2023-07-02: Personal Coda Of The Day's Events - God Damn the Sun
- Log: 2023-07-02: Personal Coda Of The Day's Events - God Damn the Sun
- Cast: Teletha Testarossa
- Where: Merida Island
- Date: U.C. 0097 07 02
- Summary: The hijacker of the Tuatha de Dannan was considered dead. The submarine had made it home safe and sound. The Captain's job does not end once on shore, a permanent ball and chain that one shoulders willingly.
Even with the minor cause for celebration of the submarine managing to take flight and the evasion of multiple suits, there was work to be done. Militaries to assuage, connections to tug, people to smooth over, and ways to divert attention from the Toy Box being an international menace so blatantly. An impossible task at this point, but they had to say that they tried. Desperately so.
By doing this, Mithril assured themselves that they could fling a reasonable cover of a news barrage to cloak the details of the Toy Box's movements. Whether it will actually work is another question; Celestial Being was already a minor thorn, friendly the one, enemy the next, but...There's little time to mull over what /could/ be done in the future, and merely to focus on what /can/ be done. (Liu Mei's antics at the Maid Cafe have not gone unnoticed. Ensure Wraith has a clear line of sight inside at all times.)
The damage to the Tuatha De Dannan was technically critical: A plasma cannon hit scored into the depths of the submarine, coring out a significant hole into the hull and the surrounding metal. Plates scuffed, impacted, shredded to non-use from the turbulent day the vehicle had been in, both from armaments and the elements. Any engineer worth their salt could note that if it weren't for how it was built, it would've collapsed in on itself hours ago.
It was only by lucky coincidences and the design of the submarine that repairs would not be an immediate cost sink. The Tuatha de Dannan may be cutting edge and on the technological forefront, but it was a machine, nonetheless. In a sense, the machine had aged; Its first major repair operation to kickstart the Ship of Theseus argument both inside and out.
Tapping on a LCD screen on a tablet in her office of Merida Island, she reviewed this information. With any luck, her beloved craft would be repaired before the week was out, or even sooner. Repairs feared to cost hundreds of millions and decimating her ability to work for six months...Were fears that thankfully failed to materialize. A product of Black Technology and the prototypical design of ease of repair.
...This submarine would last decades if maintained properly. The thought of being on the combat fields for that long was quickly brushed aside. The future is long, and so is life. There has to be more than this. But she can't leave this life so easily. There's normalcy to grasp, but to leave this world, to pretend she could be happy after everything out there?
Impossible. There was work to be done.
And that included its crew.
---HOURS EARLIER---
The Tuatha de Dannan landed near Merida Island hours after escaping, smoothly docking into the station after identities were confirmed. Crisis stations all the way, no detours allowed for the TDD-1. There was immediate priorities at hand; DANA needed a full checkup to ensure that everything was purged, logs needed to be searched, security details had to be redone (again), new people to process, and data to analyze. A Mechasaur roaming the seas was already worrying; A leviathan of the sea was no slouch. And the new Gundam, with its new pilot...
All in all, it was a miracle casualties were so low. Two deaths born from a hijacking by a known crazed psychopath and his accomplices. A miracle ripped from somewhere. When was the time to cash all the lotteries she won? Was this it? Two people were the best she could do, and not more?
There was one thing to do upon immediate disembarkment: The roll call for ground forces, the Captain's traditional job. It was her job to ensure that the same number of people who headed out came home. Each and every single one. Teletha walked out front, faced them, and began walking down the line. There was no need to hold a bundle of paper, to check off a list.
She had memorized the name of every single crewmember before the first castoff.
"Lieutenant Colonel Richard Mardukas." "Ma'am." "Captain Willian Goddard." "Ma'am." Two names. Lieutenant Commander Andrei Sergeivich Kalinin. Four. Eight. Going down the list, each and every name enunciated in the hangar responded to in curt fashion.
One hundred names and some later.
"Captain Gail McAllen." "On patrol, Captain." Mardukas's voice sounded out in response. There is only a curt nod, the Captain's face unyielding to the oblique understanding. Don't think about it. Not now. Tamp down this sorrow. There's work. See it through. You chose this life.
The roll call continued.
Melissa Mao. Castello. Hummer. Roger Sandraptor. Kurz Weber. Sousuke Sagara. Spec. Yan Junkyu. Seolla Schweitzer. The newest two members of SRT were already stricken, destined to be damned to the pits of loathing and investigation by the PMC. PRT personnel were called and followed suit.
"Private Liang Xioping." "On patrol, Captain." Another response from Mardukas. Another curt nod, another forceful bit of restraint. How many years had she stricken off, damned for the sole error of failing to do her duty with proper results?
Edward Sacks. Peggy Goldberry. Down the list. Captain. Commanders. Lieutenants. Ensigns. Warrant Officers. Petty Officers. Seamen. Each and every name of the 250-plus crew sounded out in the hangar.
All but two responded in total.
"Dismissed."
Work was not over. Bodies transferred from their location of death, recieving full honors for the ultimate sacrifice made in the line of duty. The submarine had to be cleaned, the bodies had to be prepared. Two coffins with Mithril's seal draped over them, six soldiers each carrying them to one of the many cargo planes. Teletha stood in the hangar, watching the formal ritual. This was the most she could do for them on as day broke over the horizon.
A small voice roiled against the forced even-temperness, whispering a song that she heard only a few times before. A song from her childhood, when she was sitting on her father's lap. A proud man, a happy man, a man that occasionally listened to the sombre and the gallows humor. A song that stuck in her mind for how his face looked whenever there was the subject about those lost in duty. She only remembered the end, the last minute echoing in her mind without end.
God damn the sun.
Mithril policies outlined their procedure for death during job duties. Gail McAllen and Liang Xioping would both be flown to their respective hometowns and given proper burials where possible. Their families would be told that both had died in catastrophic accidents while working for one of their shell companies. Beravement expenses, monetary compensation, and grieving counseling. The specifics would be obfuscated: Something concerning the line of duty and their ends matching the wounds they recieved.
God damn the sun.
Teletha Testarossa would not be mentioned. Even as much as she ached to, not even letters of condolences could be administered. Such was the work, such was the life of this girl. A name covered in secrecy for the safety of the world. Nothing could shine down on the activities she did, to be acknowledged for what she did on these days other than formal reports and the people around her.
God damn anyone that says a kind word.
The planes lurched, Mardukas handing the burial cloth to Teletha. A nod of acknowledgement as he walked away, leaving her to stand there as it flew. Out from the hangar, out from the island, piercing across the sky from the tropics. Her face, placid and twitching in complicated emotion. No one would remember them properly except the people they were with. The price of all this.
God damn the sun.
As the plane left, she saluted, holding that pose until the plane was long gone. The sun shone down as she walked back to her office, rays of lights illuminating the world as she retreated from it, back to the depths of military work and silently nursing the sorrow within. Two people dead. Two people dead on her watch. Under her duty. This shouldn't have happened. Not if she hadn't done better. Not if she was /better/.
God damn the sun.
The sun blazed, radiating its false warmth through the hangar, as far as it could. There's a quick step to Teletha's walk, perfectly down the corridors, down into her office, and closing the door. Sitting down, holding the cloth tight, looking up at the ceiling, the flourescent lights blurred by what was in her eyes. Here, where the dark was banished by fake light, where nothing from the outside could detect her unless Mithril allowed it, she could finally crack and allow the tears to flow.
God damn the light it shines. And this world that shows.
Death. So quick to come. And now they're gone.
God damn the sun.