《Bleached Nightmare》 Chapter 1 Marilin was never scared of Spirit Striders. They were beautiful, elegant machines, an incarnation of years upon years of humanity''s research, never-ending dedication and the unified dream to create functional, pilotable mechanised infantry. They were enormous and deadly, yet so dexterous that seeing one fight in combat reminded Marilin of the ballet dancers she had seen performing in the Academy hall. To others they were harbingers of destruction, death and chaos, but to Marilin, they were beautiful. They were Spirit Striders, angels of death, dancers of steel and a monument to humanity''s unstoppable advance through time. But now, standing in a back alley obscured by the shadow of towering buildings with a six meter tall leviathan of tungsten and titanium along with a sixty millimetre chain gun pointed at her face, she would be telling the lie of the century if she said she wasn''t scared. The freezing air bit at her skin and bile rose in her throat as she stared, unable to turn away, at the angel of destruction in front of her. The machine was humanoid, with enormous pauldrons protecting its ball-socket joints and numerous plates of armour welded onto its body. Its legs were long and encased in plates of titanium, painted in police colours. Its arms were bent and armoured, with a glowing sarinium sword in its free hand, its wicked tip shining and staring forward with resolute purpose. A long barrelled gun longer than an old world telephone pole was built into its left arm. Marilin was a student at the Shinevaarean Academy of Mechanised Personnel Combat, but even she had never come this close to a Spirit Strider. To her, it looked remarkably like the medieval knights that she had seen only in pictures- only they were taller than a three-storey building, held a sword superheated by sarinium that could slice a tank in half and had a fully-automatic chain gun that could decimate a Tyrannosaurus in a single shot. The machine standing in front of her was a nightmare. A beautiful nightmare. Marilin was frozen in place, feet rooted to the ground by a rather peculiar mixture of fear and awe. She stared up at the Spirit Strider and the Spirit Strider stared back, it''s dull, steel eyes like knives that could hack their way into one''s soul. The sounds of the protest out on the main street grew unnaturally quiet, muted and faded, as time seemed to freeze like the rivers in the winter. Gone was the screaming and the shouts of the angry mob, now replaced by the quiet creaking of metal as the Spirit Strider walked ever so closer to her. She barely could keep up her calm demeanour. "State your name and purpose, citizen." The voice was robotic and monotone. Cold and mechanical. Unforgiving.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Marilin tried to open her mouth but found that she couldn''t. The silence permeated the air like a thick fog, trapping those ensnared in it in a deathly, crushing tension. Marilin could feel her blood freeze as she clenched her fists and waited for her mouth to open. But it didn''t. A sound did come, but it wasn''t her voice. A single ping pierced the brittle silence and shredded it like a sharp blade slicing through paper. Marilin went numb. She knew the sound too well, remembering the many times she had listened and admired it in class. Beautiful, mesmerising. A single bullet had been loaded into the chamber, and it had her name on it. A low rumble, and then a monotone, dead sound. Two words. This time carrying so, so much more meaning than before. "Ten seconds." Marilin had two, simple choices. She could speak, save her life, and get herself in more trouble than she had ever been in. Or she could continue to be silent. Silent until true, eternal silence graced her, and lifted the burden of life off her shoulders. Two, simple choices. "M-m-marilin." Her voice, almost inaudible, cracked, and she saw the black, gaping maw of death moving forward and caressing her. Taunting her to release. "Everton." The Spirit Strider rose, folding its autocannon across its torso and looking up. The crushing fog let go, almost disappearing like it was swallowed. She could feel the blood pulsing through her veins again. The sounds of the world returned, shouting and screaming sounding strangely welcoming in Marilin''s ears as a wave of relief washed over her. Short lived, she knew, but at least she could live another day, go closer to possibly achieving her dream. She was too young to die. The Spirit Strider cocked its head towards her and stared blankly with its eyes. The air was no longer cold, and Marilin noticed her brow was lined with perspiration and her long hair thick with sweat. The very air seemed oppressive to breathe as the steel leviathan eyed her, never lifting its gaze. It was the Spirit Strider''s turn to be silent, and it was taking its time. Twilight¡¯s setting sun sent pillars of light that refracted off the dull brick walls of the building, casting an eerie orange glow to the ground beneath her. Furtive shadows played across the brick walls of the alleyway as the rabble of the angry mob continued to sound ceaselessly on the main street. But Marilin''s attention was on none of that. She looked at the Spirit Strider. Her face was rapt, staring back into those cold, menacing eyes, void of emotion. "So, you are a student," the Spirit Strider said, almost nonchalantly. Marilin swore she heard a little something behind the dead voice. She realised that during the whole ordeal, she had never regarded the machine as human. "Taking part in a protest and intermixing with rebellious commoners is grounds for an expulsion from the Academy. Even your status and rank won''t save you." Even if the Spirit Strider was piloted by a human, they played a hard game. Marilin had just been hit by a ten of clubs and an ace of spades- she had a problem on her hands, and this time, even money couldn''t save her. Chapter 2 With the sun slowly falling to the caress of the horizon, the alleyway was lit only by lampposts on the main street. Only a few meters away were people, people in their thousands, many, many people. Safety. Yet she was far. So far from the light, obscured by an iron goliath enshrouded in darkness staring with metal eyes, looking for an inch of movement that would end someone''s life. The Spirit Strider was on its haunches, but it''s figure was still towering, undefeatable. Marilin was trapped in a bind- death by escape, or death by waiting. Neither set of cards seemed to play to her favour. "What are you going to do?" Her voice was weak, feeble, lacking any sense of confidence. She was vulnerable, and the power imbalance gripping her by the throat could as well be between a duke and a peasant. The Spirit Strider did not move, but Marilin could have imagined it laying there, the winter wind of the still January whistling into the grooves of its armour, staring at her, and thinking. She mocked herself mentally, thinking herself foolish for considering such a trivial matter before a giant shell inevitably ripped into her chest. She laughed, and the Spirit Strider noticed. It was a single movement, a single swivel from the great machine, quiet and automated. Marilin''s back straightened, stiff as a board, as if the Spirit Strider had the eyes of a hellish monster rather than dull sockets of steel. "My job." Any sign of humanity bled off the voice like the green off the Academy trees in autumn. Marilin stared helplessly as she reached for the deck of cards and found it empty. With no more plays to make, she was at the mercy of a power far greater than herself. Her palms were on the hem of her dress, soaked, and her heartbeat was a taunting stopwatch to an inevitable moment of intolerable pain, then nothing. So close were the people on the street- thousands of people, numbers, safety. She was frozen in time, neither person nor machine moving even an inch. She wished it would stay that way, that she could compose herself and drawl out a miraculous speech that would save her life, but she was simply there- stuck like the stuffed cat in the hallway of her dormitory. Instead her mind flew to somewhere else, to a moment that she thought she had hoped to forget but had been revived when death was so close, the stream of life slipping from her hands as if it were nothing but a pile of sand. --- It was a quiet afternoon, a day where the earth was hopelessly clutched in the inescapable grasp of deep winter. I knew this would be another hard few weeks. The farms on the outskirts of the city had closed- the air was bitterly cold and polluted, the soil crackled and dead. Farming was ground to a halt until the factories could open again and fertiliser could be shipped back to the orchards and stack farms. For now, people who could afford it relied on the food they had stockpiled for the past months. The poor begged, roamed, starved- then ultimately, died. Nobody thought it brutal, unfair. People called the winter months in Shiinevaar ''the thinning''. I imagined helping those that came to the door, asking for food- but I knew I could not, as we did not know if we ourselves had enough to survive the winter. Last week one such man came up to the Cabin, begging for scraps. Mother found him the next morning next to the compost bin, which was empty. He had died in his sleep.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. What could I do? I was nine. This life I had lived for eight years. I remember sweeping palaces, domed arches, places of grandeur and luxury. Everyday I imagine, try to remember. Everyday belief in the existence of such a life trickles like the morning dew off the edges of the window. I ask Mother, and she does not say anything to me. There are five of us here, and of all of us, I am the most different. I am pale, Lewis keeps telling me- white as snow. My hair comes down in dull brown threads, unlike the rest of them, an identical black. They are strong, able to help around the house, able to bring food to the table and help us all survive when winter spites all those that are still living. I am frail and weak. I am a burden. I know that I am different, that I do not belong. Laura doesn''t need to keep telling me that. Specks of snow line the dirty surface of the window, forming a crystal-like lattice that envelops the glass and obscures the outside world in an icy filter. I am small, and am able to curl up on the windowsill. A tattered book that I like to think is held together only by my devotion to reading it over and over again, is in my lap. Mother is out in the storm chopping firewood, doing what Lewis says is a man''s job because Father died before I even came to the house. Ben would be in the back, trying to cover our potatoes with a tarp in a futile attempt to make them survive the cold. The others would be in the woods, trying to find food, like mushrooms, that might''ve survived the coming of winter. I am snuggled next to the fireplace, staring out the window, finger tracing the line I had been reading for the past hour. I am a burden. Sometimes I ask Mother where I can help, and she flashes me an angry look, telling me to go back and read. I can see them all, spiteful glares and words ready to burst from their mouths. Yet I sit down, curl up, and there is nothing but silence. We have four books. One of them no longer has text, it¡¯s pages yellowed and anything that was once written on them now faded away. Two are booklets full of food stamps, which we use in the warmer months at the office on the outside of the city to receive a sack of supplies that can last us a week, once per month. Laura said that Father died for those two books. I fail to believe that such scraps of paper could hold such value. The last book has a cover that is lost to time, but the inside still has words that I know will soon also disappear. Of us all, I am the only one who can read- the books were once Father''s, but he is gone, and as the only one who can understand them, I am their custodian. I have read the story that the book holds many times, spending days and nights perched on the windowsill, eating, sleeping, existing. I am different, I am weak, I am incapable of helping, and the spot beside the window is my world- my life nothing more than that of a pretty bird in a cage. "Mother, why do people die?" Often I speak and I am ignored, my feeble voice splitting the silence and falling on deaf ears, as if I am the only one in the room. This time, she stopped, her hand clenching the ladle as my eyes glimmered in anticipation, ears awaiting a response. The silence was only broken by a slight bubble as the soup finally came to a trickling boil. "People die so that other people can live." Her voice was not restless and impatient like how she usually talked to me, but rather solemn, as if once, she as a young girl, had asked the same question to her own mother. "Try not to die, sweetheart, not if you can help it." She had never called me- or even any of the others- ''sweetheart'' before. Alas, that brief moment of joy was cut short as she turned back to face the soup, her face growing once more weathered and old, that slight hint of a smile disappearing like the bodies on the streets at the end of every winter. Chapter 3 "It is a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known." Marilin felt nothing. Her mouth moved on its own, reciting a line that she had seen so many times when she was young, the cold mist of her breath forming a cloud of pale white that snared the air around her. Last breath, she thought, before her end. How ironically pragmatic. The Spirit Strider cocked its head strangely, much like a bird that had only just realised it was being watched. It''s fingers tensed, flexing on the handle of its giant sword- something that Marilin looked at intently, thinking it as perhaps, something that could save her. Something inside her told her that the Spirit Strider had noticed, even though it had not moved a millimetre. The racket on the outside of the street had not stopped- still the air was filled with screams and shouts, each little voice wanting their say in something that they seemed to have no part in. Marilin imagined it as a festival, except one that was permeated by hatred and disgust instead of happiness. It had been a long time since she had been to a happy festival, anyhow. Now it was sunset- still. She has felt that she had been here for the last century, caught in a mental bind, when the events endangering her life had only been uncovered in the last few minutes. A low hiss whipped into Marilin''s ear, almost inaudible to any other person except one acquainted with Spirit Striders, who would recognize it in a heartbeat. She put one foot forward as she faced the giant with determination which she didn''t know stemmed from stupidity, or- stupidity. --- Marilin remembered once- when she was a child- what it meant to speak up in a world cloaked by oppression so thick it felt as if it could be cut with a knife. It had been a chilly Shinevaarean morning trip to the food stamp office- a rarity for her, as she rarely left the house due to her frail condition. She was clothed in coats far too big for her, hanging down almost to her feet, inside a large woollen shawl that was older than herself and meant to protect against the bitter cold that drove so many to despair. She clutched her mother''s hand through layers of gloves, as if it were a beacon in an unending downpour of confusion and the insufferable cold. There was already a ragged crowd gathered in front of a little shed- no semblance of order, no lines, no groups- simply a congregation of people, equally desperate for the assurance that tomorrow was a reality and not a bleak dream. In the snow piled courtyard, there was a ruckus of noise, something which Marilin remembered her mother mentioning was unusual in the usually silent and grim procession. "My, my¡­ my grain!" A shallow voice rang out in the silence, buffeted by the constant wind. "No¡­no, no¡­why me?" "My grain? Your grain?" The callous laugh came from what looked like the ringleader in a group of women, face covered by a thin veneer of mock compassion. "This one is so, so nice, eh? Don''t worry, mister- I''ll be feeding my son with this. He''ll become a soldier and serve the nation, while the cripple you have at home is better off starving than being more of a burden!" The man, kicked to the ground, contracted as a volley of hits and the unstoppable onslaught of the cold drove him closer to nothing but death. His sack of rations, spilled, was hastily picked up by passers-by. The crowd reminded Marilin of the black birds in the summertime that cackled around the carcass of a stray that had died the previous night. "That''s right," jeered another woman in the crowd. "Stay there. We''ll be taking your rations to feed our children. Better off this food be used on people who will be useful, not you useless do- nothings hiding in that hole that you call a library." "Oh, we must save the books! Pass the knowledge of the past to the future!" another voice mimicked in a crackly voice, from a figure that Marilin wasn''t tall enough to see. "Stop it, old man. Your useless books are nothing but cooking fuel for my stove." Another poorly-aimed kick turned the man over, emptying the contents of his knapsack to the sheet white ground. "Oh, by the heavens!" The same ringleader again, Marilin thought. "Cooking fuel!" A gleeful laugh followed as the women scrambled to pick up the books and sheaths of paper that had fallen to the ground. Books, books of all colours, sizes, thickness- treasures- cleaned, hoarded and saved, only to befall a fate in the greedy tongues of some fire.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "Stop." Marilin''s voice was only heard from an absence of almost all other sound, as gazes slowly, but surely, levelled to her direction. "If you can''t appreciate them, give them to me." A fleeting expression of shock was replaced by a cackle and a grin as the group of women threw up their hands, or turned around and laughed. Marilin''s mother tugged on her hand. Hard. "Oh my, oh my! Such big words for such a little girl!" sneered the woman. "Your mother must be so proud of you!" She faced Marilin''s mother, whose face remained stoic, face betraying nothing. She returned to Marilin, finger aimed accusingly. "Didn''t your mother ever teach you manners? To not disturb your elders? To not question authority? Foolish child!" She turned around, foot swinging around to trip Marilin over in the process. "Arrogant girl." Marilin dared not to reply, her mouth full of snow and dirt. Her only comfort came from the man still writhing in the snow, who she imagined would be smiling. Her happy thoughts, however, came to an end as her mother fished her up from the ground, dragging her home in spite of her bloody nose. Without the rations. --- "Never leave on a sortie without the battery for your point defence system fully charged. A single shell from an old-world tank could cripple you in a matter of seconds." She faced her adversary with a face of forced bravery, waves of regret forming inside of her almost immediately. "Disabling it, if this was a combat situation, would be the same as jettisoning your craft." Relief rushed through her as her attempt at arrogance miraculously proved successful, producing a laugh over a speaker that was very, very much human. Although only two Spirit Strider units patrolled the entire city, her instructor had informed her that most of the time they were run on autopilot, leading to swift and brutal punishment for the slightest infraction. Human pilots, whilst not angels, were far more compassionate. "Indeed, you are right." said a voice, tone surprisingly jubilant and cordial. "With ears and a mind like that, you will make the cut to become a pilot one day- no doubt." A loud creak resounded through the air as the cockpit hatch slid back, revealing a male police pilot, brown hair falling in spikes down onto a face that Marilin could easily imagine if someone asked her to picture what an optimistic person looked like. Dressed in police garb with a white cloth tied across his head, covering his right eye, he did not seem so particularly out of place. One thing was for certain- even five meters up, with the hands still on the controls that could very well end her life, the single blue eye that looked at her made her feel at rest, nearly strangling any trace of fear that had been gripping her before. "About before¡­don''t worry about it. I''m not even on duty- this Strider just needs to be driven to the warehouse for the night, that''s all." He flashed a grin at Marilin, still cheerful to the point of being uncanny. "Sorry if I scared you. I usually don''t realise how dull I sound when I talk using the intercom, and some people take it the wrong way." "Oh¡­oh¡­it''s alright. I''m fine." beamed Marilin, relief and surprise flooding over her like rain during a typhoon. "It''s quite alright, and¡­thank you." She patted down her clothes, flushed and in a hurry, thinking about how much of an idiot she looked like. "Thank you for what? Oh, whatever." the pilot laughed uneasily, suddenly understanding just how far his little muse went for the person standing in front of him. "Bonjour, privyet, hello- I''m Alec. Sorry for springing on you like that- if I knew it would''ve shook you up that much, I wouldn''t have." He leaned on the control panel as he gazed down, smiling so much in spite of the commotion in the background. "Here, let''s shake hands, embrace, put stuff behind us, whatever is trendy right now." "People have been shaking hands for centuries now." Marilin looked upwards, compounding on the useless thought of who looked more stupid in the current situation. "Oh really? Ha¡­alright. Sorry, I''ve never been out of Shiinevaar, not once in my twenty five years. Let''s just make up, shall we?" A deft movement caused the Spirit Strider to sheath it''s sword and lean downward, it''s hand positioned next to the cockpit. Alec popped out with a single thrust, showing Marilin a young man of slight build, uniform pressed neatly and badged adorned with a face full of pride. The most salient part of the figure, however, was the persistent smile that looked so permanent that Marilin thought Alec''s face looked a little like a fashion prop. Police pilot? Rookie. Alec extended a gloved hand, which like the rest of his garb, was immaculate. White, smooth and without a single crease, Marilin began to have speculations on how a pilot''s clothing could stay so perfect after a few minutes, no less a full police shift that probably consisted of a few hours. They shook hands, scanning their tag with each other¡¯s glove in the process. "Student, huh? You look young. How many years in? I don''t even think I learnt to remember the sound of a deactivating point defence system until right after I left the Academy¡­so you would be in your last year, correct?" said Alec, forcing a laugh. He coughed, realising suddenly he was monologuing. "No¡­no¡­I''m in my third year, actually." "What? No-" Alec''s inevitable cheery response was cut in his throat. A ripple of gunfire- undoubtedly heavy arms- slashed through the cacophony of the protest. Alec and Marilin, both trained to be soldiers, reacted almost instantly, facing the source, Marilin pacing backwards and Alec re-entering the cockpit in a single fluid motion. The crackle of fire died almost instantly- the barrage had lasted no more than two seconds. "Stay behind me." warned Alec, voice cut with a sharp tone that seemed very, very out of place in a supposedly optimistic character. Marilin obliged, and the both of them slowly crept towards the entrance of the alleyway, soft boots splashing in puddles of dirty water and a pair of mechanical legs hissing as it groaned at the ground beneath it. Both tread in synchrony in the dark, confined space, never stopping as their curiosity wrested with their fear. Now there was no uproar, no screams, or shouts- now there was silence, emphasized solely by its previous absence. What they saw as they exited the alleyway may have only lasted a few seconds, but both Alec and Marilin knew that it would last and never fade off the screens of history books. Chapter 4 Marilin¡¯s dorm room was comfortable, even for Inner-Shiinevarean standards. She had earned it, much to her own credit, from being one of the best students of the Academy- at such an early age, she had already become qualified to pilot a Spirit Strider, but it would be another three years before she could ever enter a cockpit. She had attributed her successes to her own talent, always believing that she deserved to seek a higher calling than simply living a mediocre life and dying without achieving anything of value. While not to the point of self-deprecating, she acknowledged that she was, at least a little, vain. Flicking aside several layers of bedsheets, Mariliin¡¯s hand grasped her PAD, shaking it slowly as her other hand reached up to quell a migraine that had struck her after her alarm screeched her into consciousness. Her head ached as she stumbled onto the floor- littered with a wide variety of objects- and tried to remember what seemed like a blank spot in her often terrible memory. Roughly folding her numerous blankets together, it suddenly hit her. Marilin remembered the first time she had been shot very, very well. A single pistol round had snared her just below the shoulder blade before going right through- simple details that mattered naught after it had happened. What Marilin remembered clearest was the feeling- no pain, just a shock that coursed throughout her body, mind clearing and going blank, and body freezing before she fell to the ground. It was only a few minutes later that she finally felt the agonizing pain that came from having a bloody hole in her left shoulder. What she felt now was very similar- a shock that coursed through her body, paralyzing her in place as a few scarce rays of sunlight streamed through her window and her mind played back what had happened last afternoon. That was right. Was it? Yes. Yes¡­ There was a shooting at the protest yesterday, there was a- no- two Spirit Striders on the street. One was in front of her in the alleyway, the other in front of the protestors. She scrambled to open her PAD as she tried to remember the pilot¡¯s name, suddenly feeling out of breath. Alex? Allen? Alwin? ¡°Marilin? I didn¡¯t expect you to call back so soon. How are you feeling?¡± Marilin could see Alec gulp before speaking on the glass, which confirmed everything she had feared. ¡°Do you remember yesterday?¡± One word was all that could escape her trembling lips. ¡°Yes.¡± Alec¡¯s reply came in choked, much unlike his cheerful voice from last night. ¡°The shooting? You remember?¡± Alec didn¡¯t wait for a response before continuing. ¡°Look. Both of us couldn¡¯t have done anything to stop what happened. In due time both our supervisors will brief us on a situation going forward. It¡¯s not going to be a pretty one-¡± ¡°I know. You don¡¯t have to tell me.¡± ¡°-But this one isn¡¯t going to be an easy one for the government to get out of, for sure. Look, I know you aren¡¯t stupid. You wouldn¡¯t be educated to the point of being what I think is qualified while in your third year otherwise. I¡¯ll spare you the details- I¡¯m most likely going to be relocated. You¡­I don¡¯t know. They need to bolster the military, see?¡± Alec yelled something at someone behind him, before turning to face Marilin again. ¡°We¡¯re in this together. If you need my help on anything, you have my tag. Ring my PAD.¡± ¡°I only met you yesterday.¡± said Marilin, flinching as a clash sounded from Alec¡¯s side of the call. ¡°I don¡¯t-¡± ¡°Look, I have to go. It might seem strange, but we¡¯re both pilots. In the future, anyhow. We look out for each other, no? Best of luck on your studies! Ok, see you soon!¡± Bewildered, Marilin had not even time to blink before Alec hung up. Funny guy. --- With books strewn on the ground, screens still on to the page they were left on, clothes and other odd bits scattered as if there was absence of a wardrobe and medication in numerous forms haphazardly strewn throughout every available space, Marilin¡¯s room was extremely unbefitting of a so acclaimed ¡®top student¡¯. Not that anyone looked, anyway. While not on bad terms with any students- something that Marilin measured carefully in her interactions- she had never felt the need of going any further than being a temporary nice friend, especially when considering the brutally competitive scene of the Academy¡¯s education. In the military, a Spirit Strider pilot was an incredibly desired job, being so that even the qualification, attainable by only a few, was of incredible value. Ever since childhood, Marilin had never thought of doing anything else. Being her only option, with contact with her family now a distant memory, she felt no need to focus on anything else. With only three years into her education, she had already received her qualification- something that had only been achieved by three people previously in the history of the academy. Marilin was a little bit of a celebrity, and she knew it. Shivering, both from the lingering cold and the memory of the events of yesterday, she threw her blankets onto her bed, resolving that she would deal with them in due time. She reminded herself to clean her room, before backtracking on the thought that it would be worthless, considering how fast it would turn back into looking like a warzone. Donning the Academy blazer, she stepped out, expecting and receiving the sharp flick of the morning Shiinevarean cold. Staring at the same trees, same grass and same gates, Marilin headed to the mess, as she had done for the past three years. --- A short chime sounded in her pocket, just like everyday. Her schedule would be uploaded to her, outlining who she would report to and what class she would be attending. For the past two years, Marilin only had one supervisor, whom she only knew, and addressed, as ¡®Sir¡¯. A strict, married man who was considered by most to be the nicest and most caring on the Academy grounds, he was someone that Marilin felt lucky to be reporting to. In comparison to her previous string of supervisors, who were either callous or uncaring, she believed that she quite liked Sir. It came to a surprise to her when the automated message sent to her for the morning was not automated at all- it was a direct instruction, written in person, from Sir to meet him at his office after breakfast. Most mornings, Marilin would meet Sir in the lecture hall with a group of other students before heading to their classes for the day. Visits to his office were uncommon, and reserved for personal messages from family or other matters that had to be discussed in private. The first time, wracked with concern, Sir had gravely informed her that her sister- Laura- had died of pneumonia, something that shocked her, as she believed that her true family did not know of her presence at the Academy. She would be lying if the death of her sister truly saddened her. The last time Marilin had ever visited his office was for the announcement of her qualification, which was kept secret until the Academy¡¯s next small assembly. Most of her previous visits were positive experiences, but this coincidentally timed message, and the fact that it was, uncannily, seemingly word for word what Alec had described would happen, brought her mind to a calamitous state. The Academy¡¯s halls were made from polished marble- a building material that Marilin had once read to be something only afforded by the most exquisite buildings. Now, even in Inner- Shiinevaar, necessities like food and water, taken for granted by many, were given top priority over anything else. Marilin thought it interesting that many materials considered to have incredible value in the past- gemstones, old paper books, even the stones that the very Academy had been made of- were now a fraction of their past cost.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. It was one of Marilin¡¯s odd and self-proclaimed abilities to lose her mind to random thoughts, even in the most tumultuous situation. Even with the red memories of yesterday washing over her head like the typhoons which blasted the poor wretches that lived on the coastal settlements, she could find room to contemplate and inquire about the most trivial and useless of things. Marilin wasn¡¯t sure, in the heat of the moment, if this was a good thing, considering the enormous weight of the events of the previous day. The Academy, often housing only around two hundred select students, was abuzz with conversation, differing from the usual serenity that graced the halls. It took only a few seconds of focus for Marilin to determine the rather predictable source of the conversation. ¡°Poor sods, for sure. A forty millimeter, bursting through the crowd? That¡¯s some nasty stuff, if you ask me.¡± ¡°A friend of mine said it only lasted seconds. They wouldn¡¯t have felt a thing.¡± A sigh, which Marilin was almost sure was the exhalation of a cigarette. ¡°Better than the life they¡¯re living-¡± A laugh. ¡°Were living, you mean.¡± Another quiet chuckle could be heard from Marilin¡¯s position on the corner of the hallway. ¡°Death is probably better for those squatters. Have you read up on the conditions of their life that the charities publish in their articles every month? Sweet mother. I¡¯d rather die.¡± Marilin crept up to the corner so she could have a better listen of the conversation between the two people, who she now determined were students, probably fifth year. Stealing a glance, she saw two boys leaning on the door to one of the dorms, with what seemed like his friend now walking towards him and nudging him on the shoulder. ¡°Hey man, about those protestors...you think what they¡¯re saying is right?¡± whispered the second boy, making a poor attempt at hushing his voice. ¡°Those pea brains? Come on.¡± The first boy laughed, covering his mouth. ¡°You really think the government can just, ¡®conceal¡¯, the discovery of a habitable planet for years? Not even to mention that the protestors are saying that all the rich blokes have already made preparations to move on some giant flying saucer in the middle of Russia?¡± ¡°Oh, they¡¯d have a damn hard time hiding some magic craft the size of that, for sure. My dad works at the mining facility on Mars. The ships we have now, travelling to the edge of the Andromeda? Not happening.¡± He took a puff of his cigarette, looking out to his room. ¡°When you think about it, those damn protestors, calling out the govs because some ¡®inside guy¡¯ gave a backdrop that sounds like the plot of a lame action movie? Those sods deserved to be shot.¡± The first boy slapped the second on the back in agreement, concealing a chuckle as he leaned over. ¡°What do you have first?¡± ¡°English with Heackle. No damn point if I can speak it. I¡¯m here to learn how to shoot up the baddies, not how I can speak to better my chances of winning a bar fight.¡± Marilin retreated the other way amid the laughs that echoed down the hallway as she tried to look as composed as possible, making her way to the office. --- ¡°I¡¯m sure you know that you are one of the, and in my opinion, the best student in the Academy at present.¡± Sir always spoke with a voice that seemed to slice the very air itself, yet could never put someone out of ease. ¡°Yes, sir.¡± ¡°I trust you have heard of the riot in the plaza that occurred yesterday?¡± Riot. Marilin played with that word for a while. ¡°Yes, sir.¡± ¡°The populace is in an uproar. What was a riot is now to the brink of a rebellion. Yesterday, a large band of these new ¡®rebels¡¯ attempted to overcome the defenses of an armoury on the west side of the city. Their mission was fortunately a failure, but the event has not fallen past the eyes of the government. ¡°The rebels have used the events of the previous day as leverage to resume operations and disrupt the order of the city. As every hour passes, more and more people join them- more, and more people that we may have to one day fight.¡± Sir sighed, as if the following words would sadden him. ¡°Shiinevaar has seventeen active Spirit Strider units on duty- we have most deployed overseas in currently undergoing combat in Australia. We have three units defending vital infrastructure in Shiinevaar like our canola fields and refineries. I trust you know how many units we have deployed in the city.¡± ¡°Two.¡± Marilin didn¡¯t hesitate for a second. ¡°Only two.¡± Sir cracked his knuckles on the wooden table. ¡°Only two. For the peacekeeping of one of Earth¡¯s largest cities on the brink of rebellion.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t seem very sound, sir.¡± Sir got up suddenly, pushing out his chair and taking a frustrated deep breath. ¡°You¡¯re damn right that it¡¯s not sound. The Spirit Striders only exist in the Inner, patrolling so rarely that we have them on autopilot for half the time! How about the Outer districts? This little ¡®rebellion for the people¡¯ could be under our noses, or far, far away, and we¡¯d never know it! ¡°It is regrettable, yes, it is. But every hour we lose is more people converted to a foolish cause that will drive Shiinevaar into ruin. More people that we will have to fight. More people that will have to die. Are we on the same page?¡± Marilin nodded furiously. This sort of fervour was not something she had seen before in someone who was usually so calm and composed. ¡°The government has reached the same conclusion. The garrison we have in the City is insufficient to quell anything above a small-scale uprising. The two Spirit Striders we have are Sancrete-class; they¡¯re old, already long retired from frontline service. Almost all of our Bucharests are out in Australia, fighting the ongoing war.¡± explained Sir, now pacing around the room. ¡°Spirit Striders aren¡¯t like tanks. We can¡¯t just throw them around, no nation could afford to. However, the government has placed the quelling of this rebellion at the top of their priority list. They understand as well as I do the potential of danger that could arise from such a situation.¡± ¡°I understand, Sir. Can I be of any assistance in this situation?¡± ¡°I am getting to that in a second. A Bucharest-class Spirit Strider, the SMIF Argus, will be returning from frontline duty in Australia to join the Shiinevaarean garrison as fast as time allows. The two Sancretes in the city- S3 and S7- will be manned by a pilot full-time, with patrols increased until this situation is resolved. Are you following?¡± ¡°Yes, sir. Precautions must be taken for even the smallest of situations.¡± Sir nodded in rapid agreement. ¡°I¡¯m sure that you¡¯ve heard the rumours floating around. I know that you¡¯re not much of a talker, but even you must have heard of the experiment we are building, right in the Academy.¡± Marilin indeed, had. The rumours had predated even her time at the Academy- some kind of new miracle combat device for a Spirit Strider. Some people had claimed it was a kit that could allow a Spirit Strider to maneuver in space, all the way to a nuclear weapon specially designed for Spirit Strider operation. The ideas were extravagant and far-fetched, and Marilin had dismissed them, considering that they had persisted for years, even before she had arrived at the Academy. Having this told to her felt surreal to her- almost like, she thought, an angel came up to her and told her that they could provide enough food for everyone on the planet. ¡°Yes, Sir. I have indeed heard of the rumours.¡± ¡°Then what I want to make is a request for you,¡± Sir paused, and Marilin stared, incredulous. ¡°You may accept or deny- this is a choice that I cannot make for you. You are the first person to be asked from my assessment of your personal abilities. I am, however, quite confident in what will be your answer.¡± Marilin nodded. She felt that if she opened her mouth, it would never close. ¡°At ease, soldier.¡± Sir took two strides forward and patted her on the shoulder. ¡°Tomorrow, I may be addressing you as ¡®pilot¡¯.¡± Chapter 5 The word ¡®tomorrow¡¯ had never before held such a significant importance for Marilin. With days that repeated themselves as easily as an old world clock completed a cycle, she had never felt uncomfortable, bored or disgruntled with a lack of change. Whether her days consisted of a book on the windowsill, or another day of the same study with the same teacher, the normality of something that could be expected was a comfort, not a problem. Marilin had, however, experienced change in key points in her life, and she had realised the satisfaction of what she had read as ¡®great change¡¯ in her childhood book, first at the age of eleven years old. --- ¡°Mother, I¡¯ve finished my book.¡± Marilin and her mother were alone in the kitchen, which occupied most of the single room cabin. Throughout the years she had lived in it, every usable space had been converted to some use- an impressive feat, she thought, considering her family¡¯s limited possessions. As her mother stood looking at the small countertop preparing the day¡¯s soup, Marilin was, like almost every day, curled up on the windowsill and reading. ¡°Mother, I don¡¯t know what to do.¡± Marilin closed the book with a thud in an attempt to reiterate her previous point. ¡°Read the book again.¡± Marilin grumpily reopened to the first page, curling up tighter as her eyes moved to the snowstorm that was brewing outside- almost wishing that she was out helping, instead of reading the first page, which she had remembered to heart. Instead, she was rarely allowed outside, hostile stares and isolation reminding her that her weak body made her little more than an unhelpful burden. ¡°What was the last sentence?¡± Her mother¡¯s voice was so dull and flat that Marilin took a second to realise she had even been asked a question. Nevertheless, she was taken by surprise. When was the last time she had talked to someone? Yesterday, when Laura had told her to shut up and read. When was the last time someone asked her a question? She had never been asked a question. ¡°It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.¡± Marilin replied, voice quiet from the unusual turn in events. The chopping never stopped. While the cabin was usually always silent, in that moment, Marilin remembered that the knife thudding on the wooden board was akin to the repeated fall of a guillotine. Her mother¡¯s mouth twitched, like she wanted to ask a question, but had retracted it. An onion fell prey to the dull blade as another thud sounded through the room. ¡°What is the far better thing you have done?¡± asked Mother, after a long period of silence. Marilin did not respond. ¡°You will know, one day.¡± said Mother as the onion fell and was replaced with the potato, which was sitting rather idyllically on the countertop. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure of it.¡± It had been a week since anyone, at all, had spoken more than a single sentence in succession to Marilin. Without a shred of understanding, Marilin read the first words of her book repeatedly in an attempt to try to vainly make sense of her mother¡¯s words. Itwasthebestoftimes Itwasthebestoftimes Itwasthebestoftimes Itwasthebestoftimes ¡°What is your far better rest?¡± Another question, shot out and breaking through Marilin¡¯s distraction like a bullet. ¡°I-¡± ¡°-than you have ever known?¡± ¡°I-¡± ¡°My girl, there is no better rest. Not in this life, and not beyond. You will grow up, settle down, perhaps play around with this fickle emotion called love, and die, just like all the others.¡± Marilin had yearned for someone to talk to her for as long as she could remember, but she was not sure if she appreciated it at this moment. ¡°You have been to the streets. People are dying not only from hunger and sickness, but despair. People toil everyday to survive, until one day they realise when they work the plough that there lies no gain, nothing to look forward to in the next day, week, year. That, my girl. Not the cold, not the hunger, not the sickness. Not even the police. That is what kills.¡± The chopping stopped. ¡°My girl, you have, already, done a far, far better thing than anyone in this wretched land could have hoped to do. I will make sure you know, one day.¡± Mother eyed Marilin for the first time since speaking, her gaze, bordering on sympathy, forcing Marilin to helplessly look back. ¡°But, my girl, there will be no better rest, no better place, for you to go.¡± --- It was just like any other night- the straw mattresses were set up as close as possible to the stove, in an attempt to ward off the permanent chill that occupied the winter. Outside, even with the windows shut, Marilin could hear the racket and ferocity of a restless snowstorm that would be buffeting the city. Tonight would not be a good one for the people on the street. As she lay in silence, the sounds of the storm soothed the rest of her family to sleep, the absence of cold snow on their faces a comfort that was deemed a luxury for so many others. She had the thickest wool blankets out of any of the people on the ground, sleeping- the cold made her sick, and as her mother said- ¡°Better you annoy me now than annoy me more later when you fall ill. Again.¡± Looking at the ceiling, a patchwork of numerous materials that did it¡¯s best to keep out the weather, Marilin wondered that she had never thought of what her mother was like- where she grew up, how she ended up here. Did she grow up the same way that I did? How did she say these things to me yesterday, if she couldn¡¯t read? Or go to a school? Did she never try to rise up, earn a keep in the Inner City? Why am I so different from everyone, if she is my mother? Marilin threaded her fingers through her hair, dull brown strands falling and interlacing through the gaps in her hand. A single spear of moonlight, piercing a shallow gap in the drawn curtain, shone into her eye from the outside- through the snow, the fabric, the house, to her. As the rest of her family snored, Marilin got up, ruffling her hair as the cold stabbed her like a freshly sharpened blade when she exited the blankets. The moon was shining strong tonight; the snow fell down in ferocious blankets, but even it could not deter the white ball that hung listlessly in the sky. Through the white haze, the lights of the city- the Inner- shone bright like hopeless beacons against all odds, ignorant of the suffering of those outside. ¡°There will be no better rest, no better place for you to go.¡± Something clicked, much like the hammer of a rifle just before it ignites a pan of powder. Shuffling through a shelf, Marilin retrieved the beaten book- the one that she had cherished so much, for so many years- and ripped out the first and last page. She had already committed the rest of it to memory, and the two pages were all she needed. Wrapping herself in the thick woolen blanket, fashioning it into a sort of makeshift shawl, she put on her boots- the pair she had worn to and from the Ration Office- and opened the door. The action was met with grunts and groans as the little warmth that was huddled in the one-room cabin was engulfed by the freezing wind that rushed inside like a torrent of water. With a click, a thud, and another click, the door shut, as quickly as it had opened. When was the last time she had been outside? It had been weeks- no, months. As the incessant snow pelted the hood of her makeshift shawl, she took a first step. Trudging ever so slowly as the cold, so much more present now, pricked her pale cheeks like needles. Towards the lights of the City. --- Marilin couldn¡¯t sleep. I should¡¯ve known this would happen, she told herself. Needed to take more medication. She didn¡¯t want to feel sleepless, especially not¡­ Tomorrow. It had turned into her favourite word overnight. She reached to her PAD, strewn somewhere on the floor, finding it under the screen of a book after much seemingly futile searching. Fiddling with the controls, she turned up the heater setting up another few notches. She absolutely despised the cold. Checking her inbox quickly, she jabbed her arm out into the open and threw her PAD on the floor again, huddling into a ball under the many layers of blankets. Forcing her eyes shut, Marilin waited for daylight, relishing the taste of the change that would come tomorrow. --- ¡°Oh my, I¡¯m sure that you¡¯re excited!¡± bubbled a lab assistant that Marilin didn¡¯t even know was on the Academy grounds. Enthusiasm spilt from her voice like a leaking tap. ¡°I sure would be. To be able to pilot one of the Earth¡¯s most elegant fighting machines! With only three years of education, no less! Oh, I could imagine!¡± Far more calm than the one walking alongside her, even Marilin was having trouble maintaining an acceptable level of composure. Not everyone could simply have the opportunity that she was having. Apprehension and excitement the previous night had driven her to envision a secret entrance that opened up to reveal a hidden lab of sorts, so she was slightly disappointed when they were quite clearly heading to the Academy garage- a facility that was very well large enough to accommodate three full Spirit Striders. Perhaps there was a lab, but she would not be seeing it. Yet. She smiled at the thought. With a low thud,a sliding door hissed open to welcome the two people that awaited it. Supported by elegantly welded buttresses that towered to the roof, the rocky and uneven walls of the Academy garage greatly emphasised it¡¯s underground location. Large electric winches hoisted large cranes, carrying spare parts or carriages filled with people and drones alike. Swarming over like flies, they worked on two Spirit Striders that lay in rectangular hangars. Numerous retractable and moveable walkways around the edges flitted about, lifting little figures onto different areas of the giant machine. A cacophony of noise rushed in like a storm as soon as the doors opened; the walls were soundproofed, as not to disturb the students above. Tracked vehicles milled about the floor, parts strapped to their backs as shouts reverberated throughout the large expanse of space. Being one of the few facilities in the country that was fully kitted for Spirit Strider maintenance, it was not uncommon for the garage to contain a Spirit Strider or two. Both Spirit Striders in hangars, side by side, were almost identical, with only minor differences- both were of the Bucharest-class, looking alike to two sisters getting makeovers. ¡°Marilin! Knew you would.¡± Sir waved over to her from the ground floor. Standing on the upper gangplank, Marilin peered down on the massive spectacle below. At least two hundred people, milling about only two Spirit Striders as if they were enormous warships sitting in dry dock. ¡°You ready?¡± Sir had returned to his usual calm and jovial demeanour, greeting Marilin when she and the lab assistant made their way down from the elevated entrance. He eyed the two Spirit Striders in their hangar. ¡°Not even I¡¯ve ever gotten the opportunity to pilot one of these beauties. You¡¯re lucky, for sure. Even with the rebellion, every cloud has a silver lining, eh? He slapped Marilin on the shoulder, something that had become customary of him. ¡°Thank you, sir. I won¡¯t disappoint you.¡± replied Marilin, face beaming.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°And I know you won¡¯t.¡± He finished with a crisp Shiinevaarean salute. ¡°Jennifer, make sure the pilot gets to her craft, yes?¡± The lab assistant returned the gesture. ¡°You got it. Now, Marilin, was it? Come along.¡± Having only been to the garage once, on a lesson to familiarize students with cockpit controls, Marilin found it a very changed place. Aside from the drones, machines and people milling about the grounds like it was some sort of marketplace, the garage was filled with the incessant mumble of talk, alerting beeps and whines of machinery. A couple of staff, recognising her uniform, stopped to quickly salute. Word was already spreading. Jennifer led Marilin through the crowded space with utmost confidence, striding through the stone floor like a princess. Must be special for her too. ¡°Hey! Hey! Oi, over here!¡± Marilin faced the source of the noise, but instead found an empty, open cockpit. A loud groan of frustration, audible enough to be heard over the noise, resumed. ¡°You! I¡¯m talking to you! Bloody hell, are the kids these days deaf?¡± Another groan. ¡°Heavens, are you a crippled bear? Coo-ee!¡± Assuming that it was not directed to her, Marilin had kept walking, but the commotion it was causing in the garage forced her to look up, again at the source of the noise. ¡°Heavens, yes! You! I¡¯m talking to you!¡± An accusatory finger confirmed Marilin¡¯s suspicions. ¡°Come over here!¡± Jennifer smiled and pushed her towards the figure. Obscured inside a pilot suit- one that Marilin noted was pressurized for high altitude combat- the figure had now exited the cockpit and was furiously waving, balanced and perched like a bird of prey on the left pauldron. Judging from the voice, she would have guessed the pilot was female, but under the relatively bulky suit, it was impossible to tell. ¡°Do I have your attention now? Yes? No? Merde!¡± Marilin, now fully attentive, managed an awkward wave. Making her way towards the pilot, the figure disappeared again into the cockpit. The shouting had caused quite some commotion, as heads turned back and forth between the two pilots. A pathway naturally formed, as hands raised in salute and the entire environment quieted a notch. As all gangplanks were occupied, Marilin stepped on the right hand of the Spirit Strider, reciting something that had been taught to her two years ago. When there was no remote cockpit access available, pilots could wire their PAD to remotely lift themselves upwards with the machine¡¯s right hand. Having never performed such a manoeuvre, Marilin felt exhilarated. With a holler of ¡°Hold on!¡±, she stepped into the uneven surface of the metal hand, positioning her right foot in a central circular groove. A shout from the cockpit sounded as she braced herself. ¡°Lifting!¡± It was like nothing else she had ever felt before- not like an elevator, not like any aircraft or ship. Feeling weightless for mere seconds, the fingers intertwined to form a cradle of safety, obscuring her view and allowing air to rush past as the hand raised up. Having never been on one herself, Marilin envisioned the experience to be akin to riding on a spacecraft. ¡°Hey. You. What¡¯s your name?¡± The figure reentered her view, emerging from the cockpit with a small wrench and a cloth. Still wearing a pilot suit and a helmet, it was difficult to discern any other details. ¡°Marilin Everton, third year student at SAMPC. It looks like I will be a pilot today.¡± Remembering the previous time she had been needed to give her name, she oddly felt both uneasy and jovial as she spoke. It seemed that the cockiness she had gained overnight from yesterday¡¯s pronouncement had not yet worn off. ¡°I assume that you are the pilot of this Strider. What is the name of you and your craft?¡± The fingers of the Spirit Strider¡¯s hand folded back, revealing just how high up in the air the cockpit lay. The figure in front of her eyed Marilin up and down, as if it was considering whether a book was worth reading. After a pause, the figure disengaged the helmet and flicked it off. Another pause, longer this time. It was her time to stare. ¡°Why do you look like you could be my mother?¡± The pilot collapsed into a fit of laughter. Yet, it was true- with the same brown hair, pale skin and blue eyes, it was like looking at a reflection- in a decade, perhaps. A wicked grin split the face of the pilot as she observed Marilin¡¯s perplexed expression. ¡°I like you.¡± Composing herself, the woman proffered a hand, which Marilin stiffly accepted. ¡°Call me Aemilia. You are correct in many regards- I am the pilot of the SMIF Argus, third of the Bucharest-class. No need to tell me your name. I¡¯d be guessing your classmates are still in the dark, but you¡¯re all what we¡¯ve been talking about. You don¡¯t find ¡®third-year¡¯ and ¡®pilot¡¯ in the same sentence often, and I for damn sure never have.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a great pleasure. I¡¯m honoured to meet a true pilot, in person.¡± Facade of confidence gone, Marilin now spoke with a new vigour that came from the heart. ¡°My supervisor has told me about you. I hope that we can serve together in the future.¡± ¡°Likewise, comrade.¡± Staring at the giant holding her in place, Marilin sighed admirably. ¡°You have a beautiful craft. One that has seen many battles, battled many enemies, survived many adversaries. No doubt.¡± Aemilia laughed again, this time making a sound that sounded much like a wind chime. ¡°You did not tell me that one of our comrades was a poet. Well said, well said.¡± Aemilia placed her hand on Marilin¡¯s shoulder and looked along, at her craft. ¡°I can never forget the first time that I stepped in and went for a ride. How do I describe it? I suppose it wouldn¡¯t be wrong to say...that I felt like myself.¡± Marilin nodded. ¡°That I was my Strider, and my Strider was me. Does that sound confusing? I bet it does. You¡¯ll understand when you get in, place your hands on the controls, and fuse together, almost become one being. ¡°My first mission was five years ago, in Australia. You know that place, yes? After the ocean ate up so much land, there weren¡¯t many places to go. I guess that¡¯s why everyone who resisted against us went there, because it wasn¡¯t under yet. The coalition who was there, they didn¡¯t have Spirit Striders. Only we do, thankfully. What they did have was jets- aircraft of another era, something that¡¯d get chaffed by our point defense almost any day. But they had many. So many.¡± Aemelia looked onwards, eyes lost in a haze of thought. ¡°They had been giving our forces a tough time for months, and Central decided to do something about it. You would know about a Spirit Strider¡¯s point defense, no?¡± ¡°Best in the world. Unmatched.¡± Aemelia smiled. ¡°I believe that they are the reason why Spirit Striders are so powerful. We can dance, but a bullet will always find a way. Always.¡± A pause. ¡°Central wanted us to scout ahead of the invasion force to screen for aircraft and eliminate them. The rebels were well hidden, for a desert. We had marched ahead for twenty minutes, maybe, before I saw it. ¡°Do you know what a bee looks like? No, you wouldn¡¯t. Bees can¡¯t survive in this country¡¯s damn cold, even if they existed anymore. When I was a little girl in France- before I moved here for my education- I was in an orchard with my brother, an apple orchard of all things. It was a time of the year where the flowers were open, blooming to welcome a change of season. Oh, the smell. I would give so much to be there again. Now it is gone, and nowhere in the world will people grow apples like that again.¡± She smiled weakly. ¡°My brother had gone inside to fetch a pair of pruners- back then, we would take care of the trees by hand, not like now. We had a shed in the orchid, where we kept all our things to take care of the plants, but we did not know that a bee¡¯s nest-¡± ¡°I¡¯ve seen them, in pictures. The bees, bees nest.¡± ¡°Yes...they were messy things. They had made their home on the corner of where the shed connected to the orchard wall. The bees, they hate anyone who gets in their way, and attack them mercilessly. Worker bees, their soldiers, they die when they sting, did you know that?¡± Marilin had never heard of such a thing. ¡°They are suicidal, willing to give their lives for a hopeless cause. I did not understand why.¡± Aemilia sighed, leaning over the side of the cockpit and staring at the passersby and the work staff as they fiddled with the two Striders in the hangar. ¡°My brother, he was a clumsy one. The pruners we had were old- they were long, the blades short and stubby, but the handles longer than batons. As he walked out, the edge of one the handles tipped and bruised the side of the nest, ever so slightly. The first thing that happened was the buzzing. One thing I learnt only after is that bees respond to vibrations in the hive, and that in a matter of seconds, a single incident can be passed on from one, to hundreds of soldiers. First it was one, then twelve, then thirty, then¡­¡± Aemilia looked at Marilin in a way that almost seemed like she expected a response. ¡°Why would hundreds of people, flying in these obsolete little planes, even come to certain death? The point defense system and its other machinery compose almost thirty five percent of a Spirit Strider¡¯s total mass- it was meant to stop, and it stopped. Those little bees, flying to sting and dying, in their hundreds. Hundreds. What sort of belief could drive a person to commit such a suicidal act?¡± ¡°We cannot hope to think the same way our enemy does, Aemelia. This is war, and they are losing. Desperation is such a strong emotion. It bends and chokes the mind like bees would defend a nest against a hornet, destroying rationality so effectively that one will take any risk as long as there is a sliver, any chance, at all- of success.¡± ¡°Third year, huh¡­¡± muttered Aemilia under her breath. She coughed. ¡°There are still questions I cannot answer today, even after five years have passed. What I know for certain, is that that day, this machine-¡± Aemilia caressed the side of the Strider¡¯s cockpit, as if it were a cat. ¡°Saved my life. You could not have known if you were not there. It is a scene that cannot simply be described with words alone. Beam, after beam, Argus let me survive what I thought was impossible. I could say that this beauty simply does not only allow one to witness and control tangible power, but to cheat death- in a way no simple person could.¡± ¡°Cheat death...what amazing things.¡± ¡°I owe Argus my life- a debt that is yet to be repaid. We have never lost a battle, though there were times where death¡¯s grasp prickled ever so close, times where there were so many and hope was so bleak it was as if it never left Pandora¡¯s box¡­¡± Aemilia smiled ever so slightly, though her eyes remained listless and blank. ¡°Argus is more to me than simply my fighting machine. It is something that has traversed with me through thick and thin, something I hope that will never stop.¡± ¡°I truly hope that that is something I will be able to understand, one day.¡± Marilin looked alongside her compatriot. ¡°Yes, child, you will. I see great potential, great talent, great resolve.¡± Aemilia brightened suddenly. ¡°I didn¡¯t just call you up here to talk. You know why you are here, no doubt? Of course you do. Hold on!¡± She reached into a compartment on the left side of the cockpit, retrieving a small object that could fit into the palm of her hand. ¡°Is that?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Aemilia had long fingers, and she clasped their hands together, dropping a small object that Marilin had yearned to hold for the longest time. The key was beautiful; it¡¯s blade may have been slated and functional, but it¡¯s head started as a simplistic diamond, morphing towards the top to the wings of a falcon. In the middle a carefully adorned hole was carved to resemble a shield, a barrier to protect its user from harm. In the middle, as if suspended in space and time, lay a single, tiny blue sapphire, its depths the colour of the deepest ocean. ¡°Thank you.¡± Breath stolen from her, Marilin struggled to speak. ¡°Welcome. It is a pleasure to be your comrade. Your craft is to the left, in the opposite hangar. With our Striders and looks, we¡¯re a little like sisters, hmm?¡± ¡°Sisters.¡± ¡ª¡ª¡ª It was everything that Marilin had imagined, and more- a truly beautiful thing. Everything from the Bucharest-class was there. The cockpit, built into the head of the chassis, was placed on a bevel that allowed a full rotation. However, it¡¯s flexibility was also a prevalent weakness- something that was shared with all Spirit Striders. Sarinium was a material that had come into play with the ambitious mining of Mars a few decades previous, and had completely changed the face of warfare- for those that could afford it¡¯s ludicrous price. With incredible durability, sarinium like many things in life, was a double edged sword. Hailing from the rocky depths of Mars, its extreme toughness was befitted by its seemingly singular weakness- an intolerance to heat, which Marilin thought to be incredibly ironic when in comparison to the sickness that afflicted her own body. A projectile, travelling at supersonic speed would not be able to make more than a dent in a plate of sarinium, but the heat created by the striking of the materials together was enough to begin to cause the sarinium to disintegrate due to its low melting point. By having the sarinium form a skeleton inside a Spirit Strider, far from the impact point of any weapon, the craft could achieve a level of structural integrity unrivalled by any other combat vehicle, and make the Spirit Strider¡¯s flexible caricature of the human body physically possible. The limb and head joints of a Strider- a well known weakness, were not simply waiting to be exploited. Enormous pauldrons, carved into a rounded leaf shape and engraved in the pattern of a cross, were strikingly indicative of the Bucharest class. Equally elegant vambraces and greaves were both ornate and functional. Two giant spikes jutted out of the back like the wings of a bat, comprising the firing points of the devastatingly effective point defense system. The entire craft was armoured, most heavily around the joints, to create what was considered by so many to be a work of art. Most salient of all, however, were the heavy arms systems that the Strider- a formidable weapons platform- was equipped with. A sixty millimeter chaingun, an enormous and brutal weapon in it¡¯s own right, was built into the left arm, forming the Strider¡¯s permanent weapon fixture. It¡¯s right hand, however, was free, and could wield an assortment of arms that varied from smaller calibre weapons that could wreak havoc on more minor targets, to swords that were more economical in their ammo consumption and could temporarily be charged with superheated sarinium to be able of cutting through even another Spirit Strider¡¯s thick outer shell. Such large weapons of destructive potential may have been unimpressive on their own, but mounted on such a maneuverable and dextrous platform was a change akin to day and night. They were elegantly deadly machines. There was a single difference on this particular craft- the thing that Marilin assumed would be what differed her experimental craft from that of a production model. In between the two spikes that housed the point defense system, a single oblique, trapezoidal prism, slanting downwards, was nestled in between several smaller units that were mounted around the back of the craft. While interesting, it was something that would possibly hinder the Spirit Strider¡¯s dexterity in combat. However, it did not subtract from the Strider¡¯s unique beauty- it only added to it. It was a beautiful nightmare. The frontal section slid back on a rail system, exposing the cockpit temporarily for entry, almost like the raising of the door of a giant oven. The internals comprised numerous controls in a surprisingly spacious area, considering how small the head looked from the outside. Accessible easily from the gangplank, Marilin hopped forward and repeated the motion that she had practiced for the past three years. --- In a way, Aemilia was right. As soon as she sat down in the seat and racked her fingers on the controls, she felt a jolt in her mind- something that told her that she was in firm possession of the greatest fighting machine on the planet. Having been sickly all her life, Marilin could not have hoped to see combat as a regular soldier. With a Spirit Strider, she had gained a beast tool could translate her will into power, in a way her own body never could. The machine was her, and she was the machine. Chapter 6 It was a tried and tested truth that the most necessary jobs were often the ones that were the most hated, most despised. Shiinevaar may have been a glowing gem of opulence and wealth upon the surface of the Earth, but even so, someone had to remove the bodies that winter¡¯s wake had left behind. I pushed a cart through streets that reeked not just of rot and death, but desolation. This was not the Inner City, and death was as commonplace as the rising of the sun. Heaving the cart as it struck another pothole, I sighed to the winter blackness in front of me. While the work did not make me popular, the pay was good, very good. A comfortable life and survival was a more presently demanding issue than friendship. I would rise early in the morning, hoping to finish my rounds before the sun had fully risen, so I would run into as few people as possible. With little only a year of work, I had already gained a little bit of a reputation. With the sole sound in the black morning the slight creak of a wagon wheel, the night was quiet. Funnily enough, I would have thought it eerie if there was noise at all. Perhaps a police officer would pass me on the street, and we would exchange a nod born out of not courtesy, but formality. We were both hated, after all. For such a poor area, it was very peculiar, especially in a place as populated as Shiinevaar, that there was a general absence of trash and other rubbish. It made my job easier, anyhow. Often bodies could be easily seen even in the half-darkness that permeated my work hours- clothed in scraps of clothes, rags, whatever could be used in a futile attempt to shield from the cold. Clumps lying on the street- almost unmistakingly bodies- were easy to find, but harder to deal with. They were cold, heavy and smelled of the remains of their last meal, if any. They were a pain to drag and haul into the cart, but it was far better than me starving and becoming like them-a conclusion I reached long ago. Which was exactly why she was so odd. Wool was something that almost no longer existed- it¡¯s existence akin to that of an almost extinct animal. There, but so scarce it¡¯s existence may have been little more than a hallucination. Yet there she was, a tiny thing that was wrapped in a blanket of white gold, pristine as the flawless snow that she lay upon. She looked so pure that it was if she was simply a clump of snow. For the amount of suffering that beleaguered the Outer Districts, an equal effort was made in concealing it. By the time the sun rose, it would appear that nothing the previous night had occurred, like a bloodstained cloth that had been soaked and washed in bleach. While the pain was no longer apparent, the suffering was as real as the moon that mocked those that hung beneath its benevolent rays. Little by little, the cloth would be strained, connections slowly severed, and one day, it would break. The first thing that was off was the smell. Or rather, I should say, the lack of smell. My nose had hardened from a year of work, and there was no longer anything that could shake me. I reached forward to put a hand on the wool that clothed the girl- I would be lying if I said I did not want it for myself. Then I stopped, for I felt something I had not felt, seemingly, for the past year. Warmth. The sheer contrast from what lay in front of me to that of the bodies that I handled on a daily basis was as stark as the cold that whipped around me. She was small- perhaps a child of eight or nine- and wrapped thickly in a makeshift robe. A hand to her forehead confirmed my suspicions- she had collapsed from a heavy fever. Her breaths were shallow and infrequent, and she would die soon if she did not get help. Wrapped in so many blankets of wool, it was not so surprising that the night had not managed to kill her yet. Who would help her? I sighed. The nearest police station was close to the gate to the Inner City. The further from the Inner, the more the buildings and people were poor and impoverished, as if the jewel of Shiinevaar attracted luxury like moths to a lamp. Those who could not make it to the light of the lamp cowered in the darkness, never to escape poverty. Those who made it to the light found themselves unable to get into the comfort they had seen from a distance, and died anyway. It was still right outside the Inner City, anyhow. Here the roads were evenly paved, at least, and someone came to shovel snow off the road once a day, something that got more common the closer that one got to the city¡¯s center. It seemed that they had not come yet, for the snow still reached up to my ankles. The buildings here were not as rundown, and had some generous allowances for their tenants, if one factored in how much more terrible the real Outer Districts were. Yet these affluent areas were the hardest- the hungry and the weak were drawn to these areas like poor moths, hoping to get assistance from those who were better off. From the bodies that piled up on the doorways and streets, their hopes were in vain, much like any other place, like any other person. It was sunrise now, my round done and the cart scrubbed clean, my clothes changed and washed as I headed to the police station. Just like the country¡¯s streets, even I had to keep up appearances. Of course, I had to carry the girl- she was light, even when wrapped up in so many blankets. Perhaps the police could help her, because I for sure could not take her in, lest both of us starve. There were no hospitals here, and without direct entrance into the city, she would die within a day if she did not reach care. The police station was the best bet- maybe a sympathetic officer would take her in. Anything better than her dying on the street, and being in my cart tomorrow. ¡°Sir.¡± No response- the officer was talking to a richer lady- it was strange to see one in the outer Districts, even so close to the Inner. Even stranger for one to be here at this time of the day. ¡°Sir. Could I have a minute?¡± The officer glared at me, while the woman, clad in furs and reeking of perfume, stepped back and smiled at me. From my years of living in the Outer, I could tell that her smile was genuine- a true rarity. ¡°Boy. What do you want?¡± barked the officer in a gruff voice, eyes still trained towards the lady who had retreated to the other side of the room. ¡°I haven¡¯t got all day. Spit it out.¡± ¡°This girl, sir. I found her in the snow, but she¡¯s still alive.¡± I gestured to the woolen bundle I was holding, and he looked over the counter as if he was inspecting trash. ¡°I was wondering if you could help her- she¡¯s running a high fever.¡± When a bird wants a better look at something, it tilts its head as if it is cockily observing a chess piece transfer its position on a board. This is done not for any egotistical reason- it is because a bird¡¯s eyes, being on both sides of the head, cannot create a comprehensive image- something that is dutifully exploited by any knowledgeable hunter. In order to create a sense of depth, a bird must tilt its head, create two images, and compare them in order to understand depth and orient themselves. I know this, because I am blind in my right eye. The officer stared up and down, shifting his gaze from the woolen bundle then towards me, eyes tilted and grinning madly as if he was talking to an animal. ¡°Oh? Help? What makes her so different from everyone else who is dying?¡± He sneered at me, and I sighed, expecting this particular outcome. ¡°All of us are struggling, and you expect me to help one person? What happens when everyone else wants help, and comes here? Use your mind, boy. Get lost!¡± I walked back towards the exit, now in a bind. I couldn¡¯t raise her, but I could not leave her to die, either. Slow death, or indirect murder. I chuckled, still lugging the woolen bundle in my arms. Life was quite the fair game. ¡°Oh sweetie, is that a little girl?¡± I was shaken from my stupor to see the previous lady walking towards me, and already peeling away layers of the woolen blanket. ¡°Oh my, such beautiful white skin! She is a very small girl, no? Is she your sister?¡± It took me a moment to respond, my mind still in a haze. Why in the hell would she approach me, a simple boy in the Outer, in the first place? The world was, in a way, still full of oddities. ¡°She had collapsed in the snow, and I carried her here to seek help. She has a high fever.¡± A hand raised to feign shock, a quick turn back towards the man at the counter, and a deep stare at my face later, she motioned for me to release the woolen bundle. She carried the blanket and the girl, both pale as snow, in her arms as she took one last look at the counter and began walking towards the exit. ¡°Do not worry about this girl. I will make sure she lives.¡± She kneeled down so our eyes met. ¡°You are a good boy, trying to help others in these times. I pray for you to have a good future. Here-¡± She fumbled in her coat pocket, retrieving what seemed like some sort of simple bracelet. ¡°Take this as a little charm- it¡¯s the insignia of my house, and it¡¯ll give you good luck.¡± She departed quickly with a slight smile, and in only a moment the whip of the wind was the only thing that told of her even being here. A click. Something that I will not be able to explain, to this day. Perhaps a supernatural moment my parents used to love talking about. ¡°I want to become a police officer.¡± I peered up at the face that leered at me from the counter. A raucous fit of laughter followed, but my gaze never left his face. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye and composed himself. Retrieving a pen, he sighed and laid flat a piece of paper. ¡°What¡¯s your name, boy?¡± His eyes inquired as he awaited a response that would change someone¡¯s life. ¡°Alec. Alec Khulan.¡± --- It was everything Marilin had envisioned, and more. Indeed, it was seemingly an extension of her own body- the movements within the machine felt fluid, streamlined and easy. It was no different from walking, except that she was suddenly so much bigger than everyone else, and her left arm felt a little odd, which was all. She had to admit that she had a textbook response to being seated in a Spirit Strider for the first time, being that she was undeniably shocked at the dexterity and flexibility of such a large machine, something that became so much more apparent in person than in writing. With all systems running smoothly and a comforting low hum emanating through the air, Marilin felt equivalent to a god- nothing could truly best her- except for another god, perhaps. ¡°I can tell you that I was not walking around like that during my first time.¡± crackled Aemilia over the intercom, a set of hisses announcing her approach from behind her. ¡°Never one for the simulations, I was. I can tell that it was different for you- not much doubt there.¡± It was true. While Spirit Striders were too valuable to simply throw around for training purposes, the Academy provided computer programs hosted in a mock cockpit, training students through various combat scenarios, including even dull activities like marching. Marilin had loved these programs, but even so, they were far from the real thing. The sound, a comforting low hum, and the bounce with every step as the Strider¡¯s foot planted itself on the ground- these were all things that were simply unable to be experienced in a fake pod. In a real cockpit, seven meters above the ground, she felt that she was on a whole other playing field.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°I came here just to see if you could walk, run maybe, without falling over.¡± chuckled Aemilia, patting her Spirit Strider¡¯s shoulder pauldron with her own. ¡°Seems like I underestimated you- of the two new pilots I¡¯ve seen in my years, one of them couldn¡¯t stand up for an entire day. The maintenance crews will be happy about your performance.¡± Marilin couldn¡¯t help but laugh along. ¡°I was told that you were combat ready from your education in weapons and sims, but¡­¡± Aemilia went quiet as her tone became almost morose. ¡°Are you really?¡± ¡°That is an impossible question to answer.¡± Marilin had expected this sort of inquiry as soon as she stepped into her craft. Her craft. ¡°Would you ask a baby bird if they could fly before they tried for themselves? They may believe that they have the knowledge, the expertise, the practice. However, it is impossible to give a definite answer until they face the trial they boast about for themselves.¡± ¡°How old are you?¡± ¡°You know the answer to that question.¡± Aemilia walked ahead of her, then looked back at her, her Strider¡¯s head swivelling around. ¡°If I told everyone that you were my daughter, do you think they would believe us?¡± Marilin suppressed a laugh, a sensation she hadn¡¯t felt many times before. ¡°You cannot make sure until you try for yourself. I am no fortune teller.¡± ¡°In all honesty, I would love to spend more time with you. For a child so young, you are an interesting one. Your parents and childhood must have been a strange one, no doubt.¡± Marilin flinched. ¡°You have my PAD contact. Well, we have a rebellion that will not quell itself. I believe your supervisor will want to speak with you, no?¡± ¡°I believe he will.¡± ¡°This must be where I part. While you may live here, I do not. We will see each other on the morrow, hm? Give me a call if anyone is giving you a hard time. Tell them you¡¯re going to call your mother!¡± As they both laughed , the call ended with a sharp click. Despite the goodbye, Marilin felt quite content. From her own life she had known that time moved quickly, and change did not know of mercy. Life would slow to a trickle, then suddenly blow with the might of an easterly storm. She knew that change had often been in her favour, blowing fortunate tides towards her. It was impossible to know of when calamities could occur, so she tried to enjoy wherever change took her. The turn of the events the past few days had no doubt been following the trend of fortune that had befell her for her life so far. Marilin had no contacts on her PAD, except for her supervisor, Sir. Adding not one, but two from the past few days, however trivial it seemed, excited her enormously. It would be harsh to tell herself she had no friends, but even she had to admit that she did not like to get close to anyone in an educational environment so competitive that friends could very well soon become traitors. Now that she had all but graduated, she felt that a pair of shackles that had trapped her previously had fallen off to be discarded forever. As the sun tipped slowly below the roof of the hangar, it¡¯s rays cast a beautiful amber glow on the world beneath. Even if the lights of the City were all but a false beacon of hope, the sun was a consistent jewel with a light that never died in such a freezing nightmare of a land. --- How long had it been? That was right. Only a day and seven hours. ¡°The situation- it¡¯s gotten worse. It¡¯s like-¡± ¡°A rotten cheese.¡± ¡°A...a good way to put it. The rebels are more frequent, and are creating safehouses and bases of operations in the Outer Districts. We know this because we raided one this morning- the mole that tipped us off was right. There¡¯s more than one now. We don¡¯t or scarcely monitor the Outer; that makes them perfect for the rebellion, and worse for us.¡± ¡°How big of a scale is the rebellion now?¡± ¡°Big? Oh, it¡¯s big. Just two hours ago...you know the East Gate?¡± Marilin nodded. She had never been there, but she felt that she had at some point in her life, anyhow. ¡°The rebels raided the checkpoint. Killed a guard and lost two of their own before they scampered away. Cowards. The worst thing is, the two we killed? We don¡¯t even know who they are.¡± ¡°No identification?¡± That could only mean one thing. They were far, far in the Outer Districts- a place where the government rarely, if ever monitored. ¡°No, none at all. If the rest of the Outer get a wind of this, it¡¯ll spread faster than a famine. What¡¯s worse? It just gets worse, worse and worse¡­¡± Sir groaned as he buried his face in his hand. ¡°Morale is at a record low among the units garrisoned at the city. Defection may be slow now, but it is spreading like the wind. None of the soldiers have turned out to be traitors, but many are considering leaving their posts. Nobody expected the Outer to rebel on a scale like this, hence why the Inner city is so poorly equipped for defense.We¡¯re falling down a rabbit hole, and we can¡¯t see the end of it.¡± Sir¡¯s office was not particularly grand- a neat stack of shelves shoved haphazardly with documents, a single, but enormous window, a few chairs, and the richest accessory- the mammoth of a mahogany table positioned near the center of the room. While in theory it seemed quite a commanding office, he was similar to Marilin in that they both seemingly despised being tidy, perfect and immaculate. Papers strewn about the tops of shelves, boxes piled on the floor and a folder or two that lay open on the ground that was quite indicative of the type of person- a particularly relatable person- that Sir was. ¡°We haven¡¯t gotten to the worst. Oh, not yet.¡± Sir clapped his hands as if he was rehearsing a drama play. ¡°We have four Spirit Striders in the city garrison, including your own craft to protect the Inner. Notice anything?¡± ¡°The Inner,¡± repeated Marilin. ¡°Only the Inner.¡± ¡°What happens when the Inner is attacked? Do we devolve into being nothing but a castle under siege? The name is obvious- the Outer surrounds the Inner. We¡¯re like a fortress under attack, but the villages in our walls have joined the raiders.¡± ¡°And we know nothing, can do nothing and are capable of nothing, because the Outer is mostly out of our jurisdiction.¡± Sir sighed in agreement. ¡°Long have I advocated the creation of a spy ring in the Outer districts, but even at the very first stage- recruitment- we run into a fundamental problem.¡± ¡°Nobody wants to live in the Outer, where having a fat paycheck is moot when there is nothing to buy.¡± Sir had talked to her about this on a previous meeting, right before she became a pilot. ¡°Of course you know, because I have told you. We are in the dark about everything in the Outer- and this rebellion will only fester like disease in a body, while we cannot do anything except wait for people to tip us off.¡± Sir stood up, walking to the window and looking outward. ¡°For those people, can we ascertain their claims to be true?¡± The answer was obvious- the root of espionage. They both spoke in predictable unison. ¡°No.¡± ¡°We have a single lifeline, and we don¡¯t know if we can trust it.¡± Sir laughed darkly. ¡°I want this over as soon as possible, before more people on either side perish in a meaningless conflict. If a lifeline comes through this storm, no matter how flimsy it is, we¡¯re going to grasp it.¡± Sir stared straight at Marilin¡¯s eyes with a lingering gaze. ¡°Well, enough of my talk. What do you think?¡± ¡°About what in particular?¡± ¡°About your craft, this situation. How are you doing?¡± Marilin often was addressed with these questions from Sir. While she could tell he truly boded well, these were the questions that she despised the most. ¡°You know that our opinions are rarely misaligned.¡± ¡°Marilin,¡± Sir began with a pensive look. ¡°Your previous demeanor- being unassuming, identical and akin to much like a cog in a machine- these are traits you have used to brutal efficiency to rise up the rankings of the Academy.¡± So he knew. ¡°However, you may reside here, but you are no longer a student- you are a pilot. You, single handedly, command a craft that with its pilot has more value than two divisions of soldiers. People will know your name, and you will no longer be able to sit out of sight. No longer will you be able to flit between having attention and obscurity like a lone wasp that returns to its nest as it pleases. You, as a pilot, are now stuck in the spotlight.¡± An uncomfortable silence ensued, in which the words had adequate time to sink in. ¡°I will not pretend I know everything about you. You did not have a pleasant childhood- your methods, actions, behavior- they are evidence enough of that.¡± Marilin knew that Sir knew about her, but did not know how much he knew. ¡°I will give you advice that you can choose to follow or ignore. I do not control your life on a whim- I may be your supervisor, but your life is your own to lead if you wish it. I tell you to make the best of your situation- now that you must eschew from the unassuming attitude you used to lead your life- you should become someone that is no longer one that fights in the dark and rises up to the light when it suits them.¡± ¡°Yes, Sir.¡± Sir smiled, breaking the thin atmosphere of ice that had formed quietly in the room. ¡°Let yourself be known. Build a name that drives fear into the hearts of your enemies. Here... How about this? This, I bet, is something that you do not learn in a classroom.¡± Marilin¡¯s attention was instantly rapt. ¡°Do you know how new Spirit Strider¡¯s earn their names?¡± ¡°Are they not named upon ordering or creation?¡± ¡°No, no. Among pilots, there is a little ritual- the pilot names the craft after their first time of seeing combat. They say that the first battle is when the Spirit Strider redeems itself to its pilot, and that is when it should be christened. I will be ordering a raid on a rebel compound that a mole has tipped us off about, and I want you to be there. You will be briefed before dinner, where you will come to know everything.¡± Marilin nodded. She had expected, and prepared for this. As a pilot in such troubling times, she would not be wasted simply idling around. ¡°I have a question.¡± Sir cocked his head sideways to look at Marilin. She did often ask questions. ¡°My Strider is a Bucharest-class, yet it is still considered experimental.¡± Marilin had a rough idea as to why- something about the triangular structure at the back of her craft- but did not want to say. ¡°Is there anything special about my model?¡± The response came far quicker than she expected. ¡°Yes, but make no mistake- your craft does not deviate from any Bucharest-class.¡± An uncanny smile cracked Sir¡¯s lips. ¡°The difference...you will find out, in due time, perhaps.¡± What a mystery. ¡°You may go,¡± Sir looked away, back to the window. ¡°It is late, even though you became acquainted with your Spirit Strider far more quickly than the maintenance crews anticipated. They are happy with you, with their shifts being cut short. The simulations you endlessly ran in your free time were very helpful, it seems.¡± Marilin had no reason to be humble, and did not lie. ¡°Yes, they were. Very much so. Good night, Sir.¡± She had only taken a few steps, hand clasped firmly on the doorknob. ¡°Marilin. Hold on a second.¡± Marilin was not called by her name often- though she reasoned that in the past few days, nothing that occurred had happened often. ¡°I did not get an answer to the second part of my question.¡± He still faced the window, head enshrouded by the darkness that slowly arrived in the entering of dusk. ¡°What do you think of the current situation?¡± Marilin stopped with a curt nod. Without turning back, she spoke. ¡°I think that the rebels need to be vanquished without mercy as soon as time allows.¡± She let go of the doorknob. ¡°Their lives are few, but the ones they could take- they are many.¡± She had a reason to lie, and she lied through her teeth. --- She could feel the sleeping pills start to kick in. She had taken a little more than the recommended dosage, as her medication she took to treat her illness was not kind on her sleep schedule, and tomorrow was a day that she did not wish to feel fatigued through. She had resolved that she would clean her room tomorrow, but still knew she would never do it. A book was in her lap, the faint glow from a single lamp in the room illuminating it¡¯s glass screen. A single tap furled a page on the screen, allowing a new wall of words to enter the small pane of glass, enticing her to stay awake. Page flew in after page, and sleep was slowly, but surely, continuing it¡¯s successful campaign on Marilin¡¯s head. Why did the rebels decide to begin operations only now? She knew, of course. Why did they want to rebel? She knew why, too. Why were they doing what they did? She knew the reason far more than probably anyone in the Inner did. She did not always live in the Inner- her attempts at forgetting her past were fruitless, and the experiences and memories she gained from the world outside of her current world were ones that would stay with her until she died. She knew the reason for the rebellion, quite well. Fight fire with fire. Marilin chuckled to herself. She was unsure how much the higher ups knew about her; Sir had certainly revealed that he knew quite the wealth of information during their evening chat, but they could only know so much. Before Marilin arrived at the Inner, she legally did not exist. Their leads could only stretch so far- before long, it would be awash in the sea of ambiguity that was the Outer districts. Perhaps they guessed. There were few possibilities, after all. Not many left the Inner, and even fewer came in. The more and more she dwelled in thought, the more she began to convince herself that her academic skills were not the only reason she was chosen for such a daunting task that was fraught with risk for bother them and her. She had knowledge that no one else had, because if not for a series of coincidental events, she may not have been a Spirit Strider pilot, but one of the rebels. ¡°They¡¯ve taken quite the gamble with me,¡± mused Marilin quietly, sleep overtaking her. ¡°And they¡¯ve won quite the prize.¡± Chapter 7 The moment I woke up would be one of the most important moments of my life, something that I would only know years later. Having never slept in a true bed before, I thought I was floating, simply being unable to discern what I was lying on. It was dark- I was in a building, and it was warm- two things that were immediately apparent without opening my eyes. My head hurt, but I felt warmer than I ever had before. I decided it would be better to wake from my slumber and find the source of such mysterious comfort. An orange glow fell on my eyelids, revealing more and more as I awoke from seemed like an eternal sleep. I did not know what a bed looked like at the time, and I am embarrassed to say that I thought I was in God¡¯s cradle. Curtains and an elaborate veil surrounded the bed, two supporting trusses supporting a roof above my head. Perhaps- perhaps I could not be faulted for thinking I was in a cradle. ¡°Ah! You¡¯re awake!¡± A rustle of footfall sounded towards me, hinting to me the enormous size of the room I resided in. ¡°Oh my, oh my. You look better than when I had seen you last.¡± Even feeling weak, I managed a puzzled look. A responsive face of understanding prompted a quiet ¡®Ahh!¡¯ and the figure hurried away quickly. I pulled myself up to prop myself on the bed frame, mind still believing that I was dreaming, or dead. Not that they were much different, for if I was dreaming I would soon be dead. The room was indeed enormous, my large bed only occupying a small fraction of the total space. Numerous desks, an enormous wooden wardrobe and a cupboard were all built into a single room- enough that it was twice as big as the cabin I lived in when I was in the outer. I did not know at the time, but the floor was covered by a red carpet, and curtains obscured in the relative darkness of the space. The woman hurried back with a glass of water, placing it on a desk beside the bed that I could not see. ¡°Little girl¡­¡± She reached into the blanket and clasped my hand. ¡°Some things you are too young to understand. We will talk about such things in due time.¡± I was awake now, and opened my mouth to speak. ¡°Do not speak yet. You are weak.¡± My vision cleared enough to be able to discern that the figure in front of me was a woman. ¡°You are sick still- a shame, for a single glance at you is enough to know that you are not truly one that was born and raised in the Outer. The events that led you to such a place are unknown to me, perhaps even unknown to you- but no one that was born there needs to rot there for the rest of their lives. Nevermind that, now. What is your name, little girl?¡± This was no ordinary room, and certainly no ordinary woman. And someone seemed to think I was no ordinary girl. ¡°I can r-read, write, count¡­¡± I gasped as I took another shallow breath in a futile attempt to sound composed. ¡°Keep me, and I will learn to do anything you need. Anything.¡± She put a finger to my lips. ¡°Hush, little girl. Let us not rush things- perhaps we will have our introductions later. We will talk when you are rested and calm- do not worry, for you are safe here. My name is Priss. Priss Everton.¡± ¡ª- ¡°Can you believe it? Supposedly three years away, and I¡¯ve already reached my goal!¡± ¡°You have worked hard, and I extend my congratulations.¡± Alec¡¯s response was not as energetic or happy as Marilin had anticipated. ¡°I remember the day I received my own craft, and no doubt you have today felt the same joy I felt a few years ago.¡± ¡°You are a pilot of the city garrison, are you not?¡± ¡°I suppose you ask if we will be serving together, and the answer to that question is yes- something I greatly look forward to.¡± No matter his words, Alec sounded lethargic, different from his usual tone. ¡°Alec, are you alright?¡± His change in tone was like night and day, alike to a light switch that had just been flicked in a dark room. ¡°Oh, yes. Yes. I just finished a long shift- that is all.¡± He laughed. ¡°How about tomorrow- we meet up at Noir Rose- it is next to the Academy, do you know it?¡± ¡°Yes. Seventh Street, a unit away form the intersection?¡± It was a cafe that she herself frequented when she was allowed to leave the Academy grounds, as they served excellent scones- something that reminded her of home. ¡°Let us meet there at ten tomorrow- consider this my congratulations to you,¡± Alec paused, carefully measuring the silence. ¡°Pilot to pilot. Not often does a pilot enter our ranks, and after a rookie¡¯s first battle, there is much cause for celebration. The situation in the country may not be the best time for a party, but the rebels are still weak. Us pilots will not be needed for quite some time.¡± Marilin¡¯s smile rose quickly, showing in her voice. ¡°Deal. You¡¯re paying.¡± ¡° ¡®course.¡± Alec laughed, and hung up. He sounded much happier than at the beginning of the call- something that greatly pleased her. ¡°...far better place than I will ever go.¡± Marilin had taken the last hour to clean her room, and, like many things that seemed to be happening recently, pleased her. Now books were stacked carefully in a book box, clothes in cupboards and medication nestled cleanly in a designated cabinet. Fitting for her current position. With a satisfying snap, the book¡¯s screen shut off, marking the one hundredth-time that it had been read. ¡ª- The inside of the building was only mildly warmer than the chill that beleaguered the outside. Even so, a welcoming scent of sweet and a quiet tinkle gave Marilin a welcoming feeling of respite. Light wooden chairs were stacked in a neat fashion on the far left corner of the wall, and tables were otherwise scattered spaciously throughout the plain tile floor. Wooden features like shelves and decorative cupboards lined with beige, simple walls, and a tinkle of teacups clanging on their saucers filled the shop with a quiet but welcoming atmosphere. From the counter, an equally silent cashier watched the cafe¡¯s lazy proceeds with a sleepy eye. A swish of wind sounded through the quiet space as Marilin weaved her way to the front counter. A quick glance told her that Alec had not arrived yet- a message on her PAD told her that he was arriving in a minute or two. In the meantime, she filed both their orders and took a seat on a corner table that was lit by an overhanging lamp. ¡°Marilin!¡± A voice rang out form the entrance, flowing through to the back like a flute. Alec snaked his way through the littered furniture and squeezed into the seat opposite her, still looking almost the same as when they met in the alleyway- an unbreakable smile and a gleaming uniform, both of which had become permanent fixtures of his character, looking at her idyllically on the other side of the table.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°It was quite a surprise when I was notified that you, of all people, would be filling in for the position of the experimental craft that all us pilots have heard so much about.¡± Alec leaned across the table with a gleam of mad curiosity in his eyes. ¡°Come on, tell me. What¡¯s so special about the Strider that the government has kept it hushed for years?¡± Marilin returned the gesture as their eyes met, laughing quietly to preserve the peace in the room. ¡°I am but a little girl that commands a leviathan. A bird may not know the purpose of it¡¯s wings until it flies, no?¡± ¡°A bird will often learn to use their wings until it is too late, only using what could be their greatest ability when death glimpses them in it¡¯s eye.¡± Alec¡¯s single eye slashed through Marilin¡¯s demeanor as if it were a blade that had just left the whetstone. ¡°It is better to know one¡¯s abilities, regardless of how pitiful they may be, than be powerful and be unaware of what truly is in your hands.¡± A series of clicks and the opening of a trapdoor on the side of the wall announced the arrival of the two¡¯s coffee, steaming and fresh. Retrieving it from the hole in the wall, the trapdoor subtly clicked close and the conversation proceeded as if nothing had happened. ¡°Perhaps your first trial of combat will help you realise what makes your craft so special.¡± Alec looked away and tinked his cup. ¡°Not knowing the power of one¡¯s wings does not mean that you will not mature into a full-fledged bird.¡± Marilin smiled at the thought. To her, her Strider was simply like any other Bucharest-class. ¡°Just because pilots use the same model does not mean they are identical, just like how each bird is similar, yet a different individual in its own right.¡± ¡°Spirit Striders are one fo the few lucky types of soldiers that are so few that they can afford to act, fight and flourish independently. Other soldiers abstain from freedom for the sake of order, but pilots have the power and ability to fight single-handedly. I suppose never knowing your specialty until you are in need of it is not such a bad thing, hmm?¡± Scones arrived in a small platter, one for each, as their coffee started diminishing from their cups. The quiet chatter around the store never stopped, as they, themselves contributed to the relaxed atmosphere that seemed to emanate from the very air. ¡°Never mind that. I invited you here for celebration, not consultation. Let me ask you what has been on the tongue of every pilot since your entrance to our ranks- how, and why?¡± ¡°Would it be too boring to say that I always wanted to be a pilot?¡± Alec laughed as he munched on the remains of a half-eaten scone. ¡°I will not lie, and I think I speak for most, if not every pilot, that the thought you are having now is but one that we have all had at some point in time. Though I suppose you have another reason, as does everyone.¡± ¡°That is something you will find out in due time, I suppose. Like my powers as a pilot. I am, after all, a little girl.¡± ¡°Piloting a leviathan.¡± ¡°It makes all the difference, does it not?¡± They laughed as they drained their cups of coffee, taking time to eat their scones as if they were treasures. ¡°You must have been a good student, to be chosen at all. I wasn¡¯t nearly as good as you, finishing fourth in my class at graduation.¡± said Alec, reminiscing as he stared at his empty cup. ¡°I suppose it was something I did that caused me to be where I am today.¡± Marilin realised that despite being relatively young, Alec still only piloted an older model- a Sancrete-class. It was a detail she had overlooked after their meeting in the alleyway, and it was a thinly threaded explanation to why, with a rank as low as one he achieved, he did not pilot a Bucharest-class, or even piloted a Strider at all. ¡°Something happened.¡± ¡°Perhaps it would be misleading to say something happened. Of course, something happened, but simply saying that wouldn¡¯t give credit to what really caused me to become a pilot.¡± Alec waved over a waitress and requested another coffee, flashing a smile before returning to a serious demeanour as he resumed talking. It was uncanny, almost scary, how quickly he could change. ¡°The thing that happened did not occur upon my graduation- in fact, nowhere close. It happened when I was young, and though I did not appreciate it then, it became one of the most important things in my life. I would not be a pilot today without it. Does that answer your thoughts?¡± Marilin nodded, looking away. ¡°How about you? Enough about me. Come on, we came here because you got your Spirit Strider, right? Don¡¯t be solemn. How do you reckon you got your Spirit Strider?¡± ¡°Luck.¡± It was a pitiful half truth, but it was one that could not be easily refuted. Alec looked doubtful. ¡°I was an excellent student, something you know already. However, when I entered the Academy at the behest of my¡­¡± Marilin took a sip of the coffee as she composed her thoughts. Sickly sweet. ¡°Benefactor, I did not originally intend to become a pilot. I was going to get my certificate and leave. From the onset, I did not expect to be capable of competing with my peers.¡± Alec picked up almost instantly. ¡°You did not receive an education as a child.¡± Marilin nodded as he continued. ¡°Combined with your short stature-¡± He flashed an apologetic look, but Marilin, expecting as much, waved him off. ¡°You did not expect to stand much of a chance in the almost brutal competition of the Academy. Don¡¯t worry- that, of all things, is something that I can understand. You worked hard instead, and got to where you are now?¡± ¡°If the last part were correct, I wouldn¡¯t say that I am where I am now through luck.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± ¡°I consider myself an exceedingly lucky person.¡± Alec rested his head on his hands. ¡°If you don¡¯t want to tell me, that¡¯s fine. I will warn you however- once you become a solid part of the pilot community, there will not be many secrets you can keep. It is, I suppose, only natural.¡± ¡°I consider myself an exceedingly lucky person. That has a tendency to get into terrible situations.¡± Alec seemed satisfied with the enigmatic answer and replied with a grin. ¡°So you¡¯re here to tell me that these two things tend to balance out, resulting in-¡± He suddenly paused, an almost malevolent glint of cautioned interest sparking in his eyes. It was like a hawk who had just realised they had finally cornered a mouse. He let go of his cup as he inched forward. ¡°Let me ask you one question- if you do not wish to answer, then that is completely understandable.¡± That was exactly when Marilin realised that Alec was far more cunning than his friendly facade. She nodded, not expecting him to understand her thinly woven message. He had got her. ¡°Were you born in the Outer?¡± She had prepared, arrived at this meeting and readied herself for years, for the possibility to be asked exactly this question. ¡°We both know that refusing to answer would give you the correct answer regardless.¡± After a moment of quick thought and hesitation, she pressed on. ¡°Yes, I was born in the Outer.¡± Alec nodded. ¡°I understand.¡± While Marilin had not specified the events that led her transfer to the Inner, the possibilities were few, and all...interesting. More importantly, if they were spoken through the wrong mouth, they were dangerous. ¡°Something occurred that was very uncommon, unique and strange. In all honesty, I only know half of what happened. Someone else that I perhaps will never know knows the other half. I am sure that you are aware more than most others of the dangers of knowledge, being in a position such as yours. Me knowing is bad enough. I do not wish to endanger you, too.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯m good at keeping my mouth shut, and I don¡¯t think that you would be a thorn in our side. Trust. Thought never crossed my mind.¡± He flashed a grin that seemed to say, ¡®Can¡¯t speak if I don¡¯t know, hm?¡¯. Marilin smiled, pleased with how fast the questions had been smothered. Her greatest problem had been resolved quite quickly- if someone was after her tail, she would have the thought that they could not endanger any others in pursuit of her. Not only that, it would simplify matters. Putting down a half-eaten scone, she stood up and waved to a waitress with her PAD, indicating that she wanted to pay the bill. She took the person opposite her off guard as they stood up. Alec may have been a hawk, but Marilin believed that she was no simple mouse. ¡°Glad to hear.¡± Chapter 8 It was quite a surprise. The human mind is keen on reacting to sudden changes with resistance, shock and even disgust. It will work hard to dispel, conquer and eradicate such changes until a semblance of normality can be achieved. Sitting on a window ledge with too much time and too little to think about, I thought of it like a flock of birds, who would bully an outcast but let them live with them eventually anyway. The mind was not only hostile, but stupid to the point where it would fight with itself, almost as if it were possessed with not one, but two beings. It was a double edged sword of unmatched sharpness and caliber. Full of hate for change yet, so capable of adapting to changes considered to be foreign with an ease seemingly unmatched by any other creature that still resided in this wretched world. How could the mind win against others if it could not even win against itself? ¡°Just over this way, one more doorway, see!¡± The hand ushering me forward was a little too forceful, and I stumbled on my step as I looked up to see what she was describing to me as we walked through the maze of corridors and rooms. ¡°Hold on, you¡¯re a little too short for that one,¡± the same lady said to me, smiling at me from above. She grasped the door handle firmly and pulled with a confidence and grace I had seldom seen before. ¡°Come on in, we won¡¯t bite!¡± I was still half asleep. By then, I still knew little better than nothing, but now I know that by that moment in time my fever had probably broken a little less than a day ago. The room was brightly lit, something that I had yet to get used to after being acquainted with Shiinevaar''s almost perpetual darkness for so long. In a land where winter was so strong that it could mean that snow could bleach the sky, light was simply a commodity, not a necessity. Which, by default, meant that I was not used to seeing it. With so many lights everywhere, my eyes hurt as they constantly readjusted to the spectacle of grandeur that constantly befell me. The lady kneeled down and patted my back, pointing vaguely forward. Gesturing towards the cavernous room- albeit, every room in the house seeming cavernous to me- the light shone into my eyes as I could make out a row of people standing at the back wall of the room, themselves making up a multitude of different shapes and sizes. Another sign of luxury. Where I came from, everyone was thin, and nobody was as tall as the person standing second from the right in front of me. ¡°Little girl¡­¡± she whispered quietly into my ear, voice bubbly and jovial. Another change I would have to get accustomed to, it seemed. ¡°The people in front of you, from today- will be your family.¡± The Shiinevarean word for ¡®family¡¯, ¡®serbul¡¯, was a word that I heard for the first time in that enormous room, with six pairs of eyes staring at me intently as if I was a valuable painting being auctioned. When I grew up in the place I now mentally refer to as ¡®The Cabin¡¯, we used Old English to speak. It was seen as offensive and rebellious to dare to speak Shiinevarean, if anyone could teach you in the first place. Everything, from the rare chances I could speak with others to the only book in the house worth reading- all were in English. If no one had ever spoken Shiinevarean to me in my life, I would have never known it existed. Now, I still cannot speak it, but my knowledge of it and a few important words was a giant lamp post that told me that I had had my life very drastically altered. The first one that spoke had a hoarse voice, as if they had just recovered from a fever like myself. However, there was an underlying tone of genuine friendliness to it, something that I understood on the sole basis that I had not experienced it before. ¡°Welcome to our family. I hope you will feel safer in our House.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t even know why you¡¯re here. Priss, why on Earth are we adopting this specific orphan out of the half or so million out on the street?¡± Expected. Someone like me was no stranger to hatred. His voice cut clear through the still room, an air of cockiness dispelling through his tone. ¡°George!¡± My eyes had adjusted, and I could see the speaker, an older boy with blonde hair, look away with what I could not tell was remorse or hate. The others, who all seemed to be older than him, looked at him condescendingly. Throughout the wide room, six figures stood with their backs to an enormous panel of glass that showed that it was still night outside. While the mansion, dubbed mentally ¡®as the House¡¯ simply because it was far larger in size than ¡®the Cabin¡¯, was still much of a mystery to me, I had pieced together enough while laying awake in bed. Before reaching the Food Ration Office that mother had once taken me to, I had begun to feel my legs give way, but still pressed on. I soon began to realise the futility of my woolen blankets against the cold, and I dwelled on that thought before my memory cut. Through snippets of conversation I heard outside the door, it seemed that I had collapsed on the street before I made it to the Inner. Having read through my one book extensively, this spectacle that lay before my eyes seemed eerily similar to something I had only been able to imagine. I was still unsure of their reasons for seemingly choosing to take me into their residence, even going as far as giving me my own room- I did not know Shiinevarean at the time, and I was not aware that they intended to adopt me into their family. However, what came next spread some light into the mysterious mire of a situation I had been thrown in. ¡°What did I tell you before? She¡¯s not from the Outer. One look! That¡¯s all you need to see! Does anyone outside the walls have skin as fair as this? Is anyone who needs to act to survive as small as this? She looks as if she has never worked a day of her life.¡± The woman called Priss turned to face George. ¡°Oh, and you little rascal, one more thing. I had Earnshaw pick out what was in her pocket, and do you know what I found?¡± My hands were to my sides as soon as Priss uttered the word ¡®pocket¡¯. Everyone stared at me as I fumbled for gaps in my clothing, only to find that I was not fitted with what I originally wore when I set out front the Cabin. George chose not to respond, looking as if he had faced his- I assumed- sister¡¯s bickering a great many times before. ¡°Two pages! She set out on a journey-¡± ¡°Journey?¡± This time the older man with the hoarse voice that greeted me when I first entered spoke. ¡°She was wrapped in nothing but a woolen blanket, carrying two pages in her pockets. Sleeping on the street, outside Death¡¯s door when someone carried her into the police station. She couldn¡¯t have set out less than a day or two ago, or else she¡¯d be dead. She¡¯s trying to get somewhere.¡± ¡°Sister. The pages. What¡¯s so interesting about them? How can you be sure she can read? They could be tissues, for that matter.¡± Priss stood up, expectedly angry at being distracted. ¡°Those two pages come from my favourite book!¡± ¡°So you¡¯re here to say that that girl broke a window and ripped two pages from your book, and now we¡¯re adopting her?¡± The person next to George gave him a hard nudge, and his jesting face fell faster than the beggars in the winter. ¡°No, you fool. Those pages are hers, alright- perhaps she couldn¡¯t carry the entire book with her, so she carried the first and last page as a lasting memory. Not only that, but she told me she can read. And I believe her.¡± George¡¯s sour face persisted, but the other five in the room eyed me with obvious interest and curiosity. Was I that much of a peculiarity, simply because I could read? Something I could not hope to know at the moment, being in the dark about even exactly where I was. The others still eyed me, but their faces were lined with what looked like genuine compassion. That moment could not be underestimated in my mind- having spent my entire life beforehand in a place like the Cabin, looks of anything other than thinly hidden malice were rare and in between. It felt wonderful to be liked. It felt even better to not be hated. ¡°I never thought Everton House would stoop as low to conform to the words of a mere beggar. The age of humans helping one another is past, and you know that, sister. Our religion cannot serve us into the future, and now is not the time to start making exceptions.¡± ¡°Give her a chance, please. George.¡± The voice came from one of the two people in the room that had not spoken yet, the same one that had shushed George before. ¡°Little girl, do you know where you were born?¡± My voice was listless and duller than a blank sheet. ¡°In the Cabin.¡± Looks of confusion flew my way. ¡°Where is the cabin, dear?¡± ¡°In the snow. Somewhere next to the forest. I ran away.¡± Quick glances were exchanged between the members in the room. Like many things, I was not aware at the time as to why. Looking in hindsight, little instances, like a glance, a stare or even a curse directed my way make far more sense now that I am older. That is the gift of recollection, and I was no exception. I realised later, but the slight pause they held after I spoke was for a rather simple reason- Shiinevaar only had one forest on the north eastern side of the Outer districts. Coincidentally, it was the side furthest away from the Everton residence, and I had only collapsed in the snow a few hundred meters from the Inner City. I had walked an extraordinarily long way with only a woolen blanket to protect myself from the light blizzard that had covered the city that night I ran away. To this day I am amazed at how I, seemingly through fortitude, managed to survive long enough to be saved. Even Priss, who had been my fervent supporter since the beginning of the conversation, fell silent. ¡°I didn¡¯t like it in the Cabin. So I walked to the lights. I fell asleep and I woke up in a bed.¡± A thought shot through me in that moment- it was amazing how much reading a single book made me different from the others in the Outer. Mother¡¯s last words had no doubt left their edge. ¡°Am I in my better rest?¡± I was but young, and took the words I had uttered in a childish mindset. The same could not be said for the others. If I could separate the most important moments of my life into a line of lamp posts along a road, then what happened next would be one of the few that shone brightest. Priss crouched down immediately as she was nearly twice my height, and enveloped me in a sudden hug. I recoiled immediately, and she noticed. Not understanding, I struggled momentarily and in that moment the two of us, eye on eye, seemed to come to an understanding. I stopped, and she didn¡¯t let go of me for quite some time. I had rarely talked to anyone, let alone been given much affection. It was scary, but Priss was warm. And I liked being warm more than I disliked being scared. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, sweetheart.¡± She hugged me tighter, in response to my words. As a child, I could have no thought as to the magnitude of the words I had just spoken. ¡°You¡¯re safe here now.¡± Everyone was silent, and even George¡¯s malice had flushed from his face.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. It was odd in that large room. Grandiose furniture surrounding the many walls, a little shaft left in the rich, giant back window hidden by equally royal curtains. Orange warm lights, people dressed well and standing tense, yet so seemingly so seren with their backs to the window. It was something that was so picturesque and so overtly happy that it disturbed me. Nine people in a room, and no one said a word. The wind flowed through the shaft in the window, and the room breathed as if it were a sleeping leviathan. Still no one spoke, and the wind played an eloquent chime in the almost beautiful absence of sound. Priss still hadn¡¯t let go. As I stood limp in her arms, I found myself looking forward as tears slowly formed in my eyes. It was like something I had never had, and only something I could have hoped to see, hoped to feel from blank words on a page. ¡°This is nice. I wouldn¡¯t mind resting here.¡± --- ¡°Are you ready?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t ask me a question you know the answer to. You¡¯re better than that.¡± The trees that lined the edges of the Academy courtyard had just begun sprouting new leaves, evidence of the thaw of the iron grip of the Shiinevarean winter. They struck up like rows of toothpicks into the sky, opposing the grand, but rather squat line of buildings that made up the Academy¡¯s central courtyard. A flat sheet of green had covered most of the open space, a welcome change from months of bleak white. Winter was receding, and with it, it seemed as if life had been breathed into the seasonally desolate city. ¡°First is still your first. No doubt your second will be different, and perhaps in your third, you will learn to cope.¡± Aemelia¡¯s breath condensated in the cold air as the two walked towards the Academy garage. ¡°You should know that you are not alone. This is an act not just any pilot, but any soldier will have to go through. Like the long dead old men once said- the waiting is often worse than the fighting. When it was turn for my first sortie, something that comforted me was that there were already people that had come before me, proving that Spirit Striders were reliable combat machines. Though it was a reassurance, the thought did nothing to abate the anxiety that plagued Marilin¡¯s heart, no matter how logically unreasonable it was. ¡°Could you imagine what it was like to be one of the first pilots? Knowing nothing about combat but the controls, being put in an unstable machine with no improvements, no experience¡­ you know what they say, right? The early Sancretes, they were little more than death traps.¡± While she had never thought of it that way, Marilin knew that what Aemelia was saying was true. Everything had to have a beginning, and the Spirit Strider was no exception. Early Striders relied on heavy armour before mounting pilot casualties taught the world that the Spirit Strider was not meant to be an armoured fighting vehicle- armour came with weight, and weight came with reduced dexterity. Just like the battlecruisers that once ruled the seas, Spirit Striders had to skimp on armour in order to gain an unrivalled edge in maneuverability. Speed, in itself, was armour. ¡°We have much to thank for our point defense systems.¡± Marilin spoke slowly after her train of thought. ¡°Too many lives were lost to figure that the Strider was inherently not a machine designed to take hits. It is not a monster, a giant, or a leviathan. It is a butterfly.¡± The morning sun began to rise over the edge of the Academy buildings, a refreshing sight after months of it being drenched in gales of snow. It was about time for breakfast, something that could be seen with the increased number of people milling about the courtyard, walking, stretching or conversing with each other before the notification for breakfast was sent to their PADS. After a morning meal, students would mull about before going to their first classes for the day. One slight thing that Marilin appreciated that she was not previously aware of was that as a Pilot, she no longer had to attend any classes she did not wish to go to. Having already earned her qualification, the classes catering to the mass of the potential pilots on the Academy grounds had little value for her. ¡°Much to thank, but not something you should rely on. I have many a pilot that have disregarded a Strider¡¯s speed of movement in exchange for relying solely on its point defense system.¡± Aemelia, nearly a full head taller, poked Marilin¡¯s forehead like a brooding mother hen. ¡°It is as you said. A Spirit Strider is a large creature that acts like a small one, a being that uses movement to survive. It flies, dances, swirls to avoid damage, and uses its own weapons to damage its enemies. It is a butterfly, and it should act as such.¡± ¡°A butterfly.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what you said. Don¡¯t start going back on yourself, now.¡± Marilin rubbed her hands to warm up. Winter¡¯s chill was still prominent, and lingered peacefully in the air. ¡°Such a large being being compared to something as lithe as a butterfly. The things they teach you in class, about the Strider being something akin to a mythical being- not all of it could be true.¡± ¡°Just because something is an exaggeration, does not mean that it is a falsehood.¡± Aemelia laughed and ran ahead of Marilin, turning back to face her. ¡°Just because a butterfly can fit in my palm and a Spirit Strider can only fit in a fully decked hangar, the perception of it does not have to change. For me, it is as you described- not a monster of devastation, but a creature of grace. If it is described as a butterfly, so be it. It is more accurate than being compared to a demon.¡± While Marilin had no doubt shared mostly Aemelia¡¯s thoughts on the matter, her near death experience with facing down the chain gun of Alec¡¯s Spirit Strider still bore a deep influence on her mind. She still believed in it¡¯s beauty, but now she could also now see why a Strider could be something that was feared and despised. It was one thing to be in the cockpit, and an entire other thing to be on the ground. She had seen two worlds, and it frightened her. ¡°Don¡¯t you think that we, as pilots, hold some degree of bias?¡± ¡°Everytime I talk to you we drift to a topic of philosophy some way or another.¡± Aemelia sighed as she stopped in the middle of the path, elegantly changing the subject. ¡°Soldiers aren¡¯t trained to think, Marilin. We¡¯re trained to follow orders and listen to what someone else has to say, so we can exert more power in a cohesive unit. A Spirit Strider may be a grand machine capable of holding it¡¯s own in a plethora of situations, but do not forget that you are fragile. Even with your armour and your point defense system, a single well-aimed shell can cripple your machine. You have an arsenal of abilities and tools and you cannot rely on just one.¡± ¡°You seem like a strong advocate of a Strider¡¯s dexterity and speed.¡± ¡°No doubt. Many pilots gloss over such a brilliant advantage in favour of lazily relying on their point defense.¡± Aemelia paused. ¡°One shell. All it takes. Even with everything you have, all that is needed is one. Spirit Striders aren¡¯t something we can send wherever we want, whenever we want. We operate as a team so that losses will never go above zero. Do you understand?¡± Of course she did. She might be able to think, but hearing this statement so many times in classes had taught her well enough. In the world of Striders, losses were unacceptable. ¡°Yes, I do.¡± ¡°You are in a little luck. Like I said before, Spirit Striders can hold their own, and I think that from that, some individualism does seep into a pilot¡¯s mind. If you were in the infantry, an air unit or heavy armoured corps, there would be no room for such thinking. You follow orders. As a soldier, you follow orders. Even as a pilot, you follow orders, you hear?¡± ¡°How...unforgiving.¡± A hint of a smile crossed Marilin¡¯s lips. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. I know.¡± ¡°You signed up for this, dear. We all did, and we can¡¯t back out now just because we think a little differently. You¡¯re a pilot, and having thoughts is normal. Don¡¯t let it cloud your judgement, endanger others or put yourself in a bad position. Just because you are in sole control or one of Earth¡¯s greatest fighting machines does not mean you fight alone. You have a team- you can rely on them, and they will rely on you.¡± Aemelia jogged ahead, indicating her leave as their paths diverged. ¡°Don¡¯t forget about me, either. Tell me if anyone picks on you!¡± Her raucous laughter could be heard even as she ran into the garage from the back door. As evil as it sounded, it was oddly comforting. --- The city outside of the Academy was bustling with people as usual. Lights, now characterized by the relative lack of thick snow that often lay on the streets, seemed to shine brighter than they had in the winter months. Shops and other assortments of stores, united in their similar masonry, opened their doors day-round for the first time at the first real break of snow. The snow in the ground had slightly dissipated, and the stone pattern of the street could be seen. Even the oppressive forces of winter could do nothing to stop the everyday lives of people in the Inner, who would play in the snow and admire its simplistic white beauty. The whiteness of snow held a different meaning for different people. Marilin¡¯s breath wisped into the chill air as the store finally came into view. After attending one class in the morning, she had exercised her newfound freedom and left to run an errand she had pushed to the back of her mind. Now having half a day off to do whatever she wanted, this was something she felt that she had to do before she went on her first mission. A patchwork of carefully shaped bricks and simple carvings set into stone, the shop was quite unassuming for a building of the Inner, settled nicely in the shadows to two larger buildings. It was not a shop to be found, but a shop to be sought. The front door rattled and wheezed as a blast of warm air, a familiarity of every shop on this street, greeted her. A bell, attached to the top of the door, chimed melodically in the quiet. The interior of the shop was small- deceptively so. A large booth stood at the front and center of the store, with a slit opening at the bottom and a combination of wrought iron bars and glass separating a busy-looking receptionist between a quietly inquiring customer. The rest of the store was quite unassuming- for someone who had not been to the back, the storefront seemed awfully tiny. The frontal area was a rough trapezoidal shape, two enormous wooden shelves plied with stationary and other accessories like paper doing nothing but make the small space seem even more constricted. A long, narrow table was built into the inner receptionist¡¯s desk, and there stood three people, writing slowly with ink onto paper. ¡°Marilin! Are you here to send another letter?¡± The receptionist. She managed a quick smile before the receptionist returned to deal with the customer on hand. The store was unassuming indeed- it seemed nothing more than a small hobby store for the long dead practice of letter writing. However, the Ink and Parchment served a far more important secondary purpose- it sent letters to people in the Outer, maintaining one of the few precious threads of communication between the two separated sections of the city. The value of simply a whisper was great- it could easily change the politics of the Inner City. Without another word, Marilin threaded her fingers through a feather quill and an inkwell, much like the other customers. To those that did not know the establishment¡¯s true purpose, she was simply another person sending a simple gift to someone she knew. The old writing utensils were simply a cover for letters to the Outer, as no one in the Outer District owned PADs outside of exclusive members. Dear Mother, I¡¯m not dead yet. Is that so surprising? I don¡¯t think you would find it so. I haven¡¯t sent you a letter in nearly a year, and I know you aren¡¯t a fool enough to know that I¡¯d be sending this to you on a whim. I achieved something recently that I don¡¯t think you¡¯d be proud of me for, but you¡¯re no longer here to tell me, so I can¡¯t be stopped now. This one way form of communication makes me feel that I¡¯m talking to myself. Maybe I should just write a diary instead? The Messenger says that my letters are being sent and I have enough trust in them, even though I¡¯ve never even seen their face. As long as you can¡¯t send back anything to me, I will still always feel like I¡¯m alone here in the snow. Lewis- if you are reading this, and I know you are- because you¡¯re the only one who learnt to read after I left, and if you¡¯ve received this letter at all- don¡¯t read the next part to Mother. You were always the nicest one to me, even if we never spoke a word. I don¡¯t give a damn about Laura dying, but give my condolences to Mother. Don¡¯t act like you don¡¯t know why. She may have been my sister, but to her, I was nothing but vermin. Marilin was nearing the end of the page, and she dipped her quill into the inkwell, cracked her knuckles, and stopped for a moment. While the establishment never read their customer¡¯s letters, Marilin knew better and caught a guilty looking receptionist craning over the counter, a view of malevolent curiosity quickly vanishing from their eyes. She smiled and the receptionist blushed, turning away quickly. While she was a regular customer, it was rare, very rare indeed that she wrote letters. Believe me if you want, but I can¡¯t help you. I don¡¯t hate any of you, and I¡¯d help if you could. We all know that me, staying alive as sick as I was was a great reparation. I will come for you if it is within my power- that is something I can easily promise. My past is something I cannot, and something I have resigned I will not, forget. Regards, Girl on the Windowsill ¡°Is that all? Just one page?¡± The receptionist eyed the sealed letter with a watchful eye as Marilin flashed her PAD to pay. ¡°Last time you wrote more than this. Who are you sending these to?¡± ¡°Someone I feel I am indebted to.¡± replied Marilin with a curt nod. The receptionist here loved such ambiguous answers, and she flashed a huge grin. ¡°Alright, alright now. Come back soon- I always try to leave some sheets of paper for you when you come to buy. You know that, right?¡± Marilin opened the door and the unwelcome cold draught almost made her close it again. ¡°Of course I do. See you soon.¡± In due time, only two pretty tinkles of a bell were the only evidence she had even been there. Chapter 9 The dress was frilly, too long and dragged itself across the floor when I walked. I hated it. ¡°Now,¡± said Beatrice, fussing over me in a way I thought only mothers could. ¡°No one will know you were not a member of Everton House. Listen to what Priss says, and you¡¯ll be stunning. The party will be yours.¡± I was sat in a cushioned stool, it¡¯s carved wooden legs taller than my own. Beatrice, the maid designated to care for me, was prattling around in an enormous wooden walk-in wardrobe that was filled with second-hand clothes given to me by other members of the family. Even not being new, they were incredibly rich, nothing like I had seen in my life. What I wore made my precious woolen blanket seem like a washcloth. ¡°Where¡¯s my blanket?¡± Beatrice smiled and pointed at the table next to my bed, smaller than the one I had woken up in. On the top was a simple lamp and my blanket rolled up and tied in a neat ribbon, it¡¯s surface white as snow and pristine. It seemed that Priss had thought one step ahead. ¡°Come over here, little one.¡± Beatrice came towards me with a necklace, hands outstretched as she gently put it on my neck. It was a simple yet confusing design- something that had a simple elegance of its own without the finery of flashy colours or priceless gems. It fit onto my neck nicely; I liked it immediately because I couldn¡¯t even feel that it was there. ¡°Now, little one, don¡¯t take that off, do you hear?¡± Beatrice was already back to fumbling in the wardrobe while I sat like a painting prompt on the stool. ¡°That¡¯s the insignia of Everton House. As long as that is on, if you find yourself lost, you will be returned to us. Don¡¯t take it off, and don¡¯t lose it now.¡± I didn¡¯t. I never did. Even now, the ornament is still on my neck. Beatrice finished off my outfit with a short ribbon on my head, just in time for Priss¡¯ arrival into the room. She was dressed similarly to how I was. She flashed a big smile at me, something that I was getting accustomed to. ¡°It¡¯s just like what I said.¡± Priss joined Beactrice as she was finishing up tidying the wardrobe. ¡°She could not have come from the Outer originally. Look at her pale skin and soft hands! The savages in the Outer put their children to work almost as soon as they are born.¡± ¡°It¡¯s as you say, madam. I can¡¯t put a hand on it, but she has an air of nobility about her, even if she doesn¡¯t look it or say a word.¡± ¡°One day we may find out where she has truly come from. I, for one, would like to know. She couldn¡¯t have been on the street for long, or she would have been dead. She was cast out, or she left of her own volition. The question is quite simple- why?¡± Priss turned to face me, almost as if she sensed my discomfort sitting in the stool. ¡°Are you looking forward to the ball, sweetie?¡± I didn¡¯t know what a ball was, of course. At the time, I could count the things I knew on the fingers of my hand. Priss had an uncanny habit of knowing what people were thinking. I didn¡¯t, and still don¡¯t know how she did it. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about the ball, sweetheart. Just follow me, and I¡¯ll tell you what to do. Trust me- it¡¯ll be fun!¡± Beatrice managed a slight glance, as if having slight doubts on Priss¡¯ unstoppable optimism. ¡°Madam, you know that-¡± ¡°Since it will be your first time, just follow me and listen to what I say.¡± I nodded vigorously. ¡°As long as you do everything right, the ball will be carefree and fun. Don¡¯t leave my side.¡± Even I could tell she was stressing a point through her bubbly voice. ¡°Now madam, I have George to attend to, and then we will be ready to leave.¡± said Beatrice, finally closing the doors to the walk-in wardrobe. ¡°God, you¡¯d never know how picky that wretched boy is¡­¡± Priss interjected. ¡°If you need, you know I can always talk to him.¡± ¡°Won¡¯t be much use, I reckon.¡± Beatrice sighed as she exited the room. ¡°Now, sweetie¡­ sit still for just a moment. We¡¯ll be leaving shortly.¡± --- I never knew one of the silliest things of childhood self would be discovered quite soon. ¡°Please, sweetie.¡± Priss¡¯ usually happy voice bled desperation, and I felt like I should oblige just to make her happy again. ¡°The car isn¡¯t going to hurt you.¡± Much at Priss¡¯ dismay, George and Beatrice were silently snickering behind her. ¡°See? The car might make loud noises and move very fast, but it¡¯s not alive. We control it, and we¡¯ll make sure that it doesn¡¯t eat you-¡± ¡°You say that, yet you¡¯re making her step into the car¡¯s belly.¡± George was having too much fun at his sister¡¯s expense. Priss looked as if she was going to lash back, before realising he was right, biting back her reply. ¡°You¡¯re telling me that she isn¡¯t from the Outer, but she¡¯s never seen a car?¡± ¡°Sweetie,¡± Priss crouched down so she was level with my head, and pointed. ¡°The car isn¡¯t an animal that will eat you. It helps us get to places faster, because it moves so quickly. If we walked, then we¡¯d be tired, see? If we walked, we¡¯d be late for-¡± A thundering of footsteps clattered on the stone ground behind me, and I was swept up before I could even turn around. ¡°Alright, alright.¡± Beatrice was almost cackling as she picked me up with a single motion. ¡°She¡¯ll learn eventually.¡± She strided into the car before I could even manage to scream, to the vehement protests of Priss as she fumed then followed to get in. ¡°Don¡¯t worry now, you¡¯re safe here. See? I¡¯m in the car as well. If I knew the car was evil and would eat us, don¡¯t you think I wouldn¡¯t have stepped inside?¡± Beatrice¡¯s smile was genuine and her simple piece of logic seemed to be simply irrefutable. As I calmed down, I found that the interior of the car was rather spacious and comfortable, and as far as I was aware, no creature had cushioned chairs I had seen inside the house in their belly. In that moment, Priss arrived and finally shut the door behind her, a mix of exasperation, desperation and relief making a convoluted expression on her face. ¡°Earnshaw! We¡¯re running a little late. Could you take us through the shortcut that runs along the wall?¡± ¡°You know that that route is dangerous, madam.¡± Priss was busy tidying herself into the seat as the car slowly lurched forward, causing me to jolt in my seat. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it- at this point in time, we¡¯ll be late. We can¡¯t afford to ruin her-¡± Priss looked at me indicatively, notioning that I was the subject. ¡°First impression. Don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯ll deal with anything that happens.¡± Earnshaw, the older man sitting to the front of us, managed a slight nod as his steely eyes returned to the road. This was the second time in my life I had even been able to explore Shiinevaar. The first had been very uneventful- it was when I went with Mother to the food ration office to get our monthly supplies. It did not end well. Having been trapped inside the Cabin, and lately, the House, being outside and breathing the air, no matter how painful it was for my lungs, gave me a sense of freedom that I realised I had truly never experienced in my life. Now, sitting in a warm ¡®car¡¯ driving through comfortable and happy streets, it seemed to me that the ¡®Lights of the City¡¯ were simply more than just a childish pipe dream. The lines of the road were set out with clear fence posts, the well carved wood jutting out of the tar like guides to our destination. The buildings were not enormous, but they were relatively squat, tightly packed together, and most importantly, cozy. Lights and quiet sounds emanating from the buildings gave me a warm feeling, even though the white death that rained from the sky never stopped its campaign on the people on the ground. No matter how scared I was of the colour white, the faint orange glow coming from the houses reminded me of fire. As the snowstorm gradually grew in intensity, this feeling abated and I started to shy away from the car window. Priss shot me a concerned look as my small hands grasped the window edge as if hanging for dear life. Beatrice, however, knew immediately. ¡°She¡¯s scared of the snow, madam.¡± Priss nodded slowly and I started to regret my actions as a sad expression slowly crossed her face. In due time, the interior of the car devolved once again into silence as the peppering sound of the snow became the only source of sound. I did notice however that the further we travelled, the less well built the street and the buildings seemed to be. They were rare, but some buildings were as bad as the ones I had seen when I went out with Mother to the Food Ration office- I assumed no one lived in them. Everyone in the car seemed more visibly agitated as the car ride grew longer and longer, except for Earnshaw. His eyes never left the road. ¡°Do you have your truncheon?¡± whispered Pris, craning in her seat. ¡°Always, madam.¡± ¡°Something tells me we¡¯re going to need it.¡± Beatrice nodded. The road continued to wind down the rows of tightly packed houses, and one feature that was most evident as we traveled further was that the right side of the road gradually had less and less buildings. Instead, the land was covered by a stone wall reinforced by steel, its height immeasurable from the visual constraints of the car. The wall was enormous, and the lack of buildings between the wall and the road made me think that the road winded around the edge of the wall. I thought that that might be why everyone in the car stood so closely at attention. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, sweetie.¡± Priss¡¯ voice was gentle, but her eyes were on their surroundings, not on me. ¡°We¡¯ll be fine.¡± The streets here weren''t as tidy as the ones we had seen when we had just left Everton House. While there were still fence posts to mark the edges of the road, it was as if they had been installed and neglected for quite some time, with stakes broken and strewn across the street not far from where they had fallen. The road was crackled and full of little potholes. The state of the buildings reflected the rest of the street- it was simply as if it had been built to the same standard as the other places in the city, but left to rot for many years. ¡°The damn poverty and the darkness, it seeps from the Outer Districts into the Inner so, so fast. The last time I was here, it wasn¡¯t as bad as this.¡± George spoke for the first time ever since we set out for the ball, and his voice was surprisingly not accusatory, but almost thoughtful. ¡°What the hell is wrong with being close to the Wall? You¡¯re in the Wall, and you¡¯re protected from the outside regardless of where you are. Those rich pricks in their high chairs refusing to give the suburbs near the wall funding because they¡¯re ¡®most susceptible to attack¡¯. As if any place inside the Wall will be safe from the Outer once it¡¯s breached.¡± Someone talking, even George, was a comfortable change from listening to the incessant shower of snow. No one in the car spoke back, even Priss, who loved to prove her brother wrong. It seemed that his opinion was simply an irrefutable one. ¡°We¡¯re going to have trouble, madam.¡± Earnshaw spoke so softly that if anyone else was talking, we wouldn¡¯t have heard him. ¡°Ahead.¡±Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! It would have been hard to see if not previously warned by someone with the eyes of a hawk. People, dressed thickly in furs to protect against the cold, started milling out of the dilapidated houses. As many as four people came out of each tightly packed house, and it was as if each action was being mirrored along every house for a forty meter length of street. My mind heaved as I remembered the day I went to the ration office- the two experiences were like two sides of the same coin. People milling out broken buildings in unison, their faces listless and dull. Only that it was the same as the day I went to the Ration Office with Mother- the faces on the people were nearly dead, but even through the thick haze of the snow I would see betrayed through their eyes something I could truly never forget. They wanted something. A warm feeling enveloped me as Priss readied something under her coat. In due time, I would know that she was nothing short of a master in the use of antique firearms, and what she carried that day was a snub nose revolver. ¡°Sweetie, don¡¯t let go of my hand.¡± I complied. The amount of people now blocking the road meant even Earnshaw could not simply speed through. Even I could see that. As our car trickled to a crawl, we were slowly surrounded by a ragtag group who made their intentions clear as soon as the person next to Earnshaw¡¯s window lifted up a crowbar. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± I had expected a crash, but what came was a soft knock and and a smooth voice, very much unlike their demeanour. ¡°You know this place isn¡¯t for money-laden people like you.¡± Earnshaw had his hand on the button to open the window, but he never pressed it. Instead, they conversed through a small intercom seemingly built for such situations. ¡°I am very sorry, sir. We have somewhere that we have to go, and very little time to get there. I can assure you that if we can, we will not use this road again and keep it clear for you and your fellow residents.¡± The person at the window skewed his face as if he was both humoured and confused. The look died with the sound of a hammer from a pistol cocking from beneath Priss¡¯ coat. He had been the only one who had heard it. ¡°Clear the road! Let them pass.¡± the man called, gesturing to the other people on the street to get back into the houses. He spoke a final time before turning to leave himself. ¡°I would advise you to not come here, ever again.¡± Earnshaw nodded and grinned, provoking a rough grunt from the man in response. The people on the road began to dissipate like water draining out of a sieve, just like the scene at the Ration office that day in the Outer. When the office put up the sign to say they had no more food, not a single person complained, instead grudgingly walking away. Most people couldn¡¯t even read; they simply knew what it meant. ¡°At least they could rationalize.¡± Earnshaw rapped the steering wheel as he slowly drove through the quickly disappearing cloud, eyes still on the road even after nothing stopped us on our path. ¡°When I worked for the government in the Outer, the people outside the wall I had to interact with-¡± In my limited time at Everton House, I had rarely heard Earnshaw speak, so everyone listened. ¡°I had already learnt that they either wouldn¡¯t talk, or would get violent without a second thought. At least the impoverished in the Inner are not so...restricted in their actions.¡± Beatrice patted my head as the car began to pick up speed again. I could already see the fence stakes at the side of the road begin to even out and almost fix themselves as the streets further from the wall became more and more affluent. ¡°That was far easier than I expected.¡± replied Priss, making herself once again comfortable in the upholstered seat. ¡°I¡¯d advise against going this path again, madam. If it wasn¡¯t for the little girl¡¯s first impression, we might have not been stopped.¡± Shame burned within me. Priss snuggled me as she leaned quietly against the window. ¡°Don¡¯t say such things, Beatrice. First impressions are important.¡± ¡°Duly noted, madam.¡± --- The first time I saw it, I thought it was a castle. Anything bigger than Everton House, I probably would have considered a castle. The first prominent feature was the greenery planted in a splendid show of wealth all the way to the front of the house from the entrance, seemingly eons away. In the Outer, trees and shrubs looked dead and lifeless, and snow capped their brows for a large portion of the year. Here was the first time I had seen truly, actual green plant leaves. The paths were similar to the ones that lined the streets of Shiinervaar¡¯s richer districts, a delicately carved, flat cobblestone that made not a single noise as we drove up the perfectly straight road. One could see a marvellous fountain as they arrived at the entrance, becoming more elegant and grandiose as they drove up. Overarching stone lions in a sejant position kept a keenful eye on the neverending flow of water. It seemed like winter¡¯s dead breath could be stopped with dedication of many people, and what looked like an awful lot of money. ¡°Now sweetie, this is a very important event. Just listen to everything I say, okay? Don¡¯t act out of line, now.¡± Beatrice held out the car door for us as I stood on the pavement having gotten out, in awe and glued to the spot. My mouth was open, quite literally. ¡°Remember when she said she lived in ¡®the Cabin¡¯?¡± asked Priss as she joined me in staring at the building. Even at her height, she had to incline her head a significant degree to gaze at it¡¯s precipice. ¡°This must be the first time she¡¯s seen a building of this size. The Chateau is certainly big, but I do very much wonder what she will think if she sees some of the other buildings in Shiinevaar. Beatrice, perhaps next week you could take her to the Academy? I¡¯ve heard that they finished installing the elevators just yesterday. It¡¯ll be about finished next month.¡± I could not really imagine any building bigger than the Chateau. Now, the Cabin seemed like nothing but a converted closet- uncomfortable and impossible to survive in, though I lived there for nearly ten years. I was like a fly trapped in a bottle, unable to go back once I had experienced new perspectives. ¡°Up the stairs now, little one. Remember to listen to Priss, okay?¡± It seemed that Beatrice was not permitted to enter, for she stood next to the car door, joining Earnshaw. ¡°And you, Priss. Make sure George doesn¡¯t come back again drunk. I¡¯m dealing with that ever again.¡± Priss nodded and we bounded up the long flight of steps. Even the path up to the front door took the breath out of me, as I was not only young, but I would later find out, sick. When I joined Everton House, I was finally able to later put a reason to why I was always so frail and weak while I lived in the Cabin. The inside of the Chateau was nauseating. I had never seen so many people packed together, all loudly singing, screaming, whispering- I couldn¡¯t tell, because there was simply too much noise. While the structure was as grand inside as it was outside, it was impossible to appreciate. A miasma of flickering lights, pacing along the walls and floorboards like scurrying rats, made me feel that I was experiencing a hallucination. In the Outer, the predominant colours were simply white, or grey. Priss sat me down at an empty table among a crowd, identical to all the rest with a flowing lace tablecloth and four neatly tucked chairs. Around us, people were engaged in conversation and socialising with each other as a few dancers performed in the center of the ballroom. As my ears became more accustomed to the noise, I realised that the surroundings were actually not as loud as I had originally supposed them to be. A small assortment of fruit on a plate, still untouched and full, was nestled next to a vase. My hand reached for a piece of purple fruit almost instinctively, but recoiled back and sat in the chair obediently when I remembered that I should not eat so readily. It had not been so long since I was adopted into Everton House, and my stomach had not been able to cope. I learnt that lesson quite memorably on my first day, when I hungrily demolished a platter of food in a matter of minutes, only to feel the intense repercussions of my stomach screaming in agony. After crying out in pain, Beatrice took care of my meals, gradually adding on more servings until I was able to eat two thirds of a meal without my stomach hurting. Beatrice, however, was not here. Lucky for me, pain was alone a good enough teacher, guide and punisher as to how much I should eat. I did not want my stomach hurting in the middle of the main course, so I laid my hands off the fruit- no matter how much I wanted to eat it. I glowered at George, who had sat down with me and Priss at the table and was already steadily picking at the fruit. He responded with a look of confusion that turned to suspicion, before looking away. George was far, far from liking me, but I felt that in the days prior he had begun to regard me with grudging acceptance. On my third day, the first day that I was deemed fit to get out of bed, Priss and George brought me to the House¡¯s library, one asking and the other demanding I read the first few pages of A Tale of Two Cities, in order to prove I could read. It was confusing at first- two copies of the same text, but of a different format. Priss¡¯ copy was modern, on a slim electronic screen, while mine was written on a long forgotten medium- paper. It took little time to understand, and after I had read the third page George was convinced and marched out of the room. Since then, he had treated me a little better, though our stares were lined with ice and exchanges as tense as the thawing of the winter snow. ¡°Now, little one, feel free to eat anything that is on the table. After all, we have been invited as guests in this hall, and it¡¯d be rude of us to refuse their patronage.¡± I looked sideways at her, confused. ¡°Their food.¡± Priss said, chuckling and patting my head. ¡°I think I have somewhere to be.¡± George stood up and pulled his chair out, acting much unlike his usual uncaring and grumpy demeanour. The way he acted hinted to me that the ¡®ball¡¯ we were attending was no such unimportant occurrence. ¡°I¡¯ll be back before the announcement is made.¡± ¡°Beatrice asked me kindly to add ¡®not drunk¡¯ to the end of your sentence.¡± George snorted, showing a hint of his true character, before weaving through the tables and walking out of sight. ¡°No guarantees, sister.¡± ¡°That boy.¡± Priss turned away as she began picking on the fruit herself. ¡°Priss, what do I do in a ball?¡± It was no surprise that I did not speak much when I first joined Everton House. It was well established that I was literate and was perfectly capable of speaking, but no one pushed me to talk, understanding of my situation. One word answers were commonplace in the opening days of my stay, and anything more was a rarity reserved for Beatrice. I spoke so quietly that if Priss were not sitting next to me, my voice would have died amidst the music and chatter around us. Priss was momentarily stunned but quickly recovered. ¡°Perhaps when you are older, you will be able to join the dancers on the floor beneath us. For one, I am simply content to sit, eat and talk to people. Socialise.¡± Priss still did not understand at this point that previous to this, I simply didn¡¯t talk to people. ¡°Nearing the end of a ball, the head of the house, Clemenceau in this case- will deliver a short message. Balls on a scale like this attract people from nearly all houses, and are an efficient facet for the spreading of information. I hear that the announcement tonight is to be quite important.¡± I watched the proceedings of the night with avid fascination. While another person might think them boring, colourful lights and the dancing on the ballroom floor, no matter how repetitive, was luxurious entertainment compared to my time in the Cabin, whittling away time by reading a single book. It was about an hour and a half from when we first entered the ball that one of Priss¡¯ friends came to our table. Dressed in in a colourful silken gown that complimented the strands of hair that fell to her shoulders, she seemed, for loss of words, a magnet for any kind of jewelry. I could see immediately from the way Priss puckered her lips that she did not hold this ¡®friend¡¯ in very high regard. I withdrew. ¡°Priss! Why weren¡¯t you here for the Boulevard party?¡± asked her friend, smile sickly sweet. Priss purposefully looked up slowly, revealing the fakest smile I had ever seen. Her mouth may as well have been made of plastic. ¡°My dear Helena, I had to hand in my tax registration form. Abiding the law should be above any celebrations, is that not correct?¡± A tinge of disappointment washed over Helena¡¯s face, as her scheme to catch Priss off guard promptly failed. It was but an instant before her face was back to standard, bubbly but so full of malice at the same time. ¡°Could you not have handed it in a day early or a day later?¡± ¡°Now, Earnshaw could only have gone to the Outer on that particular day, so I had to make do. You know where I live- you don¡¯t want me driving to the other side of the Inner just to go to a police station, do you?¡± ¡°Oh, the Outer.¡± Helena changed the subject as quickly as a key turns a lock. ¡°Utterly deplorable. I hope I never have to see that place in my life. If you need, I can hand in your registration for you to the police station. You do know that I live quite close, and it saves you from putting yourself in danger by venturing out of the walls.¡± ¡°That¡¯s very kind of you,¡± The fake smile again. ¡°But no.¡± ¡°You can always rely on my help.¡± Priss and Helena were engaged in a sweetly brutal game of belittling and undermining each other, and the winner was the one who could finally find a tiny chink in the other¡¯s armour. As Helena¡¯s almost greedy gaze turned towards me, I felt a pang of fear, almost as if I was about to be eaten. Alive. Priss noticed, too. ¡°What¡¯s this little one? I don¡¯t remember you having a sister, Priss.¡± I didn¡¯t know then, but as I began reading fairy tales and reading stories outside of the only one I had owned in the Cabin, I realised the striking similarity between Helena, and a witch. ¡°A distant cousin.¡± Priss¡¯ face fell as she failed to account for the most obvious outlier on the table. Amazingly, Helena didn¡¯t press the issue of our relationship even though there was so much she could¡¯ve picked at. However, her next jab couldn¡¯t have had a better timing. It was realised in that moment that I truly had only been at Everton House for less than a week, and had not been able to integrate fully. As such, while everything seemed to be in order, a crucial detail, mindlessly forgotten, came to bite back with Helena¡¯s next question. ¡°She¡¯s certainly a small beautiful one,¡± I think that at that moment she might¡¯ve actually meant it. ¡°What¡¯s her name?¡± I could see Priss¡¯ face crease as if she was about to swear. She smiled back at me, changing in an instant- a skill that she must have honed only through years of practice. ¡°Marilin. She carries the family name. Marilin Everton.¡± That day, under the slowly wandering lights and the mass of dancers gracing the marble floor, was the first time I had a name to call my own. Chapter 10 Chapter 10 The chaingun had been cocked before even leaving the base, but Marilin opened the breech block again just to be sure. Inside, a single sixty millimeter shell was nestled snugly, its compatriots lined up in a destructive link that reached all the way to the aft of the enormous gun, where a drum was attached inches away from the ball socket of the Strider¡¯s left arm. ¡°Calm down.¡± Aemelia was right next to her, marching slowly in her Bucharest, Argus. She had noticed Marilin¡¯s movements for the past half hour, and had tried her best to ease her nervousness. ¡°We haven¡¯t even gotten there yet.¡± ¡°Waiting is half the battle.¡± Marilin used the Strider¡¯s right hand to tickle the handle of her craft¡¯s sheathed sword, without even realising. Due to the ongoing war in Australia, budget cuts had been made to the defense of the country. Spirit Strider ammunition was expensive not simply by size but how much could be carelessly expended in an intense engagement. Melee weapons had to be used every time money came up short. ¡°Course it is. Remember the briefing? Nothing too much for us, so have a little confidence.¡± Aemelia slumped on her seat, something Marilin could only tell from her long sigh through the intercom. ¡°Two Striders is overkill. This fight, if there is any, will be short.¡± Marilin¡¯s nerves were still not at ease. As they marched down the road, a slight bend marked something that she had put inside deep in her memory. They were in the Outer, where navigational records held by the Inner authorities were over decades old. Much had changed since the Outer had stopped being patrolled by police, and as such, it was unknown ground. Information came in the form of aerial photographs taken three days before, shown at the briefing. ¡°No one here.¡± It was desolate. While Marilin knew from childhood that there were not so many people wandering the streets in the Outer, even when winter began to recede, it was not as deserted as this. Not even in the deep throes of the most brutal time of a Shiinevarean year. ¡°Don¡¯t make that assumption.¡± Aemelia sounded ticked off. ¡°We¡¯re being watched.¡± As the two quickened the pace, the bend curved into a larger road that passed underneath the one they had originally travelled, marking it an overpass. In front of them at the end of the road was a double laned entrance that snaked into the ground. Two low hanging bars were suspended from the front of the entrance, silently waving about with every opportunate breeze. While they posed no problem to their entry, Marilin would guess that they had to be dealt with, and any method to remove them would cause a hell of a lot of noise. Spirit Striders were not very dextrous when it came to crouching or lowering their profile, and Marilin could see that bypassing the bars would be impossible. ¡°Is that it? The briefing described an old parking lot, and the aerial photos seem to match.¡± ¡°I reckon so. Let¡¯s get in.¡± It was dark. Almost pitch black from the outside, the parking lot entrance seemed to be completely enclosed. The entryway was cavernous, originally meant to be able to accommodate enormous cargo trailers and enough for a full sized Bucharest to run through standing up. Its size and dark interior made it all the more menacing. ¡°Lights on.¡± Two beacons of light erupted into the carpark, originally engulfed in darkness, as the shoulder mounted searchlights of both Striders lit up. The spots of light showed something that Marilin had rather expected to see- rows upon rows of pillars erect in an organised fashion, supporting the roof, and heaps of debris scattered among the floor. A few cars, seemingly tiny from this height, were scattered about. An enormous cargo trailer lay on the leftmost corner of the car park, obscured by several pillars that jutted from the floor to support the roof.. The space was enormous, but no sign of any recent activity could be seen. ¡°Maybe the mole that tipped the police off lied.¡± ¡°No.¡± Aemelia was convinced, and raised her built in weapon to the surrounding darkness. ¡°They wouldn¡¯t lie. We¡¯re paying them a handsome sum, and keeping them contained until we can verify their claims. If they tipped us off wrong, they¡¯d be killed.¡± Marilin¡¯s attention was occupied elsewhere. ¡°I can feel that there are eyes on us.¡± ¡°You¡¯re right. Something is here. This might not be their headquarters, but this place is not abandoned.¡± ¡°Not abandoned.¡± Marilin unsheathed her sword, its edge glowing faintly as the slightly-heated sarinium flowed within the blade. Usually it would not be noticeable, but the darkness in the parking lot was oppressive, and the slight glow could be seen as clear as day. Two pillars of light shining from their shoulders were the only thing separating them from pitch black. ¡°Night optics?¡± Marilin was ready to flick a switch before Aemelia interjected. ¡°Useless. There is no heat here, and we¡¯d be blinded by our own searchlight.¡± Aemelia slowed her Strider to a tip toe, speaking slowly with a voice lined with ice. They were both on full alert. ¡°The rebels have nothing that can truly stop us, but this place- still. It screams of an ambush. A trap.¡± In the persistent dark and the heaps of rubbish and rubble scattered about pillars that obscured their view even further, it was hard to disagree. ¡°Stop.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± Marilin stopped with all weapons ready. ¡°I heard something. It¡¯s not the sound of a weapon I know, but something¡¯s here.¡± Reassurances would not help them now. ¡°I¡¯m not picking up anything on my radar with all the pillars about. Night vision with the searchlight off isn¡¯t seeing any heat. There¡¯s a ghost in here.¡± No matter how empty the parking lot seemed, there always felt like something, just something, was being blanketed in the darkness. Patience was wearing thin. ¡°I¡¯m going to run to the back of the parking lot. If anything tries to pop me, open fire on the muzzle flash. If there¡¯s nothing here, well, at least we¡¯ll know.¡± Aemelia flicked her searchlight off as she stowed her handheld gun, going into a running position. It was a move that was very risky for an inexperienced pilot; running at great speeds using a Strider''s dexterity was one thing, but stopping the hurtling hunk of mass from crashing into anything in the process was another matter. It was something Marilin had never tried to attempt herself, even in the safety of a simulation. Jogging was far easier, and Spirit Striders were often deployed more at range where even fast walking made an incredible difference in evading various forms of munitions, making sprinting something that was often not required. ¡°Make sure not to hit me, now.¡± Marilin did not respond to that comment. It was a given. Nothing could eliminate a Spirit Strider as efficiently and as fast as another of its kind, making rigorous training in the avoidance of friendly fire ever more important. ¡°Ready. Hit it.¡± Aemelia was fast. Like all things, there was something experience could do that no amount of preparation could hope to achieve. It was not a dash, but a blur as the Bucharest bounded forward in an incredible push of initial momentum. Such speed was something that could not be achieved by simply training. Aemelia and her Bucharest, Argus, were fast. But they were not fast enough. Marilin had never experienced something so unreal in her life. In actuality, it was quite probable that no one except the people in the parking lot at that time had seen something so unbelievably fast. There was first a bang- a sound so unbelievably loud that it¡¯s echo in the enclosed space had deafened and disoriented her for a few seconds. Afterwards, she had not even any time to react to the noise before a faint trail of a projectile shot past her eyes, the line that showed its unbelievably flat and level trajectory disappearing as fast as it had appeared. By the time the ringing had begun to slightly dissipate from her head, Marilin¡¯s hand was already on the remote trigger of her chaingun, creating a hail of high explosive shells on the back wall of the parking lot, lighting it up like a sick fireworks display. Aemelia¡¯s Bucharest was collapsed on the ground, with whatever that had shot at it having launched a physical mass- probably a sabot- with such ludicrous force that the Strider¡¯s fragile sarinium ball socket joint of its left leg had been completely immolated. Behind them, the projectile had gone through the concrete front wall of the parking lot. Light seeped through the hole that had been made, bleeding into the perpetual darkness like blood out of a wound. ¡°Stop.¡± Aemelia sighed, her voice tinged with a wave of resignation. ¡°They¡¯re gone.¡±This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. It had only taken two seconds. An artillery gun with enough power to punch through to a Spirit Strider¡¯s ball socket was not impossibly hard to find. What was, however, was marksmanship of such a caliber to land a projectile through the tiny chink in a Bucharest¡¯s leg, and worse- the power to not just punch through the ball socket, but the thick concrete wall behind it. It was also nearly impossible to retreat an artillery gun so fast. Questions flooded Marilin¡¯s mind with the voracity of a typhoon. ¡°At the very least, I am alive. My Strider, and this damage, it is easily fixable.¡± It seemed that the Bucharest of Marilin¡¯s comrade was completely functional, minus one leg. That, in all, made all the difference. ¡°Call a truck. My Strider will be fixed in less than a week.¡± Marilin grit her teeth just as hard as she released her grip on the control stick. ¡°A ghost.¡± ¡°We have many, many questions. And not enough time to mull them over.¡± Aemelia had opened her cockpit hatch and stepped out into the frigid darkness. Her uncanny confidence of the disappearance of the threat reassured Marilin. ¡°This weapon in the rebels hands...no matter what, a concrete fact we know is that it must be eliminated. I have seen this sort of weapon in Australia. The United Nations use it to fight our Spirit Striders, as a cheaper solution than using aircraft- all that is needed is a sufficient gun, and a powerful targeting computer.¡± ¡°An artillery gun can¡¯t achieve enough penetration to-¡± Aemelia groaned through the speaker as she made an attempt to get her Strider up, but it was fruitless. Whatever weapon had engaged them in the dark had done it¡¯s job. ¡°Stop. Questions, later. Help me up.¡± Marilin, still jittery, was slow to oblige. She had a lot to say, but Aemelia was not in the mood or state to hear it. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about talking and questions. You¡¯ll have so many chances later you¡¯ll hate it. And reports. Do you like writing reports?¡± Aemelia shone a wicked grin in the face of such ever present danger. ¡°You better.¡± --- Reports were awful. The questions never stopped, endless inquiries into something she could nearly not even remember. While the threat it posed was great and the efforts to find out more were understandable, Marilin figured that it all came at the expense of her sleep schedule. It was one in the morning, and she was still filing reports and answering questions on her PAD. As the best witness in the situation, she had been given the brunt of the interrogation. Aemelia had been questioned, but as her searchlight was off when she was hit, she was unable to contribute much to the identifying of the threat. Two researchers had been flown over from the other side of the country, where they had momentarily examined the Argus before directing a slew of questions at Marilin. Were you hit? What did you feel when the projectile was fired? Were you able to find anything with your detection systems prior to the incident? What was the parking lot like? How fast did the gun flash disappear? Describe it. The questions were still ringing an annoying melody on her PAD. The latest- ¡®What did the projectile¡¯s trail look like?¡¯ was one she swore she had answered already. An investigation unit had been assembled at an alarming pace. In the space of less than two hours, report forms had been made and sent, replacement parts had been ordered and all necessary measurements confirmed and sent. The debriefing for both Marilin and Aemelia had been rather short, but once she arrived in the room, the notifications had started ringing. And they had not stopped- not stopped since seven in the afternoon yesterday. The questions she answered to the best of her ability and were not all too bad individually, but reports were something else. Reports were something she had never had to and never had written. ¡°You¡¯re in for a cold shock. Especially after this.¡± was what Aemelia had told her, and with her face hugging the cold of the table despite her third cup of coffee- something she never drank willingly- she couldn''t agree more as the new day had begun. Her fingers had gone numb from furiously clattering on her PAD¡¯s screen, and her eyes were in an arguably worse state as she fought a constant battle of keeping them open. The night had been long, and something told her that the day would be longer. A knock came at her door. Not just any knock. Ignoring the boldly printed ¡®DO NOT DISTURB¡¯ sign she had placed at the door, whoever delivering her message had to be of some importance. She slugged out of her chair, and grasped the doorknob. ¡°Good morning Ma-¡± The woman at her door held a mug of coffee, which Marilin had already refused to drink after the third cup of the night. She seemed familiar somehow, even in her sleepy haze. ¡°Heavens, you look fresh from the morgue. No sleep?¡± Marilin¡¯s reply was somewhere between a grunt of approval and a hostile growl. Her eyes crossed a binder full of sheaths of paper that the woman was holding, and even she knew that the look on her face said that she would like nothing better than to throw the next folder she saw into the deepest depths of hell. The woman retracted the binder and the cup of the coffee, as it looked like Marilin wanted nothing to do with either. ¡°I suppose these can be done at a later date.¡± With a start, Marilin realised that the woman was the same one that had escorted her to her Spirit Strider that morning. Jennifer, was it? ¡°But I need them as soon as possible. The danger at hand is an-¡± ¡°Enormous threat to national security. Anything else?¡± ¡°You seem...awfully unconcerned.¡± ¡°I am presently alarmed about the possibility of collapsing, in which case I will no longer be capable of being concerned about anything.¡± She was above giving a polite reply, and it came at the behest of anyone who happened to come at her door. ¡°Now, if you¡¯ll excuse me.¡± Jennifer put her hand on her shoulder before Marilin managed to slam the door shut. ¡°I¡¯ll write. You speak.¡± As she propped herself up onto her bed, she began to narrate the story of her first mission to the attentively listening woman who now sat at her desk, falling slowly asleep under the calm lull of the morning quiet. They talked for an hour, or more, the experience of the previous day fresh yet so obscure as her own mind tried to grapple with the true happenings in those fateful few seconds. Talked. She asked no questions. --- ¡°Don¡¯t worry about my Strider. The weapon that hit was designed to incapacitate, not permanently disable.¡± ¡°Good, that¡¯s good¡­¡± Jennifer had left a long time ago while Marilin was still asleep. It had been less than three minutes after she woke up, and Aemelia had promptly knocked on her door. She had never had so many visitors appear in a single day, and she was unsure whether she should be pleased or annoyed. ¡°I¡¯ll be back on another sortie tomorrow, but I¡¯ll be confined to the city. The way Argus got scratched up yesterday, that really scared the ones up top. Did you hear? Troops were deployed to the Outer last night. A third front for our military has been opened up, right at our doorstep.¡± Aemelia took a sip of the coffee Jennifer had left on her table before wrinkling her face in mute disgust. ¡°The man that gave us the false lead to the parking lot. He escaped. The rebels had planned the whole thing from the very beginning, and we underestimated their potential miserably.¡± ¡°Who wouldn¡¯t?¡± ¡°That was partially our fault, of course.¡± replied Aemelia, twitching her fingers. ¡°But for once, I do agree with the brass. Spirit Striders were designed to be weapons that were functionally immune from damage with enough skill and careful deployment. As you can see, we suddenly are facing a weapon that disregards this entirely. On our doorstep, no less.¡± Marilin groaned, the stupor from her afternoon nap yet to wear off. ¡°More deployments?¡± ¡°Should¡¯ve known when you signed up.¡± Aemelia snickered. Another groan. Marilin had nearly fallen asleep again before Aemelia spoke again, seeing she lacked initiative to lead any sort of conversation at the moment. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. The brass can worry themselves to death all they want, but this is just another day on the frontline. This is the natural result of us and our allies having a monopoly on the production and research of expensive weapons like Spirit Striders.¡± ¡°Natural result?¡± ¡°Right. Did you listen in history class? Listen to them teach about the Second World War, predecessor to our third?¡± Marilin nodded. It was ancient history by now, but was still considered an important chapter in the development of the world. ¡°Russia, or we know as Rossiya after merging with Shinevaar, yes? They were called the Soviet Union at the time. The leading offensive force at sea was the aircraft carrier- almost like it is today. They faced a problem- they couldn¡¯t afford to build as many as their rival on the other side of the sea.¡± Everyone in Shiinevaar would know who said rival was. They had been a hard nut to crack, but fell eventually to internal pressure and climate in the past decades. ¡°So what do the Soviets do? Build missiles. Missiles that are several times cheaper than the cost of an aircraft carrier but can only be used once. So what? If you send fifteen missiles and only one of them hits- yet that missile incapacitates or even sinks a carrier- you¡¯ve already won out economically. That is the problem with any expensive leviathan made in history. From the Yamato to Castle Worcester-'''' Aemelia laughed and Marilin¡¯s interest was instantly piqued. ¡°I was on that mission myself. Once we landed a detachment of Striders on the roof of the castle airstrip, they were done for. Castle Worcester was never made to fight. Only to be a symbol.¡± ¡°So people fighting a Spirit Strider do this? Make a cheap weapon to fight our machines?¡± ¡°Make enough of them. Quantity has always proved itself to hold out against quality. All you need is any sort of artillery gun that can punch through a Strider, and a powerful enough computer to produce a complex firing solution. Get enough of them, and even a Strider¡¯s point defense system will be overwhelmed. Sounds easy, right?¡± ¡°Threat to national security, the girl that came before you said.¡± ¡°That¡¯s only because of it¡¯s proximity to us. What killed us that day wasn¡¯t the cannon, it was overconfidence. It¡¯s always been this way. Anti-tank grenades against armoured giants. Torpedoes against battleships. Missiles against aircraft carriers. If enough cheap garbage is hurled at them, the giants will fall.¡± ¡°That sounds pessimistic. Slightly prophetic, too.¡± Aemelia stood to get up, indicating her leave. ¡°Think I¡¯ve disturbed you for long enough. Get some rest, you¡¯ll need it. Your boss told me your next deployment is two days from now. A sweep of the city. Good night.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the middle of the afternoon.¡± A grin was the only reply that she gave before the door closed and the room was once again enveloped in darkness.