Cutscene Content[edit | edit source]

{{Cutscene |cast=Teletha Testarossa |location=Merida Island |date=2024-07-14 |summary=A girl can't stop working. At 2 AM, she doesn't stop working. Only in the dead of night do her thoughts tread to her future. }} It takes the subtle vibration of a landing airplane to knock Tessa out of her self-imposed stupor. A slow, deliberate blink to realign her thoughts lost into the ethereal cosmos, the body which had remained still for hours at a time finally flexing to move from inactivity. The mental realignment, the processes of ascertaining where she was, how she was, the progress that has been instinctually made, the ruminations that were worked on under the surface. Teletha Testarossa. Yes, that is who I am. Time: 0142. Merida Island. The world never stopped moving. The world never stopped breathing. Even in the long dead of night, people had to be moved, places had to be stocked, logistical capabilities had to be maintained in a world that was cooking itself dry. Wakeup was to be at 0500. Early enough to calm herself down, early enough to be ready and prepared for the day ahead at 0600. The shift of papers to sort into the drawers of her desk, placed until lock and key and cards and bioprints. The daily, now weekly reports of no information about Uruz-7 or Angel, along with the formally typed requests that they should be considered KIA. The initial blueprints for Project L, a few bits of correspondence from the additional designer, the scratches and quick adjustments already pen-lined and ready for digital transfer. The maintenance and stubbornness of the recovered Lambda Driver from Artytone. The logistical changes of sea routes and safe harbors on nautical maps with multiple bubbles and statistics, pointedly avoiding the gaze of Cathedra and NUNE where possible. An organizational landscape changing month by month, week by week, day by day. Last month, it was map projections of the Suez Canal. The month before, the Mediterranean. The final paper, the one under semi-organized rubble of the week…is left out. Staring at it. Uncreasing its folds. Finger running over the printed letters. Reading it. :Again. ::Again. :::Again. ::::Again. :::::0155. ::::::Again. A deep breath. Seven months. Seven months of reading this official designation change. <div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">'''SAGARA SOUSUKE: MIA''' '''KANAME CHIDORI: MIA''' '''ARX-7 - “AL”: MIA'''</div> A slow close of her eyes. Working on touch alone to fold the paper back up, the same ritual as always to dip the paper back down into the file drawer. A close. A physical lock. Another internal lock. A card scan lock. It still feels like yesterday, the vacation. The warm scent of migas. The minute chill of an ice skating rink. The beating winter sun on the Iberian Peninsula. Really, Seolla, you weren't obvious at all…We talked about our prospects. The arts. The fine arts. I talked about it yesterday, with Uncle Broda. Is it possible for me to attend University? I want to. The life I can never have. Is it strange for a person to pine for something they can’t have, directed by fate or cruelty? <div style="text-align: right; direction: ltr; margin-left: 1em;">[But you knew it had to be done, didn't you?]</div> Tessa doesn't look up. The compartmentalization was less a new thing entirely, but more giving form to the things she had tamped down. Yes, as much as it was amusing to see Seolla so high-strung, a girl trying to find her own way with a goal…She was doing it for a reason. For her, the girl who had to be carted around in figurative Faraday Cages and never say anything about what she does. Everything had a cover out of necessity. Even the name she had on the outside was a fake, registered to a fake family, with fake passports and other such minutia maintenance to ensure that the one named Testarossa existed only under the surface. <div style="text-align: right; direction: ltr; margin-left: 1em;">[There's people out there who want you for what you are. Never forget that.] </div> The slow exhale as she stood up, bundling up the days of trash from the bin beside her. Energy drinks. Coffee cups. A nutrient supplement. The subtle sting of caffeine, sugars, and other sickly-sweet energy compounds permeating through the trashbag, swiftly forgotten as it was dropped in a larger trashcan. Even scrap had to be burned; Nothing that entered could leave here but ashes or per her own authorization. <div style="text-align: right; direction: ltr; margin-left: 1em;">[This is because of what you were. No, what you are.] </div> The cleanup continued. Ignore that thought. [Because of a three-minute span, you were cursed like this.] Ignore the process. [You're smart. You could've done well-enough on the your own. U-FIT wasn't that bad, was it?] It could have been worse. [But this is the life you chose.] I know. [So why do you keep looking back?] …Her hand stops midway at the door to her office. About to leave at 0200 for sleep, the one allowance she gave herself. “And leave why I'm doing this…?” It's a spoken voice to herself. Loathing. Derision. Ever since then, ever since Goragon, ever since she could conclusively understand that her plight was by mere random chance (No. Even before. This was only facing the facts she knew from the moment she understood probability.) …The possibilities of such never left her mind. This world was broken. Tilted. The instinctual knowledge of that permeated her body since she scribbled down those equations, a series of letters and numbers and limits and understood proofs that catapulted the world forward. But to know that in other views, other places… …she could be someone not saddled with ''this''… [You should make the best of the life you had. I know I was.] Is it selfish of me to disagree? [We both have our circumstances. Yes, another twenty k.] Take it. [Don't you see what you have? The grass is always greener on the other side.] I know that advice. [And yet, you keep saying it to yourself.] The grass is always greener. After all, there was a warm dinner of celebration. Asciel Colette was deemed MIA. Isaac City was being searched and linked to other places of intentional conflict. By all intents and purposes, she had recently dealt a staggering blow to the parties intentionally fanning the fires of war. It was cause to raise a toast, to enjoy that something had been done. That she had done something, another in the long list of successes and successful operations for years. Another party. Bearing witness to the celebration of finally vnquishing Dr. Hell, to see two people finally tie the knot. (Love. Deserving of it?) And yet, everything kept burning. And yet, everything was straining. And yet, she found herself tossing herself into the work, forsaking the idllyic normalcy for…this. The answer is a grasp of the door handle, pulling it open and shutting it behind her. Just relax. Deep breaths. Think it through. This is going to be fine. It's going to pan out. You'll find them. Leonard. Yamsk-11. The next steps, the next conflict, the perpetual payments. {Don't look at it, she says. Doesn't she know that's the perennial setup?} The swift, brisk walk in the dead of night from office to base, a path she's traced for years without fail. Past the barracks. [They still need to be patched up. Funds are slim.] Past the airfield. {Look at that! Another M9, brand-new! You think engineering finally put in the tweaks they’ve been working on!} Past the cafeteria. They're already preparing for the breakfast rush, head chef offering a smile, a nod, and a dump of mixed eggs from a frozen can. Past it all, the sights she had seen so many times. {Say, say.} Steps with firmness. Steps with an underlying purpose, a creed to follow and a goal t- <div style="text-align: right; direction: ltr; margin-left: 1em;">{How long will you keep going like this?}</div> Her footsteps stop. ... ... .. .. . How long, I ask myself. The average human lifespan exceeds seventy-five years. How long, me, eighteen, keeps going. What's the next step? Another ship? Impossible. Promotion off the frontlines? What, so I can cower? Is this the end of the line? {Yes, ye-} Quiet. As long as I need to be.{But you can't-} And what am I supposed to do? After all this? Millions pumped into ordinance and supplies, and I think I can just walk without anything to show for it? At the very least, I've stopped being hounded to return to R&D. {But you keep being here! How many cups of coffee are you at now!?} I know, I know! I can't pack it back in, but I can help with what I've done…! Look at how many people are displaced, dead, disfigured, disgusted by what I did…! The attempt at a deep breath, the thoughts festering in her mind. It's always like this. At the end of the road, when connections are thinnest, when obfuscation is always necessary, always paramount, when a person is left to their own devices. It always leads down this same path of self-flagellation. It always leads to… …The instinctual steps bring her to the officer barracks. The best one on the base. ‘A matter of optics!’ So said Mao. She's most likely knocked out by now. A turn of the knob, a step past into the bathroom. A shower. A brush of the teeth. The mental self a torn mess of everything keeping it together, but the physical self…Old habits die hard. There's a pause in the middle of brushing. Gazing, staring at her eyes. The black rings of weariness, stress, loa- No. Disg- No. {You have to admit it eventually.} Not that. [You have to. If you want to help yourself, you have to admit your own weaknesses.] Not that. I can laugh. I can cry. I can work. I can move. I can tweak my fingers. I can speak multiple languages. I can build machines that push industries forward, manage armies that could dispose of countries, plan operations that go off without a hitch, bring everyone back alive, relax by reading the latest in technology, marvel at the new, watch the old be set afire and crumble… So why? Why this? Why is this scar aching, still? <div style="text-align: right; direction: ltr; margin-left: 1em;">[Isn't it obvious? You're jealous. She managed to find her answer. Her way forward.] {Right, right, right! Because! And I know it's simple, because you know it's simple, because we both know it's a simple answer.}</div> <div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">It's because</div> <div style="text-align: right; direction: ltr; margin-left: 1em;"><code>The phantoms of her mind explode. She can feel it. The physical manifestations behind her, twin possibilities talking, spontaneously, without warning, midbreath, exploding from within. The mind sears with information, with the sensations of flesh, blood, guts, viscera splattering in the bathroom, coating the walls anew with a second layer of fluids. She can't say it. She doesn't want to say it. She knows the answer, she can voice the answer, she has the capability to utter those words, but she can't bear to look at it. To shun it, to kick it, to wrench that thought away and to bury it deep past any passing murmurs of thought. This way. This way is working. It has to keep working. For the people who died because of me. For the people who invest their trust in me. For the work I have to do to make up for what I've done.</code></div> <div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">of nothing at all. It'll be fine. I know it will. I can’t do this for as long as I need to. I have to.</div> <s>I know. I can't turn into the person I want to be if I don't accept who I am. You don't think I know that? The nights spent at 0300, tossing, turning, curled up, perfectly aware of my hypocrisy? I know. I know what I'm doing. I know it's…I know. I want to be better, but I'm…to look at myself. The hollow beat of an empty, unfulfilled heart. Walls clicking back into place, the yearning for more, the want to be seen, the agony of a teenage girl stuffed back down . <u>I could…</u></s> '<span style="color:#ffffff"><small>i want to be better to myself</small></span>' Tessa collapses on the bed, the past ten minutes a fugued blur of blank, static thought. Thankfully, her sleep comes quick. Her nightmares and self-inflicted agonies come just as swiftly.