—Kaiser-1 VC
Unteroffizier Emma Neuman—Kaiser-1 Gunner
Obergefreiter Otto Klein—Kaiser-1 Driver
Warpig-3 (M7 Bradley II):
Gunnery Sergeant Elijah Jones—Warpig-3 VC
Sergeant Mateo Miller—Warpig-3 Gunner
Corporal David Anderson—Warpig-3 Driver
Eighty-Six Spearhead Squadron (M1A4 Juggernaut):
Captain Shinei Nouzen "Undertaker" "Reaper" 1st Platoon & Squadon Leader
First Lieutenant Raiden Shuga "Wehrwolf" 2nd Platoon Leader & XO to Spearhead
Second Lieutenant Anju Emma "Snow Witch"
Second Lieutenant Kurena Kukumila "Gunslinger" 6th Platoon Leader
Second Lieutenant Theoto Rikka "Laughing Fox" 3rd Platoon Leader
Second Lieutenant Daiya Irma "Black Dog" 5th Platoon Leader
Second Lieutenant Kaie Tanyia "Kirschblüte" 4th Platoon Leader
Ensign Kujo Nico "Sirius"
Ensign Haruto Keats "Falke"
Ensign Io Dodanthe "Argos"
Ensign Ochi Anton "Gladiator"
Ensign Shuri Gilith "Dendroaspis"
Ensign Kariya Rohga "La Bete"
Ensign Hariz Senya "Cato'Nine"
Ensign Mina Shiroka "Artemis"
Ensign Matthew Nanaki "Walpurgis"
Ensign Kuroto Hinie "Manticore"
Ensign Lecca Lin "Burnt Tayl"
Ensign Tohzan Sasha "Gunmetslstorm"
Ensign Mikuri Cairo "Leukosia"
Ensign Myna Yatomika "March Hare"
Ensign Chise Authen "Griffin"
Ensign Touma Sauvy "Helianthus"
Ensign Louie Kino "Fafnir"
San Magnolia:
Major Cecilia Amaranth
Technical Lieutenant Victor Lysander
Technical Lieutenant Henrietta von Penrose
Alive: 41
K.I.A.: N/A
Reviews:
XT136313—LET'S GOOOOO!!