Unwanted Bonds

“Pilots and their suits bond for life far too often.”
-	Unknown
“Kryz, wake up. We’re here.”
Kryz shifted in the uncomfortable flight seat, feeling like her body just came out of a meat grinder. It didn’t matter at all how many times she flew, every seat ended up uncomfortable or spine-crushing. Nothing like the calm and comforting constriction of a suit control rig. Even the simple metal benches and safety harnesses of military shuttles always felt better than seats on a line flight. It would take her another three hours before every step would stop being full of annoying pain.
Deciding she’d had enough of inner complaints about the flight, Kryz cracked open one eye. For a moment, the lights on the ceiling blinded her before she turned away. Another uncomfortable fact about line flights – nobody cared if you wanted to sleep, the lights would stay on anyways. A more careful look revealed the plane’s cabin in its full business class glory. White walls, tiny windows with cheap blinds on them, black fake leather seats, plastic tables in front of every passenger, all bathing in the mechanically white lights so typical for both planes and hospitals. By every objective metric, the plane was just ugly.
All the more reason to get off of it, she thought.
A quick glance to the left confirmed that Lagger was still there, looking as bored as ever. The older engineer always seemed to have an easy time acting detached, much easier than her if nothing else. Twice in her life she had ever seen him truly express an emotion openly, without any degree of control – and one of those times, he thought he had just about a minute of living left. Back then, she saw what true horror looked like. But right now he was as inconspicuous as ever. Blue eyes lazily searched the cabin through and through, as if trying to latch onto something that wasn’t there.
“How long?” mumbled Kryz through her half-asleep state, barely forming the necessary words. This didn’t confuse her companion at all, though. He would know what she had on her mind after one glance on her face anyways. And unlike her, the age-old friend wasn’t much for formalities. He just said what he had on his mind. If that happened to be the answer to an unspoken question or not, he didn’t care.
“Nu-uh. No more naps, pilot. I can see Paris already,” he said, letting a hint of sarcasm slip into his tone. “Gotta at least buckle in.”
Kryz silently uttered a swear and yawned, forcing herself to stay awake by sheer willpower. It only took a moment before her carefully honed reflexes made her open her eyes and rendered her completely awake and sharply aware of her surroundings. Old habits die hard, she thought, reminding herself of the long months spent in training and the even longer ones alone on Mars’ surface. The imminent danger always made sure you woke up and fell asleep quickly. Even now, after more than three years away on Earth she couldn’t quite give in to the thought of spending mornings curled up in sheets and asleep.
Deciding to lay back and at least try to relax, Kryz took another peek towards Lagger. He was no longer wearing those ugly shorts he boarded the plane in, and was now sporting jeans and some kind of a sweater, both in grey. You never had any fashion sense. Not then not now, she thought, turning back around to face the window. If someone had to spot you on a banquet all they’d have to do would be crouch and see your sandals.
The city below shone through the night, unaware of the story of two tired soldiers flying above.
Kryztal was nothing more than a teenager when Lagger met her for the first time. Her story was incredible and impossible: A story of a young woman, living out her childhood in the hi-tech outposts on Mars, far away from what anyone her age might’ve wanted. She never could have had many friends and she couldn’t stay in one place for more than a week, yet she prevailed. For long years she had done nothing but trained and worked while others had the chance to live and play. She could’ve ran away when she turned sixteen, moved to the only city Mars had – Eden – but she declined. In many ways, she became a hermit.
Yet by some twisted fate she wound up on Alicia. A dark-haired, lonely girl in the middle of the largest war humanity ever waged. Though friends around her fell, she held, alone. Amidst the dead she found her purpose.
Warsuits.
Elysians didn’t know who she was. They didn’t know whether the black suit they took to call “Queen of Death” was piloted at all. All they learned is that where the sleek suit appeared, their own died. It wasn’t much else than a specter to them, a ghost that decided fates. The same way, few Alliance soldiers ever learned the identity of the mysterious pilot who fought side by side with them, seemingly appearing from the shadows only to fade once the battle was over.
But unlike the Elysians, they knew one thing: Behind every suit is a pilot. To the Alliance, the First Warsuit Company wasn’t the executioners their enemies had them for. The First was a band of legends, some known and some but a rumour. In field hospitals and around bonfires, soldiers told stories of giant mechs battling impossible odds and winning. Few have seen them and fewer yet knew their names. But to the Alliance, they were heroes.
Kryztal stepped out of the plane and into the cold air of Charles de Gaulle Airport with a weary expression and a backpack slung over her left shoulder. Just like usual, Lagger was right behind her, watching and scouting the surroundings. He was ways from reliable in most things, but whenever something mattered, he did not let a single detail slip. Still, Kryz believed him to be overly cautious on this one: thousands of people went through Paris every day, and none of them were looking for two war veterans.
She told him so when she first mentioned the trip, and still vividly remembered the exact words of his response:
“But they might be looking for a certain Martian who piloted the bloody thing, and her engineer.”
Taking in a sharp breath, Kryz took the first step onto the stairs parked to the aircraft’s side. The cold air was a welcome change from the recycled and air-conditioned cabin, one she intended to fully enjoy while it lasted. They still needed to retrieve the luggage and make their way to the hotel, as well as somehow adapt to the time shift. Neither wanted to stay awake much longer – it was already well past nine in the evening. A grumbling sound from her stomach also reminded Kryz she still haven’t had even a poor excuse for a dinner.
The duo had time to reach the base of the stairs before Lagger spoke up.
“You hungry? Because I’ve got absolutely no idea where to get any food, and frankly, I’d be happy to just leave that problem for tomorrow.”
Kryz just shook her head and replied without turning around. “Doubt any nice places around here will still be open by the time we get our things to the hotel, but I’m still starving. Maybe we could eat here?”
Lagger snorted and murmured a vaguely accepting response. Although he tried to remain as calm as ever, Kryz could clearly see the tiny hints of him being even more tired than she was. His walking speed wasn’t as brisk as usual, eyes just ever so slightly closer to snapping shut, small wrinkles above his nose when he spoke. He’d need a night of rest before he would be willing to argue with her again. But at least he wouldn’t try to get in her way for the rest of the evening.
Lagger met the First’s new member while still in field gear and covered in sand from head to toe. An engineer, dirty and ragged, towering over a raven-haired teenager with a determined facade on her face, both standing in a makeshift warehouse in a bunker deep below the ground. The military always had a knack for making introductions fun.
“Listen, lass, I’d offer you a hand, but as you see I’m covered in grease, blood and sand. So let’s skip the pleasantries, yeah? I’m Lagger.”
She looked up from the ground and met his gaze, green eyes sparkling with a mixture of determination and excitement. Lagger saw this all too often, mostly in recruits who still didn’t quite grasp the severity of the war that surrounded them, day and night. But q was mire than that – maybe a bit of sadness. Something was off with this one.
“You’re my engineer?”
“That depends on who the hell you are,” he rebuked, slightly irritated by her attitude. “I don’t work with rookies.”
“No. You’re assigned to the First Warsuit Company. The same one I’m in.” Her voice was stern, decisive, but definitely not natural for her. It was a fake voice, another part of her facade.
“Well then. But I don’t work with nameless either. How should I call you?” Lagger tried to soften his voice a bit, but felt like he failed miserably.
“My name is Nico-“
“Okay. You’re obviously new,” the engineer interrupted, “So let’s get this straight. Your name doesn’t concern anyone. It’s for friends and family. I’m neither - I’m the guy making sure you don’t die out there because of a faulty servo. What’s your callsign, rookie?”
“Kryztal.”
A tired-looking man and a small dark-haired woman sat face to face in an airport restaurant. The man didn’t seem to be in any rush, slowly eating his meal, while the woman hungrily swallowed piece after piece of hers. A passer-by would not give them any attention nor looks and nobody would question them. None would guess the pair consisted out of a veteran Warsuit pilot who soldiers still told tales of and a man with more knowledge about warsuits than their designers and enough war to his name to validate a dozen medals of honour.
Right now, they were just two tired tourists arriving in Paris late at night.
“So what do you want to see first? Eiffel tower, Louvre? Maybe Champs-Elysses?”
The younger woman asked semi jokingly between bites, knowing full well the man didn’t intend on being here with her two weeks back. They intentionally left the “plan” part out entirely. Money wasn’t an issue, if they agreed to, they could stay for months. But unlike couples arriving to spend time together, the two friends were there for an entirely different reason.
“A bed.”
“Not even going to take me out for a romantic dinner first?”
“Sod off.”
A smirk dominated Kryztal’s face for several seconds, before she returned to munching on her food.
“Y’know,” Lagger started again, “I’ve seen most of this city. I don’t know what we should be doing all week.” He seemed to have woken up now, almost fully functional again. His voice was still tired, but the closing eyes and wrinkles were now gone.
“You could flash your permit in the local Stables.”
Lagger just gave her a look worth an entire argument. “Calm down,” she followed up, “ I’m just joking.” She knew Lagger wouldn’t want to see the state the local Warsuits must’ve been in anyways. It would only annoy him to see another garrison force barely care about their machines at all.
“I mean, I could always just follow you around. I just don’t think you’d enjoy having me breathing down your neck all the time.”
Kryz just shook her head at the reserved remark. “Won’t mind the company. But fair warning, I’m horrible at avoiding tourist traps.” She was sure they’d think of something by lunch time tomorrow, but the engineer never failed to doubt everything around him. “Or you can go see lectures. Plenty of colleges around here.”
“There’s an idea,” came back a muttered response.
 “You’re piloting what?”
Lagger sounded genuinely surprised at Kryztal’s words. So surprised, in fact, that several people in the hall turned to see what was going on. Instead of answering, though, Kryz pulled the engineer around a corner and into another hallway first. She continued walking at the same speed as before, the man in tow.
“You’ll see once we get there.”
The response was intentionally vague, and Lagger noticed. Instead of pursuing the matter further, though, he opted to just follow the young pilot and see for himself. There was enough time for everything, and he already managed to switch into the standard grey overall every engineer wore. There weren’t any pending repair orders. All he had to take care about was one insanely unlikely story, told by a rookie pilot just a few moments ago.
They walked the concrete halls of the bunker at a brisk pace, just like everyone around them. There was always something to do down there – tending to suits and soldiers, planning attacks, training... nobody on the base would have enough downtime to care about their own enjoyment. Besides, they all loved their job with a burning passion. Even the lowest-ranking men and women on the base still knew more about warsuits than most people on the entire planet.
Such was the First Warsuit Company.
Where most units focused on supporting numbers and efficiency, the First always stood out. Where everyone else made sure to use a single suit pattern for the sake of simplicity, the First’s pilots chose what Warsuit to bring. Where innovative upgrades to suits were forbidden, the First’s mechs were all state of the art creations. Where every other company strictly separated pilots from officers, in the First, everyone could repair and pilot a suit should they need to. They were beyond unique. In the field, any soldier would ignore his direct superior’s orders to obey commands from the First’s pilots.
Yet they were separated. Pilots, Escorts and support personnel all lived and ate in the same bunker, sparsely coming out. Isolation was necessary to stop intelligence leaks. Despite their advances, none could learn their names. Despite dozens of prototypes under their thumbs, they didn’t even carry unit markings. Ironically, few had the honour of hiding their identity.
Kryztal barged through the double door to the company Stables with Lagger right behind her. She stopped for just a short moment, scanning the room with her eyes, then set off towards the lined up suits in their support chassis. Every machine was in a different state of disassembly, from suits missing plating and limbs alike to completely functional units waiting for their pilots to return. Engineers were scattered through the room, inspecting parts and repairing the metal monstrosities around. Few of the greeted Lagger with a courteous nod as he and the newbie pilot passed them, some throwing questioning looks into the mix. Lagger just responded by shaking his head in a silent “not now” gesture.
The duo walked for about a minute before reaching a strange suit, hidden under a piece of tarp.
 They finally checked in to the hotel sometime after eleven in the evening, exhausted and looking forward to a good night’s sleep.
Kryztal’s backpack landed heavily on the carpet as soon as she was through the door. It didn’t take her a moment to survey the small room and collapse onto the bed.
The room consisted out of a simple closet, a tiny bathroom, two inviting beds and a round table in one of the corners, complete with antique wooden chairs that felt like the style they were designed in predated space travel. The walls were a hue of orange, with similarly coloured curtains on the far side covering the only window. The carpet on the floor was black, contrasting everything else in the room.
“First thing tomorrow?” asked Lagger lazily towards the figure sprawled over one of the beds, still in full clothing
“Breakfast,” came back the muffled voice.
“Might still kick some sense into you... Good night.”
More than one pair of eyes went wide when the tarp hit the ground.
Under it was a mech which could only be described as awe-inspiring. A dark black shade, elegant and cleaner than anything else in the bay. The lack of combat damage, or even scratched paint, awoke a dark feeling in all onlookers. It was all too mysterious. Too perfect. Kryztal was beaming with pride as she stepped closer and ran her fingers over the left leg’s plating.
“Mark nine, Broadsword Pattern. Four tons – lighter than anything in this bay. Faster and more agile, too. Simulator running speed peaks at about 120 kilometres per hour. Reaction delay below a millisecond. Plating is a ceramic nanocomposite, fifteen layers at a centimetre each. Radar refraction, signal dampening, heat dissipation, zero energy signature. Effectively invisible to everything short of a cruiser with an on-board AI and a team of analytics. Runs on an antimatter reactor. Both enough power to stay out in the field for years and, need be, act as a city killer. Next generation hydraulics and artificial muscle – no sound below forty kilometres per hour. Right arm is a maglev – anything less than thirty meters of steel, I can make a hole in. Secondary discharges enough voltage to lock up artificial muscle and fry controls.”
Her tone was almost dreamy. She paid no mind to the small crowd of gaping observers around her, engineers, pilots or escorts. She only had eyes for the metal shade in front of her.
“This is my suit.”
The Memorial Museum always seemed to shine compared to the rest of the street.
It was a large, marble white building, sitting in the middle of an even larger park. Form the walkways below, lights illuminated it against the starry night sky. Stone pillars supported a roof over the main stairs leading to the main door. Most of the building’s interior lights were still on, according to the pledge the museum founders took upon themselves.
Until the day nobody remembers – this building will. Day and night, for anyone who wishes to remember, this building will be open.
Two weary travellers stood in front of the door, looking up at the building. A man, tall and slim, wearing simple clothes, and a woman, tiny compared to him, with pitch black hair falling down to the shoulders of the old jacket she wore.
“You sure you want to go?” asked Lagger, his own voice somehow more ragged than usual. “I don’t think you’ll find what you’re looking for in there.”
“I have to face it some day,” responded Kryztal, her own voice heavy. “First in, last out, right?”
Engineers were all watching as the petite woman jumped down from the mech’s hatch. She landed gracefully, but with an audible thump. Her machine just came out of combat – and it looked the part. Plating was scratched, bullet holes visible, and a gaping hole carved of mangled metal on its right arm let everyone see the torn wiring and broken support struts inside.
“Left battery’s gone, my plating is fucked, and two of the arm struts are torn. And someone tell Krinkov to remodel that rear shield, it’s five degrees off again!” More shouting ensued as the engineers passed on orders and got to work. Kryztal took a quick look at her overall, duly noting it was soaked with sweat. It would take a lot of effort to get it clean again.
But that was nothing compared to the damage her suit sustained. The engineers wouldn’t get off her back about the necessary repairs for a while. Worst of all, Lagger would probably scold her to no end on the arm. It would take two days to replace the struts alone, never mind wiring or artificial muscle. And until then, all she could do was wait.
Before she managed to angrily stomp off, though, a hand tugged at her shirt and flipped her around.
“Not so fast. What the hell is that arm about?!?”
“What do you think it’s about?” she snapped back, red with rage, “A pulse blade, for fuck’s sake! It nearly tore my arm off! Maybe if you didn’t sit on your ass in the fucking stables all day and fought, you’d know what that means!”
Lagger’s expression turned from annoyed to enraged and then to ominous in the span of less than a second, before he suddenly grabbed her overall by the collar and lifted the rookie pilot a good two centimetres above the floor. Such a show of force didn’t match his usual behaviour whatsoever.
“Listen. Very. Carefully,” He spat out, watching her turn from enraged into scared as he held her. “I’m sitting where I’m sitting because of this fucking thing!” Every word from his lips was like a blade that cut straight into Kryztal’s flesh. He wasn’t just angry. He was inches away from killing her, right there and then. “I’ve been on this fucking planet for three years. I fought here, I saw people die here, so that little shits like you won’t have to. Yet here you bloody are! You decide to come here with your state of the art little toy, thinking you’re going on a bloody adventure?!? Welcome to reality! That asshole that put the hole in your suit was about ten seconds away from ending your life!”
Lagger was panting heavily now, still red with anger. “I’m sitting here fixing your fucking suit not because of you, you absolute twat. I’m doing it because nobody else on this entire base knows how!” He took a sharp breath and brought her even closer, staring into her eyes with intense hatred.
“And don’t you talk to me about fighting, lassie. While you were falling over your shoes I was piloting Vipers. I got demoted because another retarded kid just like you froze when they killed his buddy. While you were signing up for boot camp and breaking records, I got removed from Escorts because of the suit you just put out of commission!”
As if on cue, Lagger suddenly dropped her back on her feet, causing her to stagger backwards. When she finally recovered and managed to look up at his face, nothing that would give away the burning fury inside him was left.
“Come back here in an hour, pilot. You’re gonna help clean up your mess.”
The Memorial Museum was next to empty that time of the day. Few would want to remind themselves of a war long past during an evening they could spend drinking their cares away with some friends. The visitors were all people who had something to do with the war – old soldiers, families of the fallen and friends of those long dead.
Every hall was populated with pictures, items and mementos, telling stories of warriors both nameless and legendary, generals and grunts. Pieces of gear removed from the cold grips of dead men, coins, the lucky charms that so many kept close all hung beside photos and letters that never made it to their families. Pieces of walls were dedicated to entire regiments shattered during planetfall. More yet were covered in names of entire crews, all lost in the void, through small shards of hull even in death reunited with the vessels they manned. Another section housed the remnants of destroyed Alliance AIs, wardens of uncountable legions of robotic warriors.
And then there were pilots. Halls of suits suspended from the ceiling, covered in names and photos of those brave enough to pilot the metal monstrosities into the heat of battle. Often, an Escort’s rifle lay at the feet of these machines, with names etched onto magazines and handles in memory of the only men and women who had the guts to swarm and kill warsuits, when knowing full well how marginal their chances were.
More rooms were miniature shrines to battles and skirmishes that somehow made it into popularity. Others served as nothing but empty walls with names of Alliance soldiers whose bodies were never found. Plaques with nothing but regiment numbers and casualty counts.
The sole exception was a large hall, on the second level below ground, marked with silver letters above its entrance, stating:
“First Warsuit Company”
“Uhhh.. Hi. I guess.”
Kryztal found the older engineer already knee deep in work, removing the now useless plating just below the shoulder joint. He was crouching on the edge of the repair chassis, one leg on the lower arm, the other still on the metal walkway. The lack of any safety gear didn’t seem to bother him at all, seeing as he was concentrating entirely on carefully dislodging the screws that held the plate in question using a crowbar.
Pausing for a moment, the engineer glanced down towards her and shouted a response.
“Get up here! I need a hand.”
The young pilot obeyed, and started climbing the mecha’s back to get onto the walkway, holding the tiny hinges designed to act as a sort of ladder for getting up to the entry hatch. Practice made it easy for her to almost acrobatically jump the last bit of distance and land gracefully on the walkway. It didn’t take much longer after that for her to scale the railing and take up her own place beside the engineer.
“See this?” the engineer pointed towards the edge of the torn armour plate, turning the young pilot’s attention there. Seared edges and the angle under which the plate was cut suggested the attack came in a swing from above, typical for mantis-class suits. “Bugger probably thought you were a Corvus, a blow like that would shatter the control line on one. Meant the pilot was a good engineer, too. Did you kill him?”
Kryztal turned her gaze towards Lagger, an expression of mock admiration on her face. “You do detective work in your spare time?” The engineer only snorted. “Understand the weapon, understand the repairs. So, that elysian. Is he dead?”
Kryztal nodded. “Put a maglev round through his chest, up close.”
“Good. It’s better off nobody with combat knowledge of this beauty gets it within a hundred miles of their commanders.”
Suits stood lined up by the walls. All of them were in a clandestine state – little to no scratches, redone paintjobs, opened hatches. It was as if they were waiting for their pilots to jump in at any second, eternally frozen in expectation of their next deployment. But they didn’t move nor were being cared for by engineers, none of the things two old soldiers remembered about them. These machines of war were put to rest.
It seemed no two suits were the same. An ancient Phallanx stood shoulder to shoulder with a Riptide, as if completely oblivious to the four year technology gap between them. Bundles of artificial muscle and heavy duty hydraulics under massive plates of ceramic and steel made even the Riptide, the universally agreed to be the ugliest of the metal monstrosities, look humbled. There seemed to be no weapons on the old giant, but both of the soldiers knew better. Shields, counter-missile systems, point defence machineguns – it was not a machine designed for attacking. Its sole purpose was to act as an unbreakable shield. Krinkov wouldn’t have it any other way.
Some of the suits were sleeker, with an elevated upper chest piece – Mark seven, Corvus pattern. The final model to make it into widespread use before the war ended. They were faster and more agile than any of their predecessors, without sacrificing as much as an inch of armour. Then there were the outdated Blaster pattern, old Mark Five suits, the bread and butter of piloting during the war. Riptides, infinitely ugly and rudimentary, yet bristling with weaponry that could level buildings. The wing-like jetpack of the obscure Mark Eight, a scout suit able to scale cliffs, attack helicopters mid-flight and board spaceships. The Adversary, a unique creation of a genius mind, complete with its attached combat drones and repair units.
But one suit stood out even then. A black, slim machine, seemingly more advanced than any piece of technology in the room. No visible hydraulics or artificial muscle, no markers counting kills. Even in the direct light, it was still seemingly fading in and out of existence. The pinnacle of wartime engineering.
Mark Nine, Broadsword pattern.
That day, she came back without a scratch.
The familiar chaos of the Stables whenever squads returned from the field was a relief to all the engineers on the base. When things were silent, people were biting their nails in anticipation of the next mission or worrying about the pilots and suits out on the battlefield. When the machines came back without losses, it was always a cause for celebration for everyone present.
The Broadsword came back without having ever been exposed to real danger. It was a rather surprising turn of events, considering what happened to other suits, however Lagger was content. No deaths, no mechanical failures, and not a scratch on the one suit he’d have to fix right away.
A graceful jump and a thump later, Lagger finally saw the teenage pilot dismount. She quickly waved off the approaching men in grey overalls, confirming her suit was perfectly fine. She spun around in place shortly after, searching the hall with her eyes, until she found Lagger standing next to one of the pillars holding the ceiling above them. She made her way straight towards him, passing the busy engineers carrying tools and spare parts. Few of them exchanged quick nods with her in a silent welcoming gesture.
Before she could reach Lagger, however, a hand tapped on her shoulder. Kryztal stopped and turned around, finding it was none other than Lewin. The dark-haired man had a sparkle in his eyes, something that most members of the unit learned to take as a good sign. And the lieutenant was overflowing with praise.
“Not bad, Kryz,” he blurted out with a smile, “Not bad at all.”
Kryztal managed a weak smile in reaction to Lewin’s praise, throwing in a couple words of thanks and hoping that would be enough for the lieutenant to go away. Lewin however did not seem to be satisfied and continued talking. “You don’t seem to be all too happy. What happened?” Kryztal just pointed towards the silent figure of her engineer behind the older man, who spun around to follow the finger. As soon as he landed eyes on Lagger, Lewin laughed and patted Kryz on the shoulder. “He’ll be fine. There’s nothing to be mad about, thus he will not get mad. Now, since you’re worried, go talk to him, and afterwards come up for drinks, ya?”
Kryztal sighed in relief, secretly glad the conversation was over before Lewin had time to drag her off. It was always the same with him, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Before the day was done, he’d probably try to get her drunk again.
Focusing her mind, Kryz murmured her goodbyes and wandered off to talk to Lagger.
“Never thought I’d see her again.” Lagger suddenly said, completely captivated by the suit before him. “Wonder how much of her is functional. Composite’s real, muscle still in, but the hum is gone so the core’s disabled...”
“Maglev is.... not loaded. But the safety is on and coils sparkling. It could be battle ready in a couple minutes,” Kryztal chipped in, curious. “Could use the coils to jumpstart it.”
“Not fast enough,” the engineer grumbled. “I’d much rather just get an outlet. Better than nuking it.” Kryztal remembered that analytical attitude, so typical for all of his fixes. “Wonder if they maintain these things properly at all. The lines could be rusty for all I know.”
“What, wanna pull the plate off?” Kryztal laughed at her own joke, forcing a small smile onto Lagger’s face. “Sorta do, actually,” he said, “But I don’t want to know what the fuck did Marcy do to the harness this time.” The two old soldiers erupted into laughter, completely uncaring for the heavy atmosphere of the museum, or for whoever might hear them. Kryztal bent at the waist, unable to shake off the insane laughter caused by an old joke. She didn’t stop even when she spotted an old man walking in, followed by a teenage boy. They just couldn’t.
Three pilots, an escort and two engineers sat around a table, brandishing their best poker faces. Cards lay sprawled across the table, neatly stacked next to one another, most face down. Piles of credits, ration cards and valuables were in front of every player. The men and women were silent, trying hard to not give way to emotions.
The room was poorly lit by a singular lamp, built into the ceiling above the table. Most of its light shone down on the table, leaving the players to hide in the shades, their eyes shining like those of predators. Sadly, their only audience was a startled lieutenant intent on interrupting the game.
“Explain me this,” Lewin said as he dropped a file in the middle of the table, “Some elysian asshole survives the last battle, and- “
“Oh this is going to be just fucking perfect,” interrupted silently Pyrofish without intending to draw attention. She was leaning into the light now, her expression and voice alike dripping with sarcasm, supported by her visage – an ugly grey shirt with Alliance logos. “What’s this, something I stole?” she noisily asked, snatching the file before anyone could react. Opening it, she started reading out loud “The enemy suit was like a ghost, seemingly not real according to all our recon gear, yet perfectly visible to the naked eye. It bore no markings and carried no heraldry, attacked faster than anything I’ve ever seen, and I can attest to this as I saw it with my own eyes: It destroyed two veteran Grizzly suits in the span of ten seconds. I don’t know what the weapon was- Oh wow, Kryz, you’re famous now!”
The escort tossed the file towards another of the players, who caught it without any difficulties. “The men took to  call it “The Queen of Death...” Good job! Even those fucking suicidal twats are afraid of you.” After that, she caught Lewin’s hateful glare and turned silent.
“As I was saying,” the lieutenant started again, “Some elysian asshole survives the last battle, and all of a sudden they know exactly what you are. I don’t care if they’re scared or not.” Lewin pinned the file with his finger. “Someone out there knows. Until IF clears this up for you, you’re not permitted outside the bunker.” Both Kryztal and her engineer raised their heads and took a sharp breath to argue, but Lewin beat them to the punch. “This is not up for discussion. Two weeks at least. By the time that happens your suit will be in perfect state, got it?”
Kryztal was ready to go by the time Lagger spoke, but was left speechless once he spoke up. “Got it, boss. I’ll get on it right away.”
Lewin gave him a quick nod and a look. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
Without another word the lieutenant left, leaving the folder on the table. “Dick move,” threw in Pyrofish, completely oblivious to the devilish smile on Lagger’s face. “Now she’s gonna tear your guts out,” she followed up with a quick nod towards Kryztal.
Lagger folded his hands on his chest and laid back in the chair. “How much do you trust me?” he asked, mockingly serious. “Because right now, I’ll bet my winnings this lass will be out in the field in the next day.”
The man seemed startled by the two soldiers laughing in what he probably considered to be a hall of sacred bravery. They shattered the atmosphere like it was a dropped glass, completely without any consideration. Kryztal only managed to stop once she caught the newcomer’s own glare, prodding Lagger until he too turned around and got his laughter under control. The duo was now silently staring at the Broadsword, reminiscing old adventures the suit carried them through unharmed. Smiles overtook their faces, memories of old friends, dangers long past and battles won and lost. Men and women they took to call brothers and sisters. Pilots, escorts, engineers, medics... every last one was worth remembering.
“So what did you want to show me?” came a voice from behind them. It belonged to a teenage boy with his hair dyed blue. He looked completely confused and overwhelmed by the sheer presence the metal monstrosities around him emanated. The grey hoodie he wore completed the “young rebellious asshole” look perfectly – even open-minded Kryztal got the impression the kid was about to argue with her, though she was a complete stranger.
“This, Tom. This one.”
The older man was standing in front of a white suit, an elegant Mark Seven, complete with its complex hands and the angel wings of its jetpack.
“You know I flew helicopters on Alicia, right?” he asked, not stopping to wait for a response. “This thing saved me once. Jumped up and literally smashed a fighter jet in half. Didn’t even slow down. Just blew it up and fell back to the ground. Seems he landed safely.”
Lagger now could barely suppress another round of laughter.
“Jake did what?” he blurted out before both him and Kryztal lost it.
The call came exactly as Lagger predicted. Lewin came running into the Stables, yelling at people to jump into their suits to the ever-present sound of alarms.
“Lagger! Escort gear, now!”
“What’s going on, Lt.?”
“Gear up, I’ll tell you later!”
Fifteen minutes later
Lagger was more than confused to find gear ready in his old locker, including the rank collar. A simple double tab under a roof – tabs of an Escort Captain, coloured straps confirming demolitions expertise, Marauder Escorts badge, pilot badge, airborne badge... His full uniform. From before the reassignments and demotion, no questions asked and no eyebrows raised. It must’ve taken Lewin a lot of effort to keep it, the high-ups probably wanted it burned.
Instead of that, it was now back to its old task of covering an old escort from the ever present burning sun of Alicia the same way the armour on top protected him from shrapnel. Escorts used paper thin protection compared to warsuits, maybe, but it was still much better than what most marines had to work with. Then again, marines didn’t usually have to take on Warsuits in squads of four.
Escorts were equipped to do just that. Jump jets for scaling buildings were a standard issue, as were thermite grenades and plasma cutters. An escort team had a solid seventy-thirty chance to bring down a warsuit provided they got the drop on it, and that was without anti-suit weaponry. A team carrying a gauss rifle, thermite cannon or even a simple rocket launcher could easily tear apart suits as well as tanks.
But the real signature weapon was the H&K E-7A2. Escorts used the old rifle system since they were formed, through two revisions and two decades, without ever needing anything else. It was heavier, bulkier and more reliable than the AZTEC models used by the regular marines, firing larger 12.7 mm ammunition, often even capable of piercing light armour. It wasn’t atypical for escorts to walk away from battlefields that to the untrained eye looked like a gunship just flew through.
The system was variable, too – flashlights and night vision scopes were the norm, as was sub-calibre or depleted uranium ammo. Most escorts even carried smoke and rifle grenade launchers. Marauders were even scarier. Experimental gear was intentionally funnelled their way, leaving them to surprise elysians with repulsor shield platforms sized for infantry, maglev grenade launchers, blocks of new generation plastic explosives, combat HUDs synced to the pilots they worked with or thermal absorption coats. As if Escorts weren’t deadly enough, Marauders hit harder, die less and always have a trick up their sleeve.
Only the radio distorted voice of Lewin snapped Lagger back to reality.
“Lags, put your helmet on private.”
Lagger internally sighed, knowing secrecy was never a good sign in the military, but obeyed none the less. A single tap of a button on the side of his helmet turned off the outside speaker and darkened the sunscreen visor, proofing his further conversation from being overheard.
“Alright, done. Talk.”
“Good. First of all, you’re back in action. Same rank, overall command. You’re Foxtrot squad, they’re with Kryz.” Lewin managed to sound worried even through the speakers in Lagger’s helmet. “I’m bringing assignments on your HUD now. No changes.” The information started pouring in, showing Lagger dozens of names and designations of fellow Escorts including their squads and the Pilots they were working side by side with. A quick glance to names under Foxtrot squad told him he was going to have to rely on Pyrofish, Bagel and Phyx. He burned those names into memory – now he was responsible for keeping them alive and well. A bit of a hassle when it came to Pyrofish, maybe, but overall a reliable squad.
“Battle plan’s simple,” said Lewin, “Krinkov stays front, Jake is his cover, Hamm and Zennock stay second line to lay down fire, Kryztal is flanking and I’m covering her. Avoid open firefights, stay nimble and force them to break formation. Got it?”
Lagger nodded to himself, even though nobody could see it through his darkened helmet. “Targets?” he asked in an unwavering tone. “At least double our size. Saw two Manticores and a Shark, the rest are just signals. Could be anyone, but my bet is on a rookie platoon,” came a response.
“Easy enough,” agreed Lagger. “We’re bringing the GTs in with us. Rookies aren’t likely to have Grunts and we could use the machineguns.” His voice sounded neither like a suggestion nor like question. It was an Escort’s command.
“Understood,” confirmed Lewin. “Good hunting, Foxtrot. Lewin out.”
As soon as Lewin cut the channel, Lagger reached up to his helmet’s controls and let light through the visor again. He was met with the sight of a dozen soldiers, all in full gear, clumped into a single APC’s hold. All of the troops were sitting knee to knee, silently awaiting his orders.
“Alright,” Lagger said, turning on his open channel so that troops in both transports could hear him. “we do this by pilots. GTs are coming with us – Bravo gets one, Delta the other. Delta, you keep yours on tip and race it off the second Echo or Foxtrot need them.”
“Affirmative,” responded a male voice through the radio. “Bravo, suit always first. Keep the GT rear,” continued Lagger in a tone that begged exactly zero question. “Charlie, liberal use of smoke. The more they’re guessing where Jake is coming from the harder can Kryz hit. Alpha, high ground priority. Switch places often. Foxtrot, stay quick on your feet - barrels up and no grenades until warsuits need us to. Echo, heavy guns up front, Foxtrot will give you your targets. Again, we’re aiming to have them come after Jake, stay for Krinkov and die to Kryz. Everything goes according to numbers we won’t even need to spot for Hamm. If we do, though, mind the friendlies, safe distance is 25 meters or shrapnel wall. Questions?”
“Just one,” blankly stated Pyrofish, “Kits. Calls or not?”
Lagger ran a short calculation through his head, confirming it with the list of soldiers present for the operation. All of them were veterans. Escorts who learned to use their jump kits the hard way already. None of them needed the unnecessary chatter for jump heights. In fact, as Lagger realised, it was a loaded question. Pyrofish was suggesting he needed those calls because he had lost his edge.
“You’re the second lowest service time here, corporal,” he bitingly pointed out. “Do you need jump height calls?”
 “You should show some respect! These brave souls fought-“
The boy stopped as soon as he noticed the deafening silence and death stares he got from one grizzled-looking man and one youthful woman with sparkling eyes. In the span of two seconds they turned from two jokers into very real and present threats. It looked like the man was about to jump him when the woman finally spoke.
“People honour their fallen in more ways than just looking at graves full of sorrow,” she said, taking a step forward. Her voice was full of exercised discipline, like she herself was holding back all emotions. “I would really much rather remember my friends for the things they did while alive than for their funerals.” Another step forward, yet more discipline. The raven locks of hair slowly flew through the air behind her, forming waves of shade carelessly slipping in and out of existence faster than the eye could see. As Kryztal reached a spot just under half a meter away from the youngster, she raised her right hand and pointed over her shoulder with a thumb, not turning her head. “And as for fighting,” she continued, a deadly hint in her otherwise silky smooth voice, “That thing right there is a Mark Nine, Broadsword pattern.” Her facade cracked as she spit out those words, expression erupting into a combination of cold fury and sadness from reopened wounds. “It’s the fastest suit Elysians ever saw kill their own. Most of the time they didn’t even hear it coming. They called it Queen of Death. Alliance troops called her Lady of the Night or Shade. And you know why I know that, kiddo?”
Kryztal leaned in, staring into the teenager’s fearful eyes, noting with a hint of sarcasm that she was lecturing him the same way Lagger lectured her seven years back. “Because I sat in that pilot seat,” she triumphantly stated. “If you want to respect the dead, find another hall. One that is actually filled with the dead.” The woman spun on her heel, hiding her smug expression from the boy or his father, but displaying it proudly to her companion. “Or don’t,” her voice continued in a darker tone, “I’m sure all the members of this bloody company died on Alicia anyways.”
One of the many things that made Marauders scary was sheer combat discipline. Usually, marine landings involved lots of shouting and orders. Marauders didn’t utter a word. Helmets were darkened and despite bullets or shrapnel, they didn’t say a single thing. It made them look very much inhuman.
Lagger followed the others out of the armoured vehicle in a short fall, hitting the ground and running forward while scanning his surroundings. The suits stood guard over their disembarking actions, themselves taking cover on the edges of the dusty street.
Lagger turned on his radio to once again address the whole force of Escorts and spoke. “All squads, plan is holding. Good hunting.” Relegating command back to the squad leaders, he joined his own unit with the suit he helped protect and rebuild.
Even in the dusty street, the black warsuit seemed to stand clean and perfect amidst the ruined buildings. Every curve was designed to deflect eyes away from the machine, and every piece of technology it carried only had one purpose: death. It was a beautiful instrument of war.
“Foxtrot, radio check,” said Kryztal through her microphone. “We’re here,” immediately called back Lagger. “Currently holding onto enough ‘nades to level the block and takedown charges-“
“Lagger?!?”
The young pilot sounded genuinely surprised to hear his voice. Up until then, Lagger had anticipated her to not only know, but have been a part of the reason he just got his rank back. Now it started looking like Lewin had made a decision behind everyone’s backs, and even arranged the uniform personally. Granted, not including anyone, especially knowing that everyone would hear about it afterwards, didn’t exactly sound like something the lieutenant would do – but neither was bringing Lagger out into the line of fire while he couldn’t afford to get another engineer on the suit he tended to.
Pyrofish interrupted before Lagger could answer, though. “This old faggot couldn’t let you go alone, apparently. Something about not getting a better fuck from anyone else on the base.” Lagger glared in her general direction, but Kryztal just laughed.
“At least he gets some, haven’t heard of you getting court martialled for that yet. Now cut the chatter, Foxtrot. We’re moving out!.”
The young boy stood mortified when the speech ended, and even as the two pilots left the room. His father was more in the situation, understandingly nodding when the duo passed him. His thoughts at that time were a mix of surprise, awe and sadness, fully aware of what the two soldiers who just passed him symbolized. He couldn’t begin to imagine what they went through on a daily basis during the war. The military probably spent billions of credits keeping them alive, and wanted every piece of genius or skill they might’ve had in return. Nowadays, warsuits were the norm in any military worth its salt. Back then, these two were pioneers of strategies used to date. They risked their lives fighting jacked into units without backup neural links, fully aware their brains could be the first to go in case of overloads, and that was only unless their bodies weren’t shattered in an explosion.
In a sudden flash of decisiveness, he went to run after them with only one question in mind.
He caught them already being interrogated by the sole guard at the hall entrance. At the moment, they were both pulling out their identification cards. Even from a distance, though, he could see the purple colouring of their passes, the same deep purple issued to high level politicians and military officials. As soon as the man on guard duty saw the passes, he immediately snapped into a salute, only to be scolded by the man into relaxing his stance.
From a distance, the onlooker emptily threw a question at them. “So what did he do, if not smash it in two?”
To his own surprise, the man turned to face him and responded with a smile on his lips. “Mortar tube. Old trick of his. It was always safer to blow the plane up then to have it crash somewhere by just pumping it full of lead.”
“Two signals, behind the building.”
“Got it. Foxtrot, we’re going over.”
Four fully armoured Escorts launched off the ground on small pillars of fire as their jump packs sprung into action. They flew through the air for barely a few seconds, still holding their rifles against their shoulders when they landed. Although the jets only flared for several moments, they scaled almost seven meters in height, suddenly losing momentum just above the roof and landing on their feet. Soon as the manoeuvre was over, they broke into a sprint, covering the fifteen or so meters to the opposite edge and going prone right before anyone below could spot them. Carefully, Lagger creeped up to look down on the street below.
Two warsuits stood back to back there, with their escorts holding watch in a half circle. While Elysians didn’t train or equip Escorts specifically for that purpose, but rather simply deployed marine contingents, it had one major upside – their marines could work in squads of ten, not four. Twenty marines and two warsuits were uneven odds for the Broadsword and Foxtrot squad, so much so they couldn’t guarantee success even if Foxtrot managed a takedown before anyone noticed them falling down onto the street.
The suits were both Sharks, bulky and resilient war machines. While they were no match for a Corvus like the one Lewin piloted, they could put down a Blaster without getting destroyed in the process. Perhaps not while it was piloted by one of the First’s own, but they posed a threat none the less.
Lagger moved back and away from the view, calculating possibilities as he went. A plan took shape in his mind before the suits ahead completely disappeared.
“Jake, I need a sync mortar. Before you engage. My helmet, twenty meters north-north-west. Got it?”
“Acknowledged,” responded the dreary yet calculative voice of the pilot. “Twenty seconds out – now”
Lagger wasted no time organising the rest of the attack. “Kryz, two sharks, two escort groups. Center signal, one round, my mark. Cross as soon as you’re sure. Foxtrot, takedown on the right one. Charges on five.” None of the soldiers accompanying him waited, slinging their rifles into the magnetic holsters on their backs and instead drawing small, pitch black cylinders worth of thermite charges. By the time those were ready, they could all notice the whizzing sound of incoming mortar shells.
“MARK!”
The building below them shook as Kryztal took her shot straight through it, but before any of them had the time to lose focus or balance they were already following Lagger over the edge and soaring in an arc above the unsuspecting enemies. The mortar shells unleashed fiery hell, throwing aside men and mechs alike and staggering the unit as a whole. Those few Elysians still standing were scrambling to either walkway beside the road, trying to find cover. Their compatriots in the suits were not nearly as panicky. Instead for searching out cover, they were searching for threats. Unlucky for Kryztal, her shot did not nearly achieve the result she had hoped for, only managing to hit the leftmost suit in its weapon arm. Nevertheless, that very arm was now a mess of mangled cables and torn metal.
Now it was time for the escorts to shine. Their jump jets automatically flared to life every few milliseconds, adjusting the fall as the computer controlling them saw fit. All of them were still firmly holding onto their thermite charges, trying to close the gap between them and the Shark enough to drop them right on top of it. Sadly, the suit’s pilot was well aware of them before they could strike.
Escorts practice suit takedowns almost religiously. From their earliest days in training, recruits learn to find weaknesses, throw charges and corner warsuits. The simulators that allowed them to experience the hardest part of being an Escort were a sacred ground that was off limits to anyone but those recruits far enough in their training to attempt takedowns. Even maintenance fell to them and only them.
In simulators, recruits differentiated between three basic situations where attempting a takedown was viable: either you and your team were above the unsuspecting target, the target was engaged with another warsuit and had its back turned on you, or all of its Escorts were dead and there were multiple teams to overwhelm it.
Lagger had arranged a textbook example of the first option. It was, by extent, the riskiest one. Usually, an escort team jumped the suit from above, threw charges while still in the air, landed with rifles at the ready and started fighting the now-wrecked suit’s escorts. If the charges failed, the unit would be massacred by the suit’s superior weaponry. If their jets failed, people could fall to their deaths. If they didn’t react fast enough, the enemy escorts could kill them all in a matter of seconds.
None of this could, however, deter a Marauder.
While the Shark below tried to angle itself away from the impeding doom, it could not move fast enough to dodge. Four men and women flew mere meters away from it, landing several explosive packs on it. The one Lagger threw locked itself right into the exposed knee joint, exploding mere seconds later and crippling the enemy. Pyrofish landed her own explosive just above one of the vents around the “neck” of the suit, while Phyxia hit the waist where the plate was the thinnest and Bagel managed to throw his own so it got stuck inside the top shoulder pad. The flight wasn’t “majestic” as Alliance propaganda would describe it, it was desperate and messy. But it was successful.
Foxtrot squad safely landed in the middle of the street, slinging their massive weapons back into action in a honed and perfected move, and started firing. Elysians were scattered and didn’t know about the four Marauders dawning on them before the first shots already found their targets. The few surviving marines from the mortar strike didn’t react fast enough, and were mowed down without remorse. The other suit turned to help them, but its pilot was only faced with the staggering wreck of its support being used as cover by a squad of particularly careless Alliance escorts.
Then, without warning or sound, a pitch black warsuit came around the corner. The Shark barely managed to raise its functional arm, carrying a composite blade, in time to block Kryztal’s first swing. The two pilots suddenly found themselves locked in a duel, one the elysian must’ve realised is a hopeless effort. His only salvation was the fact Kryztal wasn’t trying to land a killing blow right away in order to avoid taking any damage herself. Instead, she was calmly probing his defences and trying to find an angle at which the Shark couldn’t reach her.
Kryztal wasn’t in any real danger from the Shark to be sure. It was too slow for her own top-of-the-line suit, even if technically its weapon could pierce her armour under the right angle and in the right place. But even knowing that, she turned the fight into a dance of death, gracefully sidestepping blows and baiting out more. It was beautiful in its own twisted way, the way one blow could be all standing between life and death, success or failure. The Shark pilot was giving it his all.
But the odds were stacked against him. Soon enough he attempted a low blow with his functioning arm, giving Kryztal exactly the opening she was waiting for. If he still had both arms, he might’ve been able to counter, but with his left arm turned into a stump Kryztal had nothing to fear when she suddenly lurched forward and to the Shark’s side. Her own melee weapon followed the torso, glancing off the extended arm. A glancing hit, however, was all that Kryztal needed.
Visually, no sparks or lightning gave away what her weapon caused, but the elysian’s reaction made it obvious. While the suit was able to stand back up from the half-crouched stance it was in, the hand was no longer moving, frozen halfway in its futile attempt to pull back. In one way, it was more horrifying than if the suit lost its limb.
Lagger smiled as he realised the horror of the Shark’s pilot. Kryztal launched a flurry of attacks on him, hit after hit paralyzing the entire suit. The duel was over in a matter of seconds, and Kryztal kicked the enemy suit, forcing it to fall over. Realizing her intent, Lagger signalled his squad to follow and ran out towards the enemy suit.
“Foxtrot to Delta. I need your GT, we’ve got a prisoner.”
“Understood, captain,” came back a gruff male voice. Lagger recognized it as Erick, Delta’s squad leader. He didn’t sound worried, so if they ran into trouble, it was now long gone. “Tracking your path. Two minutes.”
Foxtrot reached the downed suit in twenty seconds. Pyrofish was the first one to jump up onto it, followed by Lagger as she brought out her plasma cutter and turned her visor sunscreen to darken it as much as possible. The two remaining squad members took up positions to cover them both, aiming at the corner buildings left and right of them respectively.
The cutter came to life with a blue-purple glow, followed by sparks as it started melting the hinges of the suit’s hatch. Lagger slid his rifle back onto his back and instead grabbed his secondary weapon, an old and tried Colt 662. While it was not standard issue to carry laser weapons on the ground, the old Escort much preferred to carry the energy weapon because it never failed. It was useless against refractors, it didn’t go through objects however thin they were, and it didn’t nearly have the ammo capacity to match the more common Berretas, but regardless of air, corrosion, dust or availability of ammo it always fired when you needed it to. Besides, if he had to shoot the pilot, the beam was more likely to just disable him instead of outright killing.
As soon as the hinges were melted off, Pyrofish put the cutter back on her belt and took a hold of the hatch. She threw a questioning look in Lagger’s direction, and got a courteous nod in return. Her look turned from focused to devilish as she broke open the sealed hatch.
The man inside didn’t try to draw his weapon and surrendered immediately, however for good measure, Pyrofish punched him in the face anyways, and while he was still recoiling from the unexpected pain grabbed him by his collar and threw him halfway out of the mech. Lagger kept his weapon trained on the elysian the whole time, ready to shoot him the second he tried to pose a threat. Pyrofish however didn’t intend to restrain herself nearly as much. While the prisoner was not to be killed, she liked to play with her food. There was a certain level of brutality she exercised as normal, but every rule was off the second she was handling the enemy.
“C’mere!” she grunted as she lifted the pilot, who was now wincing in pain and had a nosebleed, out of the wreck of his suit, and started dragging him off. He tried to get up on his own two feet a few times, but was cut short every time when Pyrofish yanked him forward and off balance. “You’re gonna tell me everything-“
“Enemy suit plus escorts. Two streets out. Giving it forty second,” came through the crystal clear voice of Kryztal. “Manticore. Need you to scatter the escorts.”
The two Escorts holding watch reacted first, breaking their positions to seek out cover. Lagger stopped tending to the prisoner’s threat and turned around with his rifle at the ready, running to the wrecked Shark in order to hide behind it. At the same time, the transporter’s wheels screeched around the corner, revealing its sharp outline and low profile against the sun. The GT didn’t have a driver, instead, all of its functions were controlled by a simple AI.
Pyrofish urged her prisoner forward with a push, waiting for the GT to drop its ramp. “Oh you’re about to have fun,” she forced him back up to his feet, “so, any questions before I bash your face in?”
The prisoner, coughing, failed to make any sense at first. The only noises he managed were those of spitting blood, but eventually regained enough of his composure to manage a couple words.
“T-that suit...”
Pyrofish just laughed. “That, you cuck, was what you idiots call the Queen of Death. If you’re lucky, her pilot will be the one to put a round through your head.”
Two old soldiers again stood outside, staring at the starry night sky in front the Memorial Museum. Kryztal seemed to be completely oblivious to the situation they just went through, or to the fact they had to disclose their ranks to the trooper on guard.  Lagger desperately wanted to just run away, go to the airport and take the first flight he could to wherever it took him, but Kryztal was too taken aback by her experience to even understand his urging.
So he just gave up. He couldn’t follow her thoughts anymore. Her face screamed confusion and sadness, but her eyes gave a glint of pure wonder.
“Lags?” She spoke for the first time in minutes, her voice almost a whisper.
“Yeah. I’m here,” he responded, relieved and scared of what would come next at the same time.
“What happened to the others?” Kryztal suddenly asked, snapping back to reality. “Where did they go? What are they doing? Are they even still alive?” She sounded genuinely curious, albeit a bit sad. The question unsettled the engineer more than it relieved him.
“I... I can’t talk about that. I’m not allowed to.”
“Never stopped you before”
Lagger sighed, and turned his gaze away from the sky to face his companion. “No,” he admitted, “it did not. But it should this time.” He let his expression slip for a second, revealing the deepening worry. “Only Lewin, me and Pyrofish know.”
“Pyrofish knows?”
“Lewin couldn’t stop her. But she kept silent about everything. She just... she went to find Lewin. Then Shadowcon, Jake, Phyx, Bagel, Weeb. Most of them sent her away. And after that she disappeared on Waypoint. Lewin was worried and full of blame at first, but we have had no word of her for a year now. Either she’s settled down, ran away, or she’s dead.”
“And there goes your vow.”
Lagger turned away, hiding a small smile. “I guess it can’t hurt. But what are you planning to do?”
“Spend all my savings.”