Hazuki fic

Amane Hazuki stared out of her office window and into the vast expanse of space, an endless black void, dotted frequently by the odd burning ball of gas millions of miles away.

The sight used to awe her, when she had been just promoted to the First Officio. For the two weeks between the announcement and her transfer was paradise. She walked with a spring in her step, and her compatriots would stand straighter in her presence. The Officio organised a parade for her. Her friends threw a party. It was all hugs, tears and pained smiles - all the way up to the teleportation pod.

She should have gotten the signal when teleportation sickness made her to vomit her guts out. She should have turned back and hauled ass back for Earth. Snuck onto an escape pod within the first week. But no, she decided to stay and work and soldier her way through everything - like the earnest little bitch she was.

Amane Hazuki closed her eyes, trying in vain to massage the exhaustion out of them. She had had a lot on her mind recently. The moon-sized Grief Seed that had spontaneously phased into existence was one of them. The increased frequency at which the Moonbase's security systems were malfunctioning was another. But mostly of all it was her realisation of her own glaring impotence, both as a Magical Girl and as Warmaster of the First Officio.

Amane Hazuki reseated herself at her desk, intent on tackling the mountain of paperwork before her. She took a deep breath to steady her trembling hands, and reached for a pen again.

Application of Leave. Name: Karasawa Vintage. Reason for Application: Attending Ninth Officio Warmaster Ceremony, Living in Peace For One Week Before I Drag My Ass Back Up To Veganopolis”

"Come on Hazuki," she groaned, "You can do this."

She managed two seconds before flinging the pen across her office.

"Goddammit," she muttered, "I need a fucking drink."

Having made sure the door to her office was properly locked, Amane Hazuki retrieved a bottle of whisky from her inventory. Kong - 15 Years, Single Malt. Decadence. Deliverance. Heaven in a bottle.

She'd have been caught dead drinking. Not least because she was the Warmaster and it was still working hours, but because it could very like have led to an Officio-wide revolt - and then the headaches would really kill her.

Not too long ago, she'd started herself on a vegan diet. The Eversor Rank Leader, Kiryuin Satsuki latched onto this, demanding Officio-wide compliance in “following the Warmaster’s example”. Sooner rather than later the dietary edict had warped into something even the most pious ascetic would have found difficult to follow. Alcohol - without question - had been forbidden from the base.

“Jesus Christ, Hazuki. Have some fucking backbone. This is your fucking Officio to command. Not Kiryuin's,” Hazuki chastised herself as she trudged over retrieve the pen she’d most recently launched across the room.

Broken. The pen’s casing had shattered upon impact. Free from its pressurised cartridge, the ink now flowed freely in the reduced pressure of the moon station.

“Fuck.”

It was with a few years of habitual excellence that Amane Hazuki climbed onto the Warmaster's throne. But it was only from the top of the world that she became aware of her own helplessness.

Not long after her promotion came the Walpurgisnacht - the spontaneous appearance of four S-Class Witches, requiring the full mobilisation of all nineteen earthbound Officios. She ached for battle as she the reports streamed in. Hundreds of Magical Girls, pointlessly sacrificed in wave-after-wave of relentless attack. But no matter how she cajoled the Incubator, he refused to budge. None of the First's Magical Girls would be allowed to leave the Moonbase. They would be the last line of defence only in the event of any emergency.

"Emergency!" She'd spat at him, choking in indignation, red-faced in fury, her sight clouded by tears. What greater emergency could there possibly have been?

And then she'd had to relay the message to the rest of her Officio, and to the Warmasters and Incubators of the other nineteen; Stone-faced and soft-spoken. Orders were orders, and orders were absolute.

She saw the exact moment each face soured into a cringing grimace. She watched as Vintage barely contained the urge to spit in her face. She saw how Nanoha very nearly popped a vein. And Sakura - ever supportive - refused to meet her gaze.

It was the first night amongst many she drunk herself mad.

On the bright side, her hair wasn’t about to turn white from the stress. Those snow-white locks of hers were natural, after all. Albinism, probably. Her sister after all had been born with black hair.

How she loved her dear sister. How she wanted to keep her safe. She'd made every effort while on Earth to make sure no Incubator could even come close to her sister. Haruka would never be allowed to contract. She'd made her own Incubator promise as much before she'd left for the Moon.

But the next thing she knew, Haruka had contracted with a different Officio. She looked on in horror through the video call, Haruka's ebony locks now a ghastly white, with a costume made to mirror her own. When the grief and rage finally subsided she promised to make every effort to keep her sister away from danger. Pulling all the weight behind her rank, she made sure that Haruka would never see battle.

Haruka would be a designated prognosticator. She would only ever fulfill support roles, far from the heat of battle. She would never even be trained for combat.

Their relationship soured soon after, and before long they stopped communicating altogether. Haruka could not appreciate the gravity of what she’d done, nor that her sister had only acted in “her best interest”.

But nothing she did could have prepared Hazuki for the Inter-Officio war. It was already too late when the report had come to light - her sister had been captured, having been deemed unworthy to fight, screaming her name, wishing desperately to be saved by her.

She could not negotiate for her release, but Haruka would be safe. Locked away forever in a Silent Room, never again to see the light of day.

Amane Hazuki cursed as she rummaged through her drawers. She couldn’t have just wrecked her last space-worthy pen, could she?

It was at this point that the intercom on her desk crackled to life. The voice transmitted, though slightly addled by static, was resolute and clear, “Warmaster.”

Amane Hazuki chose to ignore it. The last thing she needed at this point was more responsibility on her shoulders.

“Warmaster?” the voice came again, louder this time, slightly concerned at the lack of a reply.

Amane Hazuki unplugged the intercom, and with all her might, screamed at the endless abyss of space visible through her window. She stood still for a few moments, teeth grit, fists clenched, eyes teary, and her throat terribly sore. Then, slumping in her chair, reconnected the intercom with a feeble sigh.

“Warmas-”

“Yes, what is it?” She finally replied, her voice soft but authoritative.

“You’re needed in the Incubator’s office.”

Amane Hazuki stepped out of her office, her costume neatly pressed, and her Warmaster’s cape sleekly adorned, flipping her silver locks to free them from the cape. She walked forth with a perfect gait, eyes squared forward, each stride light but powerful.

From the corner of her eye she could spot the vast expanse of space, an endless black void, dotted frequently by the odd burning ball of gas millions of miles away. The sight would have awed her years ago. But she knew better now. Here on the lifeless non-atmosphere of the moon, the stars did not shine.