2023-05-28 - Chariot, Out.
- Log: 2023-05-28 - Chariot, Out.
- Cast: Anser Vulpecula
- Where: Photon Power Lab
- Date: U.C. 0097 05 28
- Summary: An incendiary meeting results in Anser making a number of impulsive decisions.
Gazing into the screen full of faces she doesn’t recognize, absorbing the truly awful news and letting it roll over her like so much awful news in the past, Anser’s mind races.
Leina Ashta, Rikka Takarada, Akane Shinjo, Banagher Links, Audrey Byrne, Alouette Pommier.
A light wince. She recognizes at least two of those names, and her shoulders sink. So. This is serious, then. She’d suspected as much from the directive for radio silence, the further directive to change communication frequencies, and the warning that codenames were to be treated as compromised. She steels herself for further bad news.
...Char Aznable is in our custody...
Anser’s heart leaps. Her fist clenches beneath the desk, her tongue swiping past her teeth inside of her closed mouth, drawn into a line of neutrality. Keep calm. Keep calm. This is how things should be. Captured, tried, found guilty of genocide, and be made to pay the ultimate price. She listens. She waits. Details. More details.
...Unicorn has been taken...
Her fingers tighten, but she manages to keep her composure. A frustrating personal setback – no opportunity remains to peek under the hood of complex Psycommu-driven machines. The value of the data she’d been able to gather from the ‘Rita’ and the Phenex had been useful beyond her wildest imaginings. Even the operational data from Unicorn, though, had remained a boon when she had the opportunity to service it. Both gone, now.
She forces down the listlessness. She can still be useful. Level head. Calm analysis. It will be necessary among the sea of increasingly shocked faces. Besides – they have Char in their custody. There really is no underscoring how much that changes matters. She tries, really tries, to fight the cruel calculus that’s rising in her.
Less than ten casualties for the capture of a madman. One who brought ruin in his wake, destroyed countless lives. Evey life is a cost, but warfare is... cold. Numeric. This is a positive outcome, in the reckoning of battle.
Amid the din of panicked voices, Anser’s is calm. Reason, in the storm of shock. “Aznable.” She asks, “When will he be tried?” Her expression is flat. Placid. Showing any amount of celebration under these circumstances would be callous indeed. She certainly isn’t pleased to hear about Links or Ashta, but there are clerical matters that need to be seen to. Procedures, formalities. She waits. The question, it seems, is lost in the din of anger, grief, and posturing.
A directive not to mount a rescue. Consternation. Bickering.
Her shoulders hunch, and she takes a long, steadying breath. This is going nowhere. They need to calm down, address the situation at a slower pace. The conversation needs to get back on track – to focus on the good that’s come from this situation. To rally behind something positive. Char Aznable won’t be able to hurt anyone else again, soon.
“Aznable,” She repeats, “When will he be tried?” Her words carry with them a touch more force, but her tone remains flat and to the point.
We cannot try him as is, Chariot. It’s no guarantee that he can be rehabilitated, even—
Rehabilitated? The blood freezes in Anser’s veins, and she blinks as if slapped sharply across the face. That, too, is lost in the sea of other faces, other concerns. Ideas. People focusing on a problem, yes. Not the right problem. She’s listening, but she can feel her chest growing tight, a ringing in her ears. There it is. The pressure, building again.
Rehabilitated?
Rehabilitated?
Rehabilitation is for thieves, for assault, battery, for crimes of passion, for crimes of negligence. Rehabilitation is for those who acknowledge that what they’ve done is wrong. Rehabilitation is not a word one uses for someone who’s caused devastation on such a grand scale. Who disappeared, and then came back to try it again.
Her neutral expression curdles. She thumps her elbows quietly against the desk, dark bangs slipping forward from behind her ears.
Laplace’s box. Hostages. Neurotoxins.
Char Aznable.
BioNet. Newtype labs. Reconnaissance. Vist. Murasame Labs.
Char. Aznable.
Negotiations. The safety of the hostages. Counter-offensives.
Char Aznable.
The quickest solution to the problem. The analytical solution to the problem. That’s why she’s here, isn’t it? Diverse perspectives? The answer that no one wants to state. The answer that makes strategic sense, divorced from all of the noise, the emotion.
“Not all losses,” Anser murmurs, correcting the scowl she’s worn until now, straightening her back to deliver the strategy with professionalism, “Are mitigable. That’s the ugly truth of fighting. And not all lives can be saved.”
...it sounds terrible when she says it out loud. These are people’s friends. Families, being used as a shield. But... sometimes a shield needs to be pierced. And sometimes there’s only one, undesirable way to do that.
“There is the option of disregarding the hostages.” Anser states, looking to the side. She doesn’t need to see the screen to know what these words are going to do.
That is our absolute last resort—
I refuse.
We cannot disregard—
Banagher Links’ face comes to her mind. His blind optimism, his good nature. The childish naivete.
Leina Ashta. Her resolve, her kindness despite Anser’s caustic words.
She slides her focus back to the screen. Sees the anger or distaste on everyone’s expressions. The horror on Heart-2’s. Leina hadn’t been willing to make the same call for Heart-2. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Heart-2 won’t be able to make it for Leina. She blinks again, quietly watching the screen. Listening to the plans being posited after the flat rejection of her own. Some better – some worse.
The Devil. Alexis Kerib. Tsutsujidai. Infiltration. Lilith. Audrey Byrne. A secret.
It’s... they’re still focusing on the wrong thing. They’re talking in circles. There’s a priority here, and that priority is making sure they don’t waste their opportunity to remove Char Aznable from the equation. Like he should have been removed four years ago. Like she’d thought he had been, four years ago.
How did it come to this? This isn’t utopia. This is murder. This is terrorism. This is... there’s no way to get off the ship. No opportunity to desert. This never should have happened. She never should have come here. It’s not an even split by any stretch of the imagination. Most of the crew still supports him. The only ones she’s seen show any sign of distress are some of the pilots. And... Nanai Miguel. Maybe she can pull this out. Yes. If anyone can correct the course of this, it’s not Amuro Ray, it’s not Char Aznable, it’s... cooler heads. Not her. She’s only sixteen. She only just arrived. No one knows her. She never opened up to anyone, and now? Now, she’s making damned sure that she doesn’t. Who among her is a zealot for the cause? Would she be able to tell the difference?
Keep your head down. Do the work.
Brainwashing.
Anser lifts her head, coming back to the conversation. Dwelling on the past isn’t what’s important right now. They mentioned Char is under the effect of something similar, didn’t they? If those who have been brainwashed aren’t to blame for their behavior, it only follows that...
“...Those who have fallen victim to brainwashing are no more...” Char. “Or /less/ guilty than before it came to pass.” She tries to keep the anger out of her voice. Stalling on passing judgement on Char just because he’s currently acting against his will? No. That’s a fallacy. His former crimes are more than enough to pass judgement. Why don’t they see?
I owe Leina. So... whatever you need from me, I’m in.
The familiar voice of her friend. It punches her in the gut. The sting of guilt washes over her. The matter at hand is important, too. She’s not been as impartial as she should have been. That’s clear now. She has to make sure everyone else knows it too.
“It might be best for those who are too close to this situation take a step back from any planning until they’ve gotten over the initial shock. Reacting is sloppy when measured solutions are required.” She taps her cheek, feeling some of the anger abating as she speaks. Good. Yes. “Counter-offensives, handing over the box. No. Gathering data is all we can do for now, as frustrating as it may be. All we /should/ do.”
People need to slow down. Decisions made in haste lead to the worst outcomes.
They always have for her.
A world free of the divide between those with their feet on the ground and those with their expansive sea of stars. An equal, just world. Advancements in technology that can all but assure a utopia. They call it Neo-Zeon. Pack a bag, they say, and a new life waits.
“Do you see?” A senior engineer gestures as he walks past. “There he is. The Red Comet.”
Anser feels a swell of pride. Of admiration. She made the right choice. He has drive, and conviction. A natural-born orator, able to rally people to his cause. If there’s anyone in this world that can bring about change, it’s Char Aznable. Handsome, like he stepped right out of the books she read as a child. Unbidden, she feels her face reddening, and she clears her throat and shoves her hands back into the MSN-03 she’s currently servicing. The unfamiliar tickle of raven-black hair draping to cover her cheeks. She tugs the brim of her hat down, and mumbles, “...The actuator needs repair, and—”
Laplace’s box.
Handing it over? No. Under no circumstances.
“What's in the box is immaterial. The sins of humanity, a cat. It could be something, or nothing, but if those who lack any sense of morality desire it, it shouldn't be gift-wrapped and placed in their hands. At any cost. Any.” Anser states. Good. Her mind’s drifting back on task. Away from...
“This history has made us all refugees! What is our future? Reflecting on this tragic history, I firmly believe that mankind must do everything to prevent war from rising up again! This is the true purpose our operation to drop Axis onto Earth. To change history!
Hence, we shall discipline the people who continue to live on earth – and eliminate the source of any wars in Earth’s Sphere!”
Cheers rise up all around her. Her lips tremble, and she weakly lifts an arm to look like she's expressing solidarity.
Bile rises in her throat.
Anser reaches out and mutes her audio feed, standing up and moving out of the camera’s view. She clutches her hand against the upper rail of one of the top bunks – something she has to stretch a bit upward to manage. Her fingers tightly close, and her eyes do the same.
“Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down, calm down, calm down. Breathe. Breathe.” She hangs her head, “...Okay. Okay.” A hand lifts to her face, and her fingers shakily travel down her face, past her nose, over her lips, down her chin. Across her neck, pausing at the decorative, fashionable accessory on her neck. Leather. Tactile. Present. Here. She reaches up and unclasps it, holding it in her hand. She returns to her seat.
She’ll just ask. Get it out there. What’s the harm? It will get the thought out of her head and into everyone else’s.
"Apologies, Diamond-2. I realize this isn't the primary topic of conversation, but I feel it warrants asking. Brainwashed or no, why are we holding on to The Red Comet? I don't think I need to repeat the laundry list of crimes he's committed.”
There. There. It’s out, and she’ll just get her answer, and that will be the end of—
“Because he'd be lynched on the street and made into a martyr if he were anywhere else.”
Before she can even think, she impulsively responds, her single word clipped and sharp. “Yes.”
That's the fucking idea. Of course he would. He deserves nothing less. False promises. Feigning assistance to a marginalized place like Sweetwater, all under the guise of his genocidal intentions, and...
--A martyr that would galvanize the Sleeves and others in their cause.
They’re already galvanized! How much further can they be galvanized, following the hatred of a man who should have been dead to begin with? Knowing he’s alive was all the galvanization they needed. Killing him? Killing him would take the wind out their sails. That’s what having hope dangled in front of you and then snatched away will do. She knows.
Oh man, I wonder why she would want to hold onto Char. Total mystery. Can't figure it out.
That’s immaterial! His crimes are beyond forgiveness. That he’s someone’s sibling is utterly irrelevant. He was also a son. Every monster in the history of the world has been someone’s daughter. Someone’s son. Someone’s family. If my –
[No.]
She shoves the thought back forcefully, but the anger remains. The conversation moves on again.
Monitoring, Triple Zero, Multiple Guards...
All the voices are turned against her now. Her lips tremble, and her thumb smooths quietly over that leather accessory, worrying it between her fingers. They don’t understand. Why don’t any of them understand? It’s not safe. It’s not safe until he’s dead.
She swallows, and looks back at the camera. “Mmn.” Non-committal. Quiet.
“We’re holding him because killing him changes nothing.” Heart-2’s voice.
Something inside of Anser snaps. She feels her teeth baring, and she angrily retorts, “Killing those who will continue to enact harm on others changes everything!” Her elevated tone shocks even her, but her breathing is hard now. What gives Heart-2 the right? What gives any of them the right?
“...I have no intention of handing him to the federation, who would use him. The same way I have no intention on handing any other former Neo-Zeon operatives to the federation. I will not be involved in the decision making beyond that.” Heart-2 again.
She doesn’t even think. She reacts, a frustrated growl of a thing, her heart uncharacteristically on her sleeve.
“Inaction IS a decision! One that you can make, and one that will most certainly make you feel complicit when you close your eyes. For the rest of your life. Inaction. Is. A decision.”
“...do you think I don't know that, Chariot?” Heart-2 asks.
No. She doesn't think so. She doesn’t think she knows that, not if she’s making the decision to do nothing, after all this time. To do nothing all over again.
“Do you expect HER to mandate death for her brother? Do you expect her to do that on the same day we're talking about the loss of her ward? Have you seen the condition she is in?” Club-6’s voice cuts through.
Cornered. Too many voices. Too much disapproval. Why don’t any of them see? No one’s taking her side. Not a single one. Why?
A further wave of static as memories bombard her. This isn't the first time her logic has been thrown back at her, the first time she's been given withering stares. It bothers her less now than it did then, but... No. No. The matter can’t just be allowed to drop like this.
“No. But I do expect /someone to/.” Anser states, firmly.
Someone has to make that call. Someone has to. They have to. Char can’t be allowed to just... exist. To breathe. To sit in a cell, to eat, to drink. All of that are luxuries he didn’t afford to countless others. All of those are things he tried to snuff out on a grand scale. The idealists of the world say that no one deserves death. But it’s not true. Some lives create so much misfortune in their wake that the world is better for their passing. It’s a hateful, painful truth, but it’s a truth all the same. Why are they burying their heads in the sand?
“Would you say the same of her second-in-command?” Heart-2 asks.
Anser’s eyes widen, and rage bubbles up to the surface. Any neutrality vanishes in a heartbeat. She stands and slams her hands down on the metal desk in front of her, hard enough to make it shudder and clank as the clasp of her neck accessory thuds down under her hand, against the metal. She’s breathing hard. Is that a joke? Is that meant to be a joke? Is that how they feel about the matter? About her mentor? About her? About anyone involved, anyone who wanted nothing to do with it?
Anything she says will be hateful. Anything she says. Wild-eyed, she sharply sits down, and stares at one portrait in particular. Heart-2’s. “Chariot, out.”
She closes the communication link, and immediately rises, knocking the chair back behind her. She paces sharply about, trying to compose herself. Being impulsive won’t change a—
"God... DAMN IT!" She cries out, her rage more of a squeak than a bellow.
She turns and kicks the downed chair with a reinforced boot. It skitters across the floor and crashes into one of the exterior walls with a rattling clang. She storms back over to the desk and swipes her arm across it. Schematics, books, her tablet, a lamp, they all clatter to the floor in disarray. She storms into the bathroom and stares at herself in the mirror. Wild-eyed.
A shadow out of the corner of her eye damn near scares her to death, and she wheels around only to predictably find out that it’s nothing. Just a trick of the light. She darts her eyes back to the mirror, staring at herself. Flustered, red-cheeked. Her childish face, her diminutive stature. The roots of her hair, neglected, starting to show. Her eyes are bloodshot, the spiderweb of red veins only making her sanguine irises stand out all the more.
The fatigued bruises under her eyes are less prominent than they’ve been in years, owing only to the efforts of a single woman.
“...Damn it... damn it...”
She quietly digs into her pocket for her phone, and strides out of the door as she walks. Down the hallway, following the path of most efficient egress from the building. For her, that’s the hangar, given where she insisted her room be. Her footsteps echo heavily as she walks, eyes on her phone.
<Fox#8357> Sorry.
She is. An outburst like that isn’t like her, it’s embarrassing, not only to her but to all of the members of the ‘Tarot’ faction. Formerly the Tarot, maybe. Now, likely something else.
Shelby’s screen name has been replaced locally by Anser’s configuration of her Vertex client – it doesn’t use a codename or any trailing digits. Just her name.
<Shelby> i unnerstand. cant even begin 2 figrue it out rn.
Anser moves through the hallway, reaching the hangar. The empty space where Unicorn used to be. The subsection of the hangar that once housed Phenex. Her purpose for being here, both gone. Maybe that’s a sign.
She moves to one of the small exit doors and pushes it open, leaning against it as it closes. The breeze is cool. It’ll be summer soon, but it’s not here yet. The days are still oscillating between warm and cool. Today it’s cool, prickling against her skin. She should have grabbed a hoodie, but there’s nothing for it now. The tanktop will have to do.
She squints at Shelby’s message for awhile longer, a frown heavy on her features – she fires off several messages at once.
<Fox#8357> There are only two things Aznable deserves in this life, now. The first is a bullet.
<Fox#8357> The second is a dozen bullets.
<Fox#8357> Anyone who thinks otherwise is deluded.
Her hand absently trails up to her neck, and she pauses when she notices the accessory isn’t there. Her shoulders hunch, and she looks back for a moment. It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a thing.
But it's not.
She turns back.
Retraces her steps to her bunk. She drags her chair back into its place. She moves along to the bed. A duffel bag and a toolkit. Her mainstays. She stares at them for a long while, before seizing up the duffel and shoving everything that’s fallen on the floor into her bag. She pauses to affix the small leather accessory back around her neck, and then moves along to the bathroom again. Toiletries are shoved gracelessly into her bag. Most of them belong to her. Some of them were borrowed.
Services rendered.
She yanks on the hoodie she'd considered in the first place, and tugs it on over her tanktop.
She shoulders the duffel, and moves to seize her case of tools. It’s achingly heavy. She takes a look back into the bunkroom, and visually clears it. Yeah. None of her stuff left. It no longer looks like an immature bomb went off.
She glances back down at her phone when it chimes.
<Shelby> if it were up to me rn Id put him in a shuttle and chute him into deep space
The typos usually physically hurt to read, but right now, she hardly even sees them, let alone enough to bring them up. Back toward the hangar again, the duffel over her shoulder, tool case in hand. She types a reply back with one hand.
<Fox#8357> Omit the shuttle.
Burying him alive in space would be a suitable end. Perhaps slinging him in the direction of Earth. One final drop for Aznable - one she can get behind with all of her heart and soul.
She quietly moves to where a small craft has been covered in an oversized tarpaulin, tied off to weighted anchors to pull it taught, to keep it free of dust and debris. She dumps her duffel bag onto the floor and moves precisely around the craft, collecting weights and clips, which she dumps into her toolbox, then she gently tugs the tarpaulin, reeling it closer to her.
When the tarpaulin tumbles down to her end of the craft, it comes back into sight. Augmented with more up-to-date components. Serviced with more robust tools. A loadout that she couldn’t clap her hands on back in Sweetwater. It’s fully kitted for combat, now. Ready to sortie.
The Solstice is unveiled in all of its glory. She’s got the profile of a MONO Racer, except it’s been trimmed back wherever possible Wings are smaller. The ungainly single-thruster formation broken down into three smaller thrusters, drastically changing the vehicle’s balance. This design philosophy has been carried throughout the rest of the craft. Many elements have been downsized, trimmed of any and all excess weight, likely to the detriment of its ability to take many hits. The loadout that comes standard with combat-oriented MONOs has been completely stripped away, replaced by technology that more suits her preference. A large beam rifle is seated such that the barrel is directly under the cockpit, with some additional machining that’s been done around it, some moving parts that seem nonstandard. Twin Vulcan guns are mounted symmetrically to either side of the fuselage, with just enough clearance that they won’t clip the craft’s wings. A more standard-issue laser array centered on the top of the craft.
The paint job is a curious one. As a base, it’s entirely coated in black that seems to swallow all light that hits it. A matte paint that’s discomforting to look at, tightly sealed with thermal compound. The only exception is the door to the craft, which has a mark of red applied as though by a large, coarse brush. A single slash of color without symmetry and with no precision or care given to its application.
The chirp of Anser’s phone halts her from gazing at her partner for very long.
<Shelby> not even sure wher he is rn either. security's super tite here.
Which is... well, exactly what she was going to inquire about. Anser yanks over one of the mobile sets of stairs and positions it leading up to the cockpit, dragging her stuff up the stairs and setting them on the top step. She turns her focus back down towards the phone.
<Fox#8357> I was going to ask. It didn't seem fair to, but now I don't have to. I need to go for a walk. I'll be in touch.
She slides the duffel into the stowage space of the cockpit, then does the same for her tools. She takes a step inside the craft and then kicks out hard to send the mobile stairs rolling backward enough to clear the wings.
She presses a button and the cockpit closes with a pneumatic hiss. She slides into the pilot’s seat and brings the systems online.
[Pilot identified as Anser Vulpecula.]
[Informational: (58) Subsystem warnings have been suppressed.]
[Core systems nominal.]
Shelby’s next communication pops up on the heads-up display of the craft rather than chirping her phone.
<Shelby Korts> will be here. [mascot hug sticker]
A walk.
Right.
She fires up the engine, types a few codes to interface with the hangar doors, and they slide open. She rumbles slowly out of the hangar and then punches the ignition, all three thrusters roaring to life. With a skip-bounce of the landing gear, she goes airborne. She banks, bringing the lab back into sight, however briefly.
She doesn’t speak, but her eyes do soften.
PPL. Bye-bye.
Her trajectory set, the Solstice carries her off into the sky. Into the night.