2023-04-02: The Day Of Opening The Tomb
- Log: 2023-04-02: The Day Of Opening The Tomb
- Cast: Puru Two
- Where: Wreck of The Sandra & Ra Mari II
- Date: U.C. 0097 04 02
- Summary: Puru Two has a wild anxiety attack about having stolen the Psyco Gundam MK II, and then turns on the Psyco Gundam MK II. She's very smart.
BGM: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zkoprENdAo
The multispectral searchlights atop the flanking pair of recovery craft burn to life without a sound. The emptiness before them soon turns to a glowing blizzard of debris, each speck of dust dancing to life as the curtain is swept away. "There it is." buzzes a voice on the local wide-band net, thick with static. Someone in the cockpit dials the zoom higher, camera sweeping the hulk sleeping peacefully before them. Even from the silhouette in the darkness, it is obvious this is no mere passenger liner. The comms tower and bridge loom over the shattered wreck like a dead viper, mouth forever sealed. Stenciled letters on the bow leer back at the world. S A N D R A. A Neo-Zeo warship, adrift. Long dead.
"No radiation, no minovsky interference... reactor must have gone cold years ago." "Must have been a lucky hit in war. I see... one good impact. Spall everywhere."
Another day on the job, for this crew. Just another wreck drifting too close to the colony. Thrusters pulse lightly, pushing the recovery vehicles away from the shoals of broken steel and glass. Buoys drift silently from opened bays, soon issuing NOTSF advisories for the area: recovery operation in progress, avoid these coordinates, and so on. Their voices all sound the same, through the thick pall of radio compression. An unaccented buzz of male.
"Confirmed no lodged claims in the DB. Might as well get started."
"Great. Tow vessel's on the way. Should be an hour, just sit tight until then."
"Where're they taking this? Thought it'd be easier to cut it apart here."
"Offsite somewhere. Probably need to scan the whole thing. Could be live nukes in the boot, for all they know."
"Fucked up..."
With little else to do, the searchlights pan across the ship's lifeless corpse. It is a slow walk, the recovery craft taking LiDAR scans and readings in the meantime. Constructing a perfect simalcrum of the crime scene, down to every floating scrap of bulkhead and shipborne scar. The telltale melted puncture of a mega-particle beam impact makes for an open-and-shut case, even without a detailed inspection. Cause of death: point-blank beam weapon impact.
"Huh."
A mote of muted surprise twinkles even through the filtration of speakers and microphones. Upon the dead ship's belly lies something unexpected: a perfectly square hole. Twenty metres by twenty. The very edges still glow, on a certain slice of the spectrum.
"Something wrong?"
In the stark glare of the searchlights, it is as if the camera peers into a great mechanical nest. Coiled cables and tubes pool in the corners of some empty bay, glowing softly under so many watchful eyes. Little do they know, it's more like an empty tomb.
"Someone got here before us? Check it out. Cut clean open."
"Well... that ain't so strange. You strike it lucky with a find like this, and you could be set for life."
"Yeah, but this is recent. We're talking hours, not days."
Worried glances are shared between those at the helm. But the hulk is silent. Utterly dead. Nothing emerges to scare them, or end their efforts here.
An empty hangar section has been prepared on the refitted Zentraedi Monitor 'Ra Mari II'. Designed for an alien army much greater in scale than mere human efforts, there is spare space aplenty for such vanity projects. It is without the noise and life of the primary mobile weapons bay; still and silent. Puru Two works in silence. In this endeavour she is technician, engineer, pilot, and mechanic. In this space, nothing is connected directly to the Ra Mari II's systems. The computer network extends no further than the door. The power cables are coupled through explosive bolts, ready to be severed at a moment's notice. Air and heat are provided by mobile stations, not the central atmospheric control. Her preparations are meticulous, yet they are equal parts proof of her guilt. That she knows: this is not wise. It is a bad, terrible idea.
And yet. She sits atop a monstrous mechanical foot, knees hugged to her chest. The visor of her normal suit fogs briefly with each breath, fingers laced atop her legs. The anxiety of having come so close to completing her terrible task makes each and every motion feel like an eternity. Like there is still time to step down from atop this hill, and simply walk away. The anticipation numbs her chest and tingles within her fingertips, drowning every other thought out. It is worth the risk. The calculus has run to that end in her mind, time and time again. It is the memories of shouted encouragement that urge her scared limbs to move, having come so far, and to stand up again.
What would Judau say? Would he understand? No matter how many times their paths crossed before, he forgave her... again, and again, and again. Panic rushes through the girl's spine like bottled lightning, and she briefly tastes the bitter hint of bile on her tongue.
No. Focus. That's that, and this is this. If he will put himself in harm's way, again and again, so can you.
Puru Two stands up. Legs shaky. Her thighs feel weak, but they carry her in microgravity. Her footsteps echo dully in her ears with each step back through the hangar, towards the corner console.
What would Leina say? Would she understand? No matter how many times the younger Ashta bares her heart, connecting with her, doubt lingers at Puru Two's core. A fickle seed, germinating in the darkness when no-one is looking. She's the same way, throwing herself into harm's way, over and over and over. Foolishness runs in the blood. Jealousy burns the edges of the girl's lungs and squeezes her heart.
That's that, and this is this. If she wants to put herself in harm's way, again and again, so can you.
What would Arriety say? ... can she even speak right now? Wounded as she is? Again and again, the sweetest and most earnest girl that Puru Two has ever known is struck on both cheeks by cruel fate, denied the peaceful respite of a civilian life, and thrust into the embers of war. Gloved hands curl around the visor of her normal suit, unable to reach in and claw at her face. Guilt wells up in her guts, leaden and heavy, trying to tug her to the ground.
That's that, and this is this. If you want her to be safe, if you want to protect her, again and again, you need power.
More power.
What everyone would say if they knew? Doesn't matter. The images of the Zeta Gundam 3A reeling, head gutted by flame and smoke, play before her eyes again and again, in slow motion. A failure to protect. A failure to act. A complete and utter failure. That's why even as Puru Two grapples with the whispers in the back of her skull, her feet carry her onwards. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.
Step.
Step.
Her hands fall from her face, dangling limply by her side. Without ceremony, a single finger flicks open the shell of the mains power connection switch she has walked herself on over to, and then stabs it active.
For all the tension and the torture behind such a decision, there is no explosive rush of catharsis after this. There is simply a confirmation of battery and diagnostics connection. An amber light hums to green on the console. The Psyco Gundam MK. II's first Human contact in nearly a decade is a trite list of chores to be conducted before flight readiness is achieved, and it is a curiously short list. The violet giant stares downwards at the small human at its feet. Thin camera slits glow the colour of lilacs in the sunset as power reaches them, casting the hangar in a ghostly light. A new demense, but an old master.