Valiant

[Valiant #12: Media Machine]

Log Date: 10/30/12763

Data Sources: Feroce Acceso

Event Log: Rewind: 19 years ago

Sunthorn Bastion: Workshop

12:53am SGT

On any spacebound structure, the concept of time is a nebulous one.

It’s because space typically lacks the cyclical environment that one finds on the surface of most planets with a standard rotation. There are no seasons, no weather, no natural day and night cycle — though the latter can be simulated while in geosynchronist orbit around a planet. There is only the constant star-freckled darkness of space, or the distant, dim brilliance of whatever stars are nearby. When one is in space, the illusion of time usually has to be created — by the numbers on the clock, the rising and dimming of light settings on the vessel, by the schedules that are set by the crew and captain.

Yet even so, the concept of time in space is a difficult one to capture and replicate. It is only ever an imitation, and sometimes the body cannot be fooled by the measures taken to approximate a sense of time. When that is the case, it often results in the afflicted creature in keeping odd hours, trying to follow the cyclical patterns that once guided and defined its daily routine.

That may well be the case with Feroce Acceso, who has found his way to one of the workshops in the Sunthorn Bastion in the midst of the night cycle. With much of the Bastion at rest, he has the workshop to himself, sitting alone at one of the tables. Two ninjato hilts rest on the table in front of him, one of them opened up to reveal compact mechanisms within. Tools and extracted parts are scattered in a loosely organized ring around the two hilts as he carefully picks at the opened one, peering into the inner workings with all the frustration of an amateur tinkerer.

“It’s a little late to be doing repairs, don’t you think?”

The voice jolts him; he twists in his chair to see Echo standing just within the door of the workshop, wearing his white labcoat with his hands folded behind his back. Relaxing when he realizes who it is, Feroce sets down the tools he’d been holding, straightening up in his chair and running a hand along his once-hunched back. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured if I was going to be awake, I might as well get something done, instead of lying in bed staring at the ceiling.”

“I know the feeling.” Echo says, making his way through the tables over to the one Feroce is at. “I’ve spent more nights like that than I care to admit. I had imagined you would focus on your mech studies instead of tinkering, though.”

“Normally, yeah, but I wanted to see if I could fix these.” Feroce says, prodding the unopened ninjato hilt. “One of them stuttered in combat the other day, and I can’t have them giving out on me mid-fight.”

“What are they?” Echo says, sitting down opposite Feroce.

“Hilts for starglass ninjato blades.” Feroce says, picking up the intact one and igniting it. Prismatic energy rushes out of the hilt and crystallizes into the familiar glassy blade. “They’re my primary close-combat weapon. I never go on a mission without them.”

“These don’t look standard issue.” Echo remarks, reaching out to take the sword and look it over.

“They’re not. This pair are an heirloom passed down from my mother’s side of the family.” Feroce explains. “They were made a long time ago, though. I was hoping I could fix them and tune them up, but when I cracked the other one open, I didn’t recognize any of the parts. I don’t think they make those kinds of parts any more, so I can’t get replacements for the bits that are starting to corrode or rust away.”

“I see.” Echo says, looking the sword over before gently laying it down on the table and reaching for the hilt that’s had its casing opened. “Oh yes. These definitely don’t look like they’d fit the standard galactic metric toolset. This seems like it was manufactured on a world that wasn’t part of the galactic Colloquium at the time of assembly. How old did you say these were again?”

“At least a century. Probably more than that.” Feroce says, fiddling with some of the tools he has out on the table. “I don’t know exactly when they were created, just that they’ve been passed down through the family for a while.”

“I’m surprised they’re still working after that long.” Echo says, still studying the opened hilt. “As far as parts go, you would either need to recreate the original parts, or rebuild it using the nearest modern equivalents. The hilt casing could stand to be replaced as well. But I believe it’s salvageable; it’s just a matter of rebuilding it with more modern parts that will stand the test of time a little better than the original parts.”

“Really?” Feroce says, leaning forward. “I mean, I could pay you if you’re able to refurbish it so it’ll last for another century…”

“I’ve already got more money than I know what to do with.” Echo says, still tilting the open hilt this way and that. “Tell you what. I’ll get these fixed up for you, and you can pay me back by focusing on your Titan training. We need more pilots after that fiasco with Crimson Panther.”

Feroce rubs the back of his neck, looking away. “I can learn, but I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna become a replacement pilot anytime soon. Besides, it doesn’t matter how much I do if Ratchet doesn’t clear me for piloting. If she doesn’t think I’m ready and I’ve earned it, she won’t put me in the pilot roster.”

“True. But you’re already on the backup roster after a year.” Echo points out without looking up from the hilt. “You have a remarkable aptitude for empath piloting. So do me a favor, and pair that aptitude with hard work. I want to see you in a combat-deployed Titan before I retire.”

That catches the junior Challenger off guard, but after a moment, he nods. “I’ll do that, then.” Reaching up, he covers his mouth as he yawns. “Jeez, now I’m getting tired…”

“Then you should probably head back to your quarters and get some sleep. Young Challengers like you need to maintain a healthy sleep schedule, with how often you venture into the field.” Echo says, setting down the open hilt and picking up one of the tweezer tools on the table. “I heard Jett Black is on the loose again, and if I recall correctly, you and Arequis were part of the team that defeated her last time. They might need you two for an encore sometime in the near future.”

“She’s not so bad.” Feroce says as he stands up, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I think if we could talk to her instead of attacking her on sight, we might be able to work things out.”

Echo pauses at that, looking up from the open ninjato hilt. “That’s a very bold sense of optimism you have there, Feroce. Jett Black has quite the track record, as far as galactic criminals go.”

Feroce shrugs. “Hope for the best, plan for the worst. ‘Sides, I’m always in the fill role on a team, so it’s not like anyone would listen to me. I’m not the one calling the shots.”

Echo furrows his brow at that, pinching the tweezers between his forefingers and his thumbs as he replies. “Have you tried?”

“Tried what?” Feroce asks, looking a little confused.

“Suggesting to the others that you talk with Jett Black, instead of fighting her.”

Feroce gives a helpless shrug. “Well, no, because…”

“Because such a suggestion is crazy and no one would take such a suggestion seriously.” Echo says.

“Yeah.”

Echo thoughtfully taps his forefinger against the tweezers for a long moment. “You ought to suggest it anyway, I think.”

Feroce blinks at Echo, finding this encouragement surprising. “You think it’s possible to talk Jett Black out of being a bad guy?”

“I don’t, actually.” Echo states factually. “I am a scientist, so I must trade in facts; but I am also a Challenger, so I must deal in hope and belief. I believe that you have a good reason for thinking that Jett Black can be turned around. You never know until you try, and if you never try, you will never know. That, also, is science.” At this point, he smiles. “Besides. People will never have the chance to take your advice if you keep it all to yourself. I think you should make the suggestion — you might be surprised how many people are crazy as you are, but are afraid to voice it, just like you.”

The junior Challenger needs a bit to soak this in, but eventually he nods a little, and returns Echo’s smile. “Alright then. I’ll give it a try next time I get a chance. I’ll probably get called crazy, but I’ve dealt with worse before.”

“Good. Now get along; like I said, it’s late, and young Challengers need their sleep.” Echo says, making a shooing motion with his fingers. “Ratchet would disapprove if she knew I was keeping you up.”

“Got it. I’m gone.” Feroce says, backing away from the table. “Thanks for taking a look at my ninjato, Echo. They mean a lot to me, so I really appreciate it. Have a good night!”

“And you as well.” Echo says as Feroce steps through the doors of the workshop, and they slide shut behind him. In the ensuing silence, Echo’s smile fades, and he looks back down at the two hilts lying on the table before him, picking up the ignited one and looking the starglass blade over. Were it not for Challengers like Feroce, Ratchet, and Arequis, he would’ve retired from the Challenger program years before. As it was, it felt like there was still something worth staying for, although that feeling was slipping a little more with every passing day, seeing what the program was slowly becoming. Retirement was on the horizon — it was just a matter of how long he’d stay before he couldn’t take it any more.

Picking up the tweezers again, Echo sets down the ignited hilt, and reaches for the opened one. Until he left, he’d be doing his best to build a legacy to leave behind for those that still fought for the right reasons — and this small repair job, though seemingly trivial in the grand scheme of things, would be part of it.

After all, it was little acts of kindness that truly made a difference, and truly made one a Challenger.

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

The Bulwark: Observation Lounge 11

8:35am SGT

“Songbird?”

My eyes flick open. Leaning over me is Ridge; beyond him is the glass ceiling of one of the Bulwark’s observation decks, sprinkled with a vast array of distant stars.

“Why are you lying in the middle of the floor?” he asks once he sees I’m awake.

I don’t answer, pushing myself up on my elbows, then shifting into sitting position. After a moment, I hook my arms around my knees, staring at my ninjato hilts lying on the couch beside me. I’m still half-submerged in old memories, their echoes rebounding within the silence of my mind, and I need more time for them to fade away properly.

“Songbird?” Ridge says when I don’t answer. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I say quietly. “I’m fine.”

Silence falls between us. He can probably tell that I’m not being entirely truthful, but knows better than to call me out on it. After a while, he tucks his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “Are you still bothered about Echo?”

“Yeah.” I say quietly. It’d been twelve days since the assassination on Vanui. I’d managed to get out of the city and back to the Featherfell with the help of Echo’s butler, but in the days since then…

I’d been in a bit of a mood.

“Did you need something?” I ask after a moment, turning my head in Ridge’s direction without actually looking at him.

“No, I was just… wondering.” he says, shrugging. “I saw you lying on the ground and I didn’t know if there was something wrong.”

“Nah. I’m fine.” I say, reaching up to the couch to grab one of my ninjato hilts and look it over. Rubbing a thumb over the black metal and the grip wrapping around the hilt.

“Did you know him when you were a Challenger?” he asks.

I glance back at Ridge. For a moment I’m very strongly inclined to say something that’ll chase him off. I’m still dealing with the loss, and I feel like I’m owed some time, some peace and quiet to come to terms with it. But then I remember how excited he was when he found out we were going to visit Echo, and how he’d sulked when I told him he couldn’t come along. I remember how devastated he looked when I got back to the Accatria and told everyone that Echo was dead.

Ridge had just wanted to meet one of his heroes in person, and now he was never going to get that chance. If Echo had been here, he would’ve humored Ridge. And I owed it to Echo’s memory to share his legend with those that would never get the chance to meet him in person.

“Yeah.” I say after a moment, looking back to the ninjato hilt. “I knew him. He was one of my mentors, along with Ratchet. He was a modest, decent fellow — not like a lot of other Challengers. Didn’t like fighting; he’d rather be in the lab or the workshop.”

“So all the things he does in the Challenger anime…?” Ridge asks, sidling a little closer. “Did he actually do those things?”

“Oh yeah, of course.” I say, getting up off the floor and sitting on the couch. “He didn’t take victory laps, though. He’d do the thing, save the day, but wouldn’t wait for people to come out and thank him. He’d make sure everyone was okay, then go back to the ship, and wait for the rest of the team to get there so they could return to the Bastion. He didn’t like the media part of it. Didn’t think we should bask in the fame.”

“Is that why he left the program?” Ridge asks, sitting on the couch a cushion away from me.

“Probably one of many reasons. We’ll never know for sure.” I say, picking up my other ninjato hilt and weighing it in my hand. “He didn’t say much when he retired, just that what the program had become no longer represented the values he stood for. That was all he ever said, and wouldn’t say more about it, even though the media pressed him.” I hold up both of the ninjato hilts. “He refurbished these for me, you know.”

“He did?” Ridge says, leaning in to stare at the hilts. “I’ve seen you using them a ton, but I didn’t know that Echo worked on them.”

“Yeah.” I say, lowering them again. “These are relics passed down from my mother’s side of the family for centuries. They were starting to fall apart when they got to me; I tried to fix them on my own, but I couldn’t. Echo noticed, and offered to fix them for me. He refurbished them with more modern materials that wouldn’t corrode or rust, and replaced the casings with black metal and a more fitted, wrapped grip. They’ve held up pretty well over the last twenty years — they look almost the same as the day he refurbished them and gave them back to me.”

Ridge reaches out. “Can I?”

“Yup.” I say, handing one to him so he can look it over. “He did it for me as a favor. All he asked in return was that I train hard, and end up in a Titan cockpit before he retired. He and Ratchet encouraged and supported me when a lot of other people ignored me because they thought I wasn’t anything special.”

“How do you turn it on?” Ridge asks, looking over the hilt for a switch or a button to press.

I smile, reaching out to take it back. “There’s no power switch. Starglass weapons have to be ignited — they need a little spark of magic to kickstart them.” I grip the hilt and hold it sideways, feeding a little volt of magic down my arm and into the hilt. The prismatic light rushes out of the hilt, crystallizing into the familiar glassy blade after a second, and I hold it back out to him so he can take it and look it over.

“Dang.” Ridge says, reaching out and holding it gingerly, his eyes drawn to the rainbow refractions of the blade. “Why don’t we have more weapons like this? I don’t think I’ve ever seen another Challenger use something like this, and the Challengers used a lot of melee weapons.”

“Starglass weapons aren’t exactly common or easy to make.” I explain as he turns it from side to side so the blade catches the light. “And if you can’t use magic, they’re more or less useless, because you can’t ignite them.”

“You know how to use magic, then?” Ridge asks, looking up from the blade.

I shrug. “A little bit. My ancestors were Rantecevangians, and all Rantecevangians have magic. Some more than others.”

“Rant… Rant-what?”

“Rantecevangian. Someone descended from the world of Rantecevang.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t say that.” He goes back to looking at the ninjato. “Why are they so hard to make?”

I reach out, tapping the hilt. “Because generating starglass requires a stellarite core, which itself is a very rare material that’s only found in meteorites that fall on Rantecevang. Finding new stellarite nowadays is rather difficult — if you want to make a starglass weapon, you either have to buy from stockpiles of unforged stellarite, which has an astronomical price per ounce, or break apart old relics that contain stellarite already, which is usually… illegal. And then you have to find a smith that actually knows how to forge and enchant stellarite, and then build the mechanism around it…” I shrug. “You get the idea.”

“So these are like… really valuable.” he says, running his fingers along the flat of the blade and watching as it leaves a trail of refracted colors in its wake. “They must really be important to you, since you got them from your family.”

“They are.” I say, tucking away the other hilt, and reaching out to take back the one that he’s got. I rest it across my knees, taking a moment to appreciate the blade’s beauty. “Echo knew they were important to me as well, and they became more important to me after he fixed and refurbished them. There are hints of his influence in their redesign — it’s no longer just a reminder of the legacy of my ancestors, but of him as well.” Picking it up by the hilt, I hold it out to catch the light. “My ninjato are a reminder of everyone that came before me, that made my life possible, and a reminder of the people that helped make me who I am today. They’re a reminder that behind every hero are dozens, hundreds of people that helped shape them into that hero. And we owe it to those people to make them proud.”

With that, I turn off the blade, the starglass liquefying and retreating back into the hilt. Tucking it back in my longcoat, I glance over to Ridge. “I wish you could’ve met Echo. There’s a lot he taught me, and a lot I wish he could’ve taught you. But since he’s gone now, I’ll try to teach you everything he taught me. And everything that Ratchet, and all the other Challengers taught me.”

Ridge is speechless for a moment, then nods. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” I concur. “Also, I saw your grades yesterday. You’re failing algebra.”

He groans, slouching back on the couch. “It’s not my fault! How am I supposed to pay attention to stuff I’m never gonna use?”

“I won’t lie, you might never use it.” I admit. “But you need it.”

He gives me a look. “How does that work? Why would I need it if I’ll never use it?”

“You need it because your Jai Te lessons are going to be suspended until you get your math grade above failing.”

“What?!”

“You heard me. C’mon, dude, like I don’t expect you to go to college. There are plenty of Challengers that never went to college and they turned out just fine. But you at least gotta complete basic schooling.” I say, standing up. “No Jai Te until you get math back up to a passing grade. And I want to see the rest of your core subjects at a median grade if you’re going to be coming on any more missions.”

He glares at me. “Fine. I’ll show you. My grades are gonna be so good, you won’t be able to keep me off missions.”

I smirk at that. “Better hit the books, then.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone and check the time. “I gotta roll. I have a meeting with Sierra and the Commander soon. Hopefully it’ll be to say that we’ve gotten a lead from the string of numbers that Echo gave me. Try not to get in too much trouble, alright?”

He rolls his eyes. “What trouble? There’s barely anything to do around besides study and wait for you guys to figure out what to do next.”

“I dunno. Maybe you’d find something to do if you didn’t spend so much time on your phone.” I say, starting for the door. “Walk around. Get to know the place and the people. You’ll be surprised how quickly time goes when you’re exploring and meeting people.”

Leaving him with that suggestion, I step out of the lounge, getting on my way to the Bulwark’s intelligence center.

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

The Bulwark: Intelligence Center: Briefing Room

9:49am SGT

“So good of you to join us, Songbird.” Dussel says as the glass door slides shut behind me. He’s seated behind the desk in the briefing room attached to the intelligence center, and Sierra’s in one of the chairs against the wall, scrolling through a data slate. “With how long it took you to get here, I’m guessing you managed to fully complete your daily beauty routine?”

“Sorry for the delay. You know how the morning traffic is.” I reply just as drily, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down. “Let’s get to it. Any news on the numbers?”

“It’s a GP address.” Sierra says without looking up from her slate.

“So we’re… looking for a website?” I say, unsure of what that’s supposed to mean.

“Not quite.” Dussel says. “A GP address usually identifies a given device, user, and their point of access to the galaxynet, as assigned by a galaxynet provider. It also has the benefit of giving us their general location.”

“The analysts have tracked it back to an orbital starport above Snohjem, a vacation resort world. Right now they’re sifting data and analyzing for potential threats before we put together a mission.” Sierra says, tapping a knuckle on her chin before turning her slate towards Dussel. “What do you think? Would that look cute on me?”

Dussel glances, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lieutenant, if you could please focus for more than three minutes…”

“I’m paying attention!” Sierra says innocently. “I am involved in this meeting and contributing in a salient manner, aren’t I?” She then turns the slate to me. “Whaddaya think, Feroce? I could pull that off, couldn’t I?”

I stare at the slate, then back up at her. “You’re shopping for lingerie during an intelligence briefing.”

She makes a disgusted sound. “What? No! These are swimsuits!”

“I can’t tell the difference.”

“Obviously. Commander, we’ve got to do something about this. Are you seeing this? He doesn’t know the difference between lingerie and a sexy swimsuit.”

“Moving on now.” Dussel mutters, his eyes closed as he massages his brow. “While the intelligence team is conducting a review of the Snohjem orbital starport, we’ve got some bigger fish to fry. Echo’s death has put a wrench in a lot of our plans. It means that we’re back to the drawing board with regards to cracking open the Challenger archive, though from what you said, the numbers you gave us were supposed to lead us to someone that had a backdoor into the archive, right?”

“That’s what Echo said.” I say. “He didn’t have the time to say much more beyond that, aside from the fact that they were female.”

“Well, let’s hope that we’ll find her at the Snohjem starport once we’ve finished our mission analysis there.” Dussel says, folding his meaty arms on the desk. “Our next problem is media narrative. From what you told us, and what it looks like in the news, you got set up and framed to take the fall for Echo’s death.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t be the first time.” I say, leaning on the arm of my chair. “I’ll survive. I’m not going to die because media airs a few lies and conspiracy theories.”

“It’s not a problem for you, maybe, but it’s a problem for the rest of us.” Dussel says. “I don’t like playing the media game any more than you do, but we have to play it, because it matters now. What people believe about you, what the news reports about you, has the power to affect policy and action in the Colloquium and the Vaunted. How people see you matters — you can no longer hide under the radar like you’ve done for the past fifteen years. If the public sees you as a bad guy, that gives politicians in the Colloquium ammunition. They can point to public polls, use them to pressure the Masklings, and push for aggressive action against both us and them.”

“Now this is the part where I want to tune out.” Sierra says without looking up from her slate.

Dussel ignores her, going on. “It’s a shitshow, I know. I’ll be the first one to admit that. I hate politics, I hate politicians, and I hate the media merry-go-round. There’s a reason yours truly prefers to lead a mercforce that takes quiet expedition jobs out in dark space. But we’re in it now, so we’ve gotta play the game, or we’ll get rolled by it. I need you to record a statement disavowing your involvement in Echo’s death.”

I look away, letting out a sigh.

“Songbird, look.” Dussel says, opening his folded arms. “I know. I know you didn’t kill Echo. But the rest of the galaxy doesn’t know that. The rest of the galaxy doesn’t know you like we do. They know only what the media shows them. And the media can turn you into whatever they want if you don’t speak up.” Lacing his thick fingers together, he leans forward on his desk. “It’s not just me that’s asking you to do this. The Masklings are asking too. They’ve taken a risk and thrown their backing behind us, and you specifically. If your reputation tanks, theirs gets dragged down with it. If we want them to keep helping us, we need to do our part and get a statement out there, so they don’t have to justify supporting a suspected murderer.”

“They’re more than willing to help.” Sierra adds at this point. “Forecast said they’ve got all the equipment they need to record a statement aboard their ship. They know how to do this kind of thing, I guess because Masklings are familiar with media campaigns and fighting disinformation.”

“Fine.” I huff. “I’ll do it. Just tell me when they want me over there and I’ll get over there.”

“Thank you.” Dussel says. “Like I said, I know playing the game isn’t any fun, but it’s better than getting rolled by it.” He looks at Sierra. “Think that segues nicely into our last topic.”

“Right.” Sierra says, lowering her slate as she reaches up to rub her eye. “So, the Maskling government wants to take this little relationship of ours a bit further. Commander’s not exactly comfortable with it, but we’re going to be housing the Masklings aboard the Bulwark so we can work more closely with them as we continue trying to open the archive, and find and recruit former Challengers.”

“I dislike having them so close to us, but it’s a practical arrangement.” Dussel says. “This will allow better coordination between our two groups, and make it easier for us to deploy on missions with them. There might be some tension on the Bulwark, though — anti-Mask prejudice runs deep in a lot of cultures, and we’re got a lot of different types here on the Dussel Mercforce. Since you’re already cozy with their supersoldier, I want you to be the one modeling a good relationship with them for the rest of the mercforce. Make ‘em feel welcome.”

I stare at him, then look at Sierra. “Is he… asking me to socialize?”

“You can pilot a ninety-foot mech and face down some of the scariest badasses this galaxy has ever seen, but gods forbid you should have to hang out with someone and make small talk.” Sierra says, her eye remaining fixed on her slate. “Yes, Feroce, we’re asking you to socialize. It won’t kill you, I promise, and it’ll only hurt a little bit.”

“I’d rather be running missions.” I mutter, folding my arms and looking away.

“Yeah, and I’d rather be on a tropical world with a battalion of bikini babes and cabana boys attending to my every fantasy, but we don’t always get what we want.” Sierra says, lowering her slate to look at me. “Think of it as making new friends. You like to make new friends, don’t you? That’s your whole thing. You make friends with people that others wouldn’t normally make friends with.”

“That’s… different. I make friends on my own terms, when I feel it’s right.” I say. “It doesn’t matter. Yeah, I’ll try to do that, I guess. What time do the Masklings want me over on their ship? I assume it’s still docked here?”

“They were thinking a little after lunch. One o’clock, to be precise.” Dussel says. “Plenty of time to think about what you’ll say for the recorded statement.”

“And the mission analysis for the GP address that Echo gave us? How long is it going to take for the analysts to give the greenlight?” I ask, standing up.

“We don’t know yet. A week at the least, but likely more.” Dussel answers. “In any event, we’re planning for the Bulwark to make a jump to empty space near the Snohjem System sometime soon. That way, visiting the Snohjem spaceport will be a quick trip once we have the greenlight from intelligence.”

“Suppose I’ll be spending the time in between getting to know the Masklings a little better.” I say, moving towards the door. “Is there anything else?”

“For the love of all that is holy, please get laid.” Sierra calls over her slate. “You’re starting to turn into a brooding ball of sexual tension and frustration again. It’s painful to watch.”

I stare at her, then look at Dussel. “Every day?” I ask.

He gives me a weary look. “For the last four years.” he confirms. “I know I give the catboy a hard time, but I was so relieved when she picked him up two years ago. He’s a simple creature, but if he keeps her sated, I’m not gonna complain.”

“You poor sod.” I say, shaking my head. “May Anaya bless you for putting up with her.”

“You make it sound like such a burden.” Sierra mutters from behind her slate. “Hey Feroce, you want to take a look at these swimsuits and give me your opinion? I found a few more good ones while you and the Commander were pretending to be cool guys.”

“Hard pass, Lieutenant. I hear the Commander’s got a good eye for that, though.” I say as the door opens for me. Stepping out, I start across the intelligence center as Sierra and Dussel go back to sniping at each other.

Guess I’m paying a visit to the Masklings later on today.

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

The Bulwark: Docks

12:52pm SGT

Standing on one of the quays that border the anchor bays within the Bulwark’s docks, I stare up at the Nyroc while leaning heavily on the quay’s railing.

She’s an impressive vessel. Not large, as vessels go — a midsize stealth cruiser, could easily be piloted with a minimum crew in the single digits, or a digital intelligence designed for ship management. The exterior design is probably what draws the eye the most: all black, the hull angled and noticeably polygonal. I’d seen this kind of design before, on stealth fighters that couldn’t afford cloak plating that would visually conceal the fighter — the angles were intended to deflect, scramble, and confuse both long and short-range scanners. Ships like this couldn’t be hidden from the naked eye, but you’d never see them on scanners, at least not in any way that would be helpful, or would make sense.

That said, a black ship in space is usually pretty hard to pick out with the naked eye anyway.

“Looking for the front door?”

I look over my shoulder. Coming down the quay is a man with wolf ears and a tail that seems familiar — it takes a moment for it to come back to me, but I realize he’s one of the Masklings that helped with the evacuation of the Sanctuary on Wisconsin. “I was supposed to come here, yeah. Something about taping a statement for the media.”

“Ah. Well, lemme show you the front door, then.” he says as he strides past me. I push off the railing, following him along to where a boarding ramp is extended from the quay to one of the Nyroc’s exterior hatches. “I suppose it’s a good thing we have the guy that killed Nova on our side. Would probably suck if it was the other way around.”

I don’t say anything to that as we start up the ramp. At some point, you get tired of having your past thrown at you, and you stop caring enough to react to it. My lack of response draws the attention of the Maskling, and he looks over his shoulder at me. “Hit a nerve there, did I?”

“Yup, sure did.” I say flatly. I’m not sure if he’ll notice the sarcasm.

“Suppose I’ll try to steer away from that in the future.” he says as he reaches the open hatch, pausing and waiting for me. “Name’s Cahriu, by the way. I’m one of Kiwi’s handlers.”

“Oh really.” I say, stepping inside the cruiser to find that it’s not as enigmatic and mysterious as the exterior. The walls and ceiling of the corridors within are a soft, wool grey color, lit by gentle, clean white light. “Did Tarocco finally talk her into tangling with one of her own kind?”

“Surprised you know about that, but I guess it makes sense, since you’ve tangled with her before.” Cahriu says, stepping in behind me. “No, she hasn’t agreed to tangle with any of the handlers available to her yet.”

I pause at that, looking over my shoulder at him. There’s something cocky in those orange eyes that I don’t like. “Really.” I say. “Why not?”

“ ‘Cause we’re not good enough for her, I guess.” he says, walking past me and heading down the corridor. I start following. “At least not compared to you.”

“I don’t quite follow.” I say, falling in behind him and being mindful to stay far back enough that I’m not walking into his tail.

“Not really that bright, are you?” he says. “She thinks you’re something special. Thinks you can survive her, unlike all her other handlers up until now. Maybe she thinks that because you’re a Challenger, but I’m not buying it. You don’t seem like the type of person that’s cut out to handle someone like her.”

“Well, maybe if you all would stop letting her tangle with non-Masks, she wouldn’t end up killing all her handlers.” I remark, following him around a curve in the hall.

He stops and turns around, and I nearly walk into him. “What was that?” he say, squinting at me.

“You said none of her handlers have survived her.” I say, taking a hand out of my pocket and motioning idly. “Tarocco told me what happens when Masklings tangle with non-Masks. If Kiwi would just tangle with another Maskling, then she probably wouldn’t burn through her handlers so often.”

Cahriu stares for a moment, then smirks. “Heh. I guess Tarocco didn’t tell you the rest of it, then.”

Now it’s my turn to squint at him. “Tell me the rest of what?”

“This is just too good.” Cahriu chuckles, shaking his head. “You are the exception, not the rule. Someone like Kiwi, who gets her orders from the Council, wouldn’t be allowed to tangle with non-Masks. All her past handlers have been Masklings. She burns through them the same way a normal Maskling would burn through a non-Mask if they tangled with them. Hell, she’s notorious for it among the Maskling special forces. There’s been rumors for years that tangling with her is a death sentence—”

“Cahriu!”

Cahriu’s furred ears snap back at the shout, and he looks around. Down the hall is Tarocco, her arms folded, her blue eyes fixed on him in a cold glare. His response to it is to grin and motion to me. “Look what I found skulking around outside.”

“He’s here because we asked him to be here. You should go find something to do that doesn’t involve running your mouth.” Tarocco says coldly.

“Hey Tarocco, you think that ditzy vampire blonde actually told Songbird about the holo shoot today?” comes another voice from even further down the hall. Kiwi rounds the corner a moment later, looking up from a slate she’s got in hand, and noticing the rest of us. “Oh, there he is! I guess she did, then. Hey Songbird, how’s it doing?”

There’s a sudden tension in the hall, both Tarocco and Cahriu looking at me as if to see how I’d react. The thing is, I don’t know how to react — I haven’t had time to really process what Cahriu said, and what that means for me. With nothing to fall back on, I react the only way I can: politely.

“I’m doing fine.” I say, looking to Kiwi. “You?”

Kiwi’s wildfire eyes flick to Tarocco and Cahriu, then to me. “…getting some weird vibes here, but otherwise I’m okay. Something going on that I don’t know about?”

“No, there’s nothing going on.” Tarocco says with a sharp look at Cahriu. “Cahriu found Songbird waiting outside and brought him onboard. We’ll take him from here.” She looks to me, and gestures down the hall. “If you’ll come this way, Songbird. We’ll try to make this as fast as possible; we know you’re a busy individual.”

“Mm. I wouldn’t go that far.” I say, moving around Cahriu. “Thanks for bringing me aboard, Cahriu. Have a good day if I don’t see you again.”

“Same to you.” he says as I pass by him. There’s something about the way that he smiles that leaves me faintly unsettled, as if he found me amusing.

“So, how’s this going to work?” I ask as I reach Tarocco and Kiwi. “Are you just going to have me sit down in front of a camera and read a statement?” I’d never been the best with media interviews; I’d always been distinctly uncomfortable with them, on the rare occasion that I had to do them back in my Challenger days.

“I mean, that’s more or less what we were planning.” Tarocco says as she and Kiwi start walking again, and Cahriu goes his own way. “I figured we’d keep it short and simple. We just need to get something out there to stomp down the rumors and have it on the record so the Maskling government has something to point to when they get asked why we’re supporting you and the resurgency.”

“Statements are so boring, though.” Kiwi says as we turn another corner, before stepping into what looks like a fancy break room. “Why don’t we do an interview? We can get more material that way, and you and Forecast can cut and edit it down to a polish job that makes him more relatable to the rest of the galaxy.”

“I’m not good at interviews.” I cut in at this point, looking around. A half-circle of leather couches, a coffee table, kitchen in the back, full-wall screen facing the couches, and game tables to either side of the couch arrangement. It’s a lot nicer than any break room they’ve got on the Bulwark — those are mostly rooms with battered cabinets, metal tables, and rusty old water fountains.

“Aw, c’mon, Blueberry.” Kiwi says as the door slides shut behind her. “Give us something to work with. We’re trying to fix your reputation here. Have you seen what the news has been saying about you over the past two weeks?”

“Haven’t really been in a mood to watch the news.” I say, studying the room's layout and wondering how they’re going to set this up.

“He watched another Challenger get killed. Someone that might’ve been important to him, Kiwi.” Tarocco says tersely, walking over to a closet door and opening it. “Give the man a little breathing room. He might still be grieving, and if he wants to keep this short and simple, we’ll let him do that.”

“He’s stronger than that.” Kiwi says, moving around behind me and reaching over my shoulders to grab the collar of my hooded longcoat. “Let’s get this off you. It’s cool, but wearing a big black coat makes you look scary when you’re on camera.”

I shrug my way out of my longcoat, feeling a little exposed without it, in only a t-shirt and jeans. Tarocco steps back out of the closet with three tripods in her arms, heading over to carefully lean them on the couches so she can start setting them up. “Kiwi, you want to see if he wants something to eat or drink?” she says. “Make him comfortable.”

“Yeah, sure.” Kiwi says as she finishes hanging up my longcoat and turns to me. “You want something, Blueberry? We’ve got snacks in the cupboard, fruit in the fridge.”

“I’m good, thanks.” I say, shunting my hands in my pockets. “As I’m sure you’re aware, m’a vampire, so… we don’t really need to eat.”

“I mean, vampires don’t need to eat, but they can eat, right?” Kiwi says, heading over to the kitchen dig through the cabinets. “You just don’t get any nutritional value out of it. But it still tastes good, right?”

“Ah, I mean, yeah.” I stutter a little. “We can taste things, but it’s like… an ethical thing. When we eat things, it’s really only for pleasure, for taste. We don’t need it to survive, and eating for pleasure while other people across the galaxy are starving is, y’know… not really ethical.”

Kiwi looks around at me, raising a green eyebrow. “No offense, but that’s stupid.” she says, pulling a packaged snack cake out of the cabinet. “It’s not like grocery stores are going to give the food you don’t eat to poor people. They just keep it on the shelves until it hits the expiration date, then they pitch it.”

I shrug. “It’s more about the principle of the thing. Plus, food can really do a number on your budget when you already have to pay for blood from the hemopharmacist or the bloodbank.”

“Is blood really that expensive?” Tarocco says as she sets up the tripods at roughly equidistant points around the break lounge.

“I mean, it depends on what you get, and whether or not you’re a member of one of the Families.” I explain. “There’s different types of blood. Blood from young people, healthy people, and virgins usually runs at a higher price point, as does blood from nonhuman species — there are taste differences, and there are some minor benefits that are unique to certain nonhuman species—”

“Wait, back up a bit.” Kiwi says as she opens the snack cake. “They charge you more for blood from virgins? Does it taste really good, or something?”

I roll my eyes. “No, it’s a… status thing. Mostly. It does taste better, from what I can tell, but I’ve only ever had it when someone else has bought it for me, because I can’t afford it. I think they put some additives in it to improve the taste, so they can claim it tastes better than regular blood.”

Kiwi smirks, leaning on the counter as she bites into the snack cake. “That’s capitalism, baby.” she says, pointing the snack cake at me. “You sure you don’t want one? They’re good.”

“Kiwi! Stop pressuring him.” Tarocco says as she works on lining up the tripods with the laser sights that are on each one. Every time one of the lasers hits the alignment target on another tripod, a light on the top turns green to indicate it’s in position. “He already said he didn’t want anything. Stop being a food pusher.”

“Fine, I’ll stop pushing food on him.” she says, rolling her eyes before looking to me. “You want something to drink?”

“Kiwi!”

Kiwi just grins, ignoring Tarocco’s exasperated exclamation. “There’s alcohol in the fridge, though I wouldn’t touch the wine because I think that belongs to Forecast. We’ve also got a fizzwater fountain, or I can just get you some water if you want.”

That catches my attention. “You’ve got a fizzwater fountain?”

“Looks like we found what he likes.” Kiwi says, turning her grin on Tarocco, who just gives her a flat look. Pushing off the counter, she opens another cabinet and pulls out a glass. “What do you want? Ice or no?”

“Cherry, with a hint of lemon on the tail. About eighty-twenty, with granulated ice, if you’ve got it; I’ll take cubes if not.” I say, taking a couple of eager steps towards the kitchen.

Both Tarocco and Kiwi stop what they’re doing, looking at me.

“Well, that’s oddly specific.” Kiwi says after a moment, turning back to the panel on the fridge. “Suppose I might as well ask, since we’re gettin’ fancy: you want the ice at the bottom or the top?”

“At the bottom, please.” I say, looking at my longcoat. “While we’re at it, do you mind if I fill up my pocket flask with a mix of the same, without the ice?”

Kiwi stops again and turns to look at me. “…you carry a pocket flask of this stuff around with you.”

I shrug. “I mean, you don’t have to, I was just asking.”

Kiwi stares at me for another long moment, then smiles. “You’re weird, Blueberry. I like it.” She holds a hand out. “Yeah, hand it on over. I’ll fill that up before we fill your glass. Most people keep alcohol in their pocket flasks, but if you prefer to nip on fizzwater, be my guest.”

Digging in my longcoat, I pull out my flask and toss it over to her. She catches and shakes it, then starts screwing the lid open. “Sounds like you’ve still got some left in here. Let’s get rid of the old stuff and give you a fresh pour.”

“Alright, we’re all set up.” Tarocco says, finishing turning the tripods on. “All ready to record. Songbird, the press office in the Department of State Affairs got a statement put together and ran it by legal, so it should be airtight.” Going to the wall console, she pulls out one of the data slates slotted in beside it, turning it on and tapping through it. “All you have to do is read the statement, word for word. We’ll sit you down on the couch here, and I’ll throw the text up on the big screen, so you can read it while looking right into the main tripod. Any questions?”

“You’re making him read something the press office and legal put together?” Kiwi says as she screws the cap back onto my flask and tosses it back to me. “You’re gonna kill him with how bland that stuff is.”

“We’re not putting together something to entertain, Kiwi.” Tarocco says, straightening the pillows on the main couch as I tuck my pocket flask back into my longcoat. “We should keep this simple. Record him reading the statement, send it back to the press office, and let them handle the rest from there.”

“I’m just sayin’, the media machine doesn’t treat rehearsed statements well.” Kiwi says, packing ice into the bottom of the glass before starting to fill it with fizzwater. “You know the pundits are gonna dissect it like a high school biology class.”

“If the media doesn’t like the truth, they can go suck it.” Tarocco says, adjusting the central tripod as I sit down on the couch, then turns on the big screen behind it. I start reading through the text on the screen, and Kiwi arrives a moment later, setting down the glass on the coffee table in front of me.

“Right, looks like we’re ready.” Tarocco says from behind the central tripod. “Look straight at this tripod — that’ll give people the sense you’re speaking right to them. Try to read the text out of your peripherals, if you can. I’ll scroll the statement text once you get halfway through it. Got it?”

I nod, reaching forward to take a sip of the fizzwater that Kiwi brought me. Setting it down again, I take a deep breath and lace my fingers together, still feeling exposed without my longcoat.

“Alright, we’re recording now.” Tarocco says, hitting a couple buttons on the tripod, then nodding to me. I nod back to her, then look straight at the tripod, scanning the words on the screen behind the tripod. I open my mouth to start reading them.

But nothing comes out.

I sit there, feeling frozen and stuck. After a moment, I close my mouth, study the words, then look at the tripod and try again, but I still can’t bring myself to say anything. Kiwi and Tarocco watch me, waiting for me to start, but I just can’t.

“I’m sorry.” I say after a moment, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth. “I can’t do this.”

Kiwi looks to Tarocco, who nods and hits a couple of buttons on the central tripod. Stepping within the recording perimeter, Kiwi moves my glass to the side, and sits down on the coffee table in front of me. “Hey.” she says, leaning her forearms on her knees. “What’s going on?”

“I just. I dunno.” I say, not looking at her.

“Hey.” She leans to the side, putting herself where I can’t avoid looking at her. I still try, but her wildfire irises are like stars that have their own gravity well, pulling my gaze until my eyes meet hers. “Talk to me.”

I look at her, then at the text on the screen, then back down at my hands. “It doesn’t feel honest.” I say. “I can’t talk about him like this. I shouldn’t have to talk about him like this, as if it was possible I could’ve killed him.”

She shrugs. “I mean, that’s what the rest of the galaxy thinks at the moment.”

“What does the rest of the galaxy know?” I demand, motioning to the screen. “They don’t know anything. They like to think they know something, because they saw it on the news, but I’m more than a news report or a wanted poster. I’m a person. How would you feel if… if Forecast died, someone snapped some pictures of you, and suddenly the whole galaxy decides you killed him?”

That prompts another shrug from her. “I mean, I get why they would come to that conclusion…”

“But you know that you didn’t kill him.” I say, leaning forward, and jabbing a finger towards her chest. “Because he’s your father. He’s someone you care about. And you’d never hurt him. And you know that, deep down in there, within yourself. But the rest of the galaxy believes you killed him, that you killed someone you care about. They turned you into something you’re not. How does that make you feel?”

Kiwi drops the nonchalant act, staring at me as I make the comparison. “Is that what Echo was to you?” she quietly asks after a moment. “A father?”

I let my hand drop, looking away again. Gathering my thoughts. “Not exactly. He was like family, though. Like the… like the cool uncle that encouraged you, seemed to know everything, had a bunch of neat toys. He supported and believed in me, just like Ratchet. Helped me become the best Challenger I could be.” I get quieter as I go on, and all the melancholy I’d pushed away over the last week comes creeping back. “I was… looking forward to seeing him again. Because he was one of the few people that understood... that knew what it’s like to be a Challenger. I felt like I wouldn’t be alone anymore.”

“And then he got killed right in front of you.” Kiwi says, leaning forward a little more, her eyes intently fixed on me. “And they pinned it on you, because the rest of the galaxy doesn’t really know you. They didn’t know what Echo meant to you. They don’t know how much it hurt you to lose him.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah.” I say quietly.

Kiwi leans forward the rest of the way, gently touching her forehead to mine before drawing back. “You know you’re not alone, right? You’ve got us. You’ve got friends. They’re not your old Challenger comrades, but… you do have friends and people that care about you.”

“Yeah.” I repeat, my fingers tugging at each other as I break my gaze away from hers again. “It’s just going to take me a while to get over it. I’ll be okay eventually, I’m just going to need a little time to get back there.” Rubbing my hands over my face, I squeeze my eyes shut, and try to recompose myself. “Alright. I suppose I should try to get my shit together so we can record this statement, right?”

“I think we’ve actually got everything we need right there.” Kiwi says. I open my eyes to see her leaning back on one hand, smirking slightly. “Tarocco, you can go ahead and cut.”

I straighten up, looking at Tarocco. “Wait— were you— I thought you turned it off!”

“I just pretended to turn it off.” Tarocco says, hitting a few more buttons on the tripod she’s standing behind. “Candid expressions — the ones that people make when they think that the cameras aren’t rolling — are more powerful. They’re authentic and genuine, and people can sense that when they see the footage. It’s a more convincing rebuttal than a rehearsed statement ever could be.”

I stare at her, then at Kiwi. “You tricked me into saying all that? Were you actually sincere about anything you said to me, or were you just trying to get me to spill my guts?”

Kiwi shrugs. “It’s all true, isn’t it? You’ve got friends. You’re not alone.”

I shoot to my feet, my fingers curling into fists. “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you meant it.” I seethe. “Did you actually mean anything you said?”

She doesn’t seem fazed, even though I’m glaring down at her. All she does is shrug again, staring back up at me. “We’re doing this to clear your name. Does it matter how we got there, so long as it gets a result?”

“Sometimes, the result doesn’t mean shit if how you got to it was shitty.” I growl at her, then turn and head for the door, snatching my longcoat off the rack as I go.

“Songbird, wait!” Tarocco calls, but I don’t slow down. As I step back out into the hall, pulling my longcoat on as I go, I can hear her snapping at Kiwi to get after me. Stalking back down the corridors of the ship, I make a beeline for the access hatch.

“Hey! Blueberry!” There’s the sound of sneakers thumping down the hall behind me, along with Kiwi’s voice. “Songbird! C’mon, we were just doing what we had to!”

I stop in the hall and whirl around to face her. “Is it true?” I demand.

Kiwi slows down, coming up short. Maybe she’s staying back because of how hostile I am at the moment, but to be fair, I feel like I have a good reason for it. “Is… what true?” she asks, fidgeting uncomfortably where she’s standing.

“You tangled with me knowing what it would do to me.” I say. “You tangled with me knowing what it does to non-Masks. In spite of the fact that it’s a taboo in your own culture, in spite of the fact that it kills non-Masks, you did it anyway. Is that true?”

Her fidgeting subsides. I hadn’t expected that; she gets calmer, more relaxed. “Why? Are you afraid to die?” she asks coolly. It sounds like a dare, a challenge.

“There are worse things than dying.” I reply just as coldly. “Like getting used and manipulated by people that you care about. People aren’t things you can use, and then throw away once you’re done with them. Is that what you do with your handlers?”

“I don’t have the luxury of being a fancy-schmancy hero like you are.” she says, folding her arms and tilting her chin up. “You gonna judge me for what I am? You think I can control this? You think I like what happens to my handlers? You think I enjoy it?”

“Maybe not.” I concede, turning and starting to walk again. “But you could at least be honest about it.”

“You know why I picked you?” Kiwi calls as I near the hatch. I slow to a stop, turning my head enough that she can tell I’m listening. “You were different from the others. I was sincere about that. I didn’t think it would kill you, because I thought that you could take it. I thought you could keep up with me, and I wouldn’t have to keep burning through handlers. But if you can’t handle it — if you’re just like all the others — I suppose it doesn’t matter who I tangle with.”

“You were willing to risk my life on that?” I ask over my shoulder.

“No, you were willing to risk your life on me.” Kiwi answers. “Back in the museum, when we got trapped in that hole, I asked you if you were scared of dying. You told me you weren’t. So I offered for you to tangle with me. And you took my hand when I offered it.” She lets that hang in the air for a bit. “But I guess you’ve changed since then.”

“I’m not the only one.” I retort quietly. “If only you were as honest with me now as you were back then.”

I start walking with that, stepping out the hatch and onto the boarding ramp. As I cross over, I see something out of the corner of my eye, and I realize that Cahriu’s been out on the ramp this entire time, leaning back against the hull of the Nyroc. He probably heard the entire thing, if the crooked smirk he’s wearing is anything to go by.

Hunching my shoulders, I shove my hands in the pockets of my longcoat, and head down the boarding ramp, wishing I’d never come here in the first place.