2024-05-27: Good Icarus, I'm Burning Star 1, Volume Two: Pardon Me, but I'm Self-Immolating Into My Purest Self (TRUE LOVE OR FALSE LIES)
- Cutscene: 2024-05-27: Good Icarus, I'm Burning Star 1, Volume Two: Pardon Me, but I'm Self-Immolating Into My Purest Self (TRUE LOVE OR FALSE LIES)
- Cast:Teletha Testarossa
- Where: TDD-1
- Date: UC 0099 05 27
- Summary: Tessa works. And works. And works. And works. And refuses to stop.
Today is another day. Just like the 800+ before them. Tessa’s internal clock had accustomed itself to this routine by now, a complete, willful dunk into the unconscious for however long she wanted. Whenever there’s a spare block of time in which practically nothing needed attention, when the sheer volume of logistics, movements, negotiations, planning, delegation, and inner fire could take a singular backseat for a few, there was an alarm set, and a napping girl marinating in another deep sleep. The head of the Tuatha de Dannan, who had instilled in herself every last detail of the ship she designed, the crew who had decided to come along, the supply chains, the timers that continually ticked in her mind, the weight of dreams forged in the pits of ironclad understanding…
Napped in her office for a block of time.
[??:??:??]
How long has it been? It doesn’t matter; No one has knocked at the door, no one has called for her to respond to an emergency, and the knowledge that she was available for any reason 24/7 was made obvious only a few days into the venture. Time melded together into the blurry circadian rhythm of the self and nothing else, working on her own time, her own self-enforced schedule to push and tug and work at these various strings. A sigh of the momentary relaxation, rolling her shoulders and adjusting her hair.
- All in the mind. The body can keep going. That’s what matters.
One document picked up. Looking over the blueprints of her ship, the additional components all detailed out. Engineering had settled on the dimensions of the augmentations and improvements, a few pencil scribbles to further detail a few particularly nasty parts. Can’t afford specialized machining. The more off-the-counter parts, the better. Even if some of the scrap from the PPL could be scrounged up and given, there was still the worries of redundancies and failures. …But, a failure of the engines would be catastrophic no matter where they were, so this was piece and parcel. A few more scribbles.
A figure looks over her shoulder. Emotions. Yes, tweak this. Touch up that. Japanium should be used as little as possible, but this much should be fine. Send it over to Sayaka later, triplecheck with LISA, ensure Koji’s eyes give the final approval…
Next document. Movements. Logistics. Accounting. It all checks out, a final scan of the paper. For all the places some of the shipping department had to settle into, a few of them loved shipping logistics. ‘A puzzle every hour! I love it!’, so mused one. There’s a mental note to check on her later, the pencil scratches are slightly shakier.
- Next document. Project L. “...” MIA. She sets that aside.
- Next document. The MIA notification itself. She sets that aside.
- Next document. The final correspondence from Jindai High School, routed through her civilian identity. She sets that aside.
- Keep going.
- Next document. A few ideas of where the next skirmishes might be, along with the proposals of how to tackle these specific conflicts. These are the simple ones, where her mind is allowed to wander as she mechanically sorts through her thoughts. This one. Use this exercise. This other one. Remember this wargame. We did this scenario. The multitude of combat applications, training, and other such mental ventures over the years to ensure that this ship would be prepared for any situation. Escape. Infiltration. Defense. Extraction. How to extract the most amount of mental agony with the least amount of force. How to strike surgically at places, from Dakar to the Orbital Elevator to Britannia’s Royal Palace to the multiple Sides in space…Really, it was just her venting her frustrations in a slightly healthy manner. The fact that these could be put to actual use was only a plus to all of it.
…Of course, you could only work with hypotheticals for so long.
File drawer opened. File them all away, check the final folder. Check it over again.
Amalgam. Suppositions, threads, leads, check-ins, investigations, and noted last known correspondences. A few people were around the world, working. Those who escaped notice. Keep prodding away. Something will tug eventually. …They volunteered for this. Never forget that.
- Keep going. The two others are looking over the table now.
[??:??:??]
Shower. Hygiene. Her pride refuses to allow herself to fall so low into that stupor. Keep up the routines that allow yourself to look presentable, even as those eyes burn with the slow immolation of the self.
Brush teeth. Check face. Check body. A bit more gaunt; Mental workloads eventually wear at the physical body, along with the necessity of not eating more than what’s needed. Silver hair streaming down, a bit more frazzled than the usual (how long ago was the usual?), a bit longer than the usual (how long ago was the usual?), a bit more voluminous than the usual (how long ago was the usual?). Pull it up, tie it with simple hairtie: A high ponytail that leaves the bangs hanging, another tie near the end to ensure a single band of hair falls down her back.
…Check the eyes. Ignore the two figures. It’s all in the head. Dark rings imprinted from going so long without stopping, blinking once, twice. Those pupils are still working. The mind is still strong. A piece of Goldberry’s Advice: When you stop dreaming, that’s when you should start worrying. Blinking again. Eyes with the appearance of having sunk into the head, the gaunt stare of someone who knew too much, who absorbed too much, who dealt with too much, who burdened herself with too much, and despite all that….
She can manage a chuckle. A soft whisper. “I chose this for myself.”
- Those eyes still glimmer, life infected with miasmic pessimism.
[??:??:??]
“Thank you all for coming.”
The room is filled with people, as usual. Other crew members are listening in while at their own posts, keeping at attention as she speaks in the conference room.
“As we move on with our search, we’ve managed to sort out our logistical operations for the time being. The Photon Power Labs has agreed to work with us under the table, with permission to dock and rest at their Science Fortress Laboratory.” A map pointed out the location: Their usual haunting place in the Pacific was secured. “This does not mean we can openly ally with them; The OCU may be assisting in our funding, but we cannot trust them as a reliable source, especially when dealing with more costly endeavours.” In short: supplies are secured, but not the actual bulk required for their operations.
“We’ll be joined with a few others.” The slideshow continues: The Ptolemy. The Freeden. The asteroid with a name underneath.
- Satellicon.
“We all have our own goals, but they align such that we can depend on them for general operations. With this in place, I’ve taken the liberty of augmenting our own vessel. Expect a few tests in the near-future for flight and space-traversal capabilities.” She says it so casually, bypassing the light murmurs among the crew. If anyone could, it’d probably be her.
“Our next shipment will take around three days. Afterwards, our general route will be…” Spinning off into the regular update brief of supply transportation: Supplies, perishables, other things necessary for survival and refugee assistance in various parts of the world, the map on the screen lighting up every so often: Expect an attack here. Divest in this spot. Rest spot: Three days. “Taking advantage of the local upheavals, we expect to investigate these trouble areas soon enough.”
- She doesn’t talk about her brother.
“With that in mind, we’re continuing our shift from M9s to Armored Cores, Wanzers and EXAMACs. The SRT will still receive regular deployment in M9s, but we can’t fall back on them for every instance.” Even if there were places that could repair them, even if Sachs was smart nough to keep them running…Modularity was key. Replacements on the field was proving more vital than ever, moving from Brute Strong Force to the Right Weapon for the job. “A list of ordinance that can be attached to their hardpoints will be distributed within the day. Look them over and decide on your options while on your wargame trainings.”
The meeting continued on. Teletha Testarossa kept the meeting brisk, explanations as needed.
The two figures go unnoticed.
[??:??:??]
- The house is rebuilt.
On and on, the mind pieces things together. The former house has burned down, an acceptance of what was to come. In its place was something spartan, brutalistic lines with only the lightest flourishes of personality in that mental mindspace. A one-room house, systematically built to conform to any quick-build operation that needed shelter, no matter the circumstances. Bland. Circumspect. Generic. It works, and that’s what’s important.
The house has one room and a door. The room is generic. Abandoned. Empty except for the essentials. A bed. A desk. Clothes. Even in its spotless state, there is nothing but the general path of a slowly well-worn tread from entrance to the door that truly marks signs of life.
Beyond the door lies a path. A path that splits into two. A path that splits into four. Eight. Sixteen. The height of the corridor varies. Narrowing in until one must crawl. Opening into massive chasms that show nothing of where they end. One goes forward. The ground slopes downward. One retreats. The ground continues sloping downwards. Down, down, down, no way but down, to lose oneself in the endless loops and turns that one can swear makes a sick sort of sense.
Featureless mazes. Labyrinthian twists and turns into non-ecludian landscapes governed by equations and patterns. Kilometer after kilometer of darkness that cares not for what peeks in, for what purpose this entire place has, for what mental eye dares to look closely at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, to press face to surface and try to inspect for any meaning to the minute etching that seem to be embossed all along the surface.
The etchings of Teletha Testarossa’s handwriting continues to span these unfathomable depths, undeviating from perfect lines, unrelenting in what her mind keeps receiving.
- The Whispers have never stopped.
Tessa sits at her office, swinging back an energy drink while a paper is in front of her. Collar tugged open. Hot. Hot. Too hot. Keep listening for a bit. Write down what one learns but cannot explain the process of learning. Instinctual understanding born of ‘nothing’, the continual sudden jolt of “How did I know that?”, something that cannot be properly explained. Deja Vu is only the vaguest sense of it. But if there is nothing before…It can only be called a curse, something concluded after the first few weeks. The joy of having something click is not possible here. Only the sick pit of the stomach hollowing out as knowledge continues to accumulate, skipping right into the long-term memory of someone so immersed in the subject where, only moments before, there was only nothing.
The depths of the house continue to grow. If the Whispers cannot stop, then she must use what’s been granted.
The pen is set to the side. Another three pages. Check them over. Discard what can’t be used, what can be disseminated, what can be tweaked, what can be quickly explained. Work out everything.
- Keep going.
- The house is built, yet the space inside keeps expanding.
[??:??:??]
Tessa lies in bed. The familiar bed, the familiar ceiling, the slow, minute sounds of flowing water and moving parts echoing throughout the submarine. There’s no Zero-Noise policy in place, not out here. Even as she tries to rest, Tessa can’t help but think. It’s her job, her refuge, her hell, her reason for staying here and not acquiescing everything.
{You think you can win?}
That again?
{Duh. I should be in college right now, right? Partying, living it up, seeing where the frat parties are. Maybe an internship or two over the summer, scholarship and all!}
And why the arts?
{It’s something I don’t know! Look at yourself. Explain the pneumatic pressure and variability of stress on a metallic surface.}
…
{Too simple, right? See? Do it in your sleep, send off a few, collect the patents…But that’s not what you want, right? Riiiiight? Riiiiiiii-}
Quiet.
<College is if you don’t have the hands-on experience or paper needed. If you can prove you have both, or being into the field where that’s unnecessary, you don’t need it.>
{Look at Miss Arms Trader here! Where do you see yourself here, huh!?}
<In this landscape? NUNE loves weapons. The only thing they love more is getting them cheaper.>
The OCU’s a better bet. With the dissolution of the Federation, you can leverage better dealings with them thanks to how valuable the gilla is compared to the Yen.
<Semantics, semantics. I’m just letting my opinion out since you keep asking for it, you violent beast for peace.>
…
{Aaaah, I wish I could be a beast! Gao, gao! I’d totally…!}
Tomorrow’s another day, both of you. I don’t care if my mind keeps working like this, but at least let me sleep.
ED - BGM: Operation Lead Seal - X.ARI
DANA Records:
Last Accessed: 0098 07 31
Last Modified: 0098 07 31
Contents - RSA - Public Key - Ask Teletha Testarossa
.txt
To you in the future, if you ever open this file again,
For reference, the current date Universal Century 0098 (Common Era 2310) May 07 31. The location is [latlong.csv]. The current time in ISO-8601-UC is 00980731T002519Z. If you have forgotten everything, check the safe. You know the combination.
I know you don’t forget. I know you won’t forget what I’m typing on this console left inside DANA. Why am I doing this? Why are you doing this? Why are we doing this? Merida Island is gone. People will follow me. People will follow you. The Shuffle Alliance is as good as dead. Sousuke is gone. Kaname is gone. MIA doesn’t mean anything. We both know. The only reason they’re not KIA is because there’s no trace. This is a mercy from Mithril. To keep holding onto that hope even past all impossibility. Would you recognize them? Would I recognize them? I don’t know. A year changes people irreversibly. I am not the same person who first stepped into Mithril HQ after what I’ve done. You are not the same person as me. Time changes us all, even if we dare to run in place. Do you think Amalgam won’t come back? Do you think people won’t make a similar thing to Amalgam?
You’re doublespeaking right now, aren’t you? You know. I know I know. I know you know I know. It’s idiotic, isn’t it? Stupid. Morose. I don’t have to lie behind metaphors and doublespeak and lies and other such euphemisms, but even trying to type to myself like this feels insurmountable without toying around the questions.
Let me state plain the facts while I have the courage to do, riding high on emotion.
The Shuffle Alliance organization is dead.
Mithril is dead.
To the wider world, you are believed dead.
Sousuke Sagara and Kaname Chidori are presumed Missing In Action.
Amalgam is responsible.
Your brother is most likely in Amalgam.
Your brother is out there.
Your brother is the primary person responsible for the hijacking of the Tuatha de Dannan.
Your brother is the primary person responsible for the attack on Merida Island.
You have done something you believe is irredeemable.
You have not told anyone of the details of the previous statement.
You, at any point, have the capability to show up in a few places and forge a new life.
You can leave and no one on the crew will contest the decision.
You can stop.
You cannot go on forever like this.
You will keep going, even knowing everything above.
You are worthy of being loved.
You are on a track you should never have been on in the first place.
I want to be a normal girl.
I’ll never have that chance due to a single event.
<del>I want to be better to myself.</del>
I know you know. Whatever the future holds, that doesn’t change what the present is. I know the pattern. You know the pattern. The constant note in the back of your mind will be left until someone, something, or somewhere dredges it up again.
And again, you’ll mourn for the you you wanted to be but couldn’t. Our two possibilities never disappeared with Goragon, right? Our mind’s too good to dispose of them. Say hi to them for me.
Good luck. From one point in time to another, from myself to myself:
I, Teletha Testarossa, love you.
[The emblazoned, cryptographically verified signature of Diamond-2 shimmers underneath for the final time.]