Spearhead

13 – 5 – 2148

Now for today’s update on the war from Novus Atlantica Military HQ! A group of the unmanned Anglo war machines, known as the OCTO-Legion, or Legion for short, invaded the 17^th district today. However, the force was intercepted and destroyed by the might of our unmanned drones, the SP/DR’s - our nation’s pride and joy! Damage taken by our side was minimal, with no human injuries or fatalities thanks to combat via highly advanced, ethically responsible drones, which has resulted in zero fatalities on our side! The day when our nation's righteousness finally smashes the evil remnants of the wicked Empire is not far off! Glory to the Republic of Novus Atlantica, and the five-colour flag!

-Transcript from Republic News Network-

The streets of the Republic of Novus Atlantica’s capital, New York City, are bustling and alive. Cafes brim with students and couples, their naturally blonde hair glittering in the spring sunlight as they laugh loudly and chat animatedly, unbothered. Glass and steel neon skyscrapers dominate the skyline, reflecting the sunlight in shimmering patterns that dance across the streets below. The occasional patch of greenery from small parks and street planters contrasts with the urban intensity, while wrought-iron fire escapes zigzag down the facades of historic buildings. The sidewalks, a patchwork of concrete, bear the marks of a city in constant motion.

It's so peaceful, so strangely beautiful, that one would be hard pressed to believe that the country has been at war for the past nine years. Yet, still, the Republic’s five coloured flag flaps pridefully on New York’s city hall.

The ignorance, the complete lack of shame, makes Gwendolyn Stacy sick to her stomach. 

A young boy passes her, his blonde hair shining as he laughs, holding his parent’s hands. Dressed so neatly, they’re most likely going out somewhere. Sparing a final glance at the backs of the happy family, Gwen forces herself to ignore the smug, booming voice of the female news anchor on the street-side television’s holo-screen and refocus on more important things.

Clad in the Republic military’s snow-white, collared uniform for female officers, the seventeen-year-old still manages to present her pale beauty and glasswork delicacy befitting and expected of someone of her age and social class.

Sighing, she continues her walk, her high-top dress shoes clicking on the footpath as her satchel thumps intermittently against her uniform. The Republic prides itself on being the last modern republican system of democracy in the world, preaching its values of freedom, equality, brotherhood, justice and nobility, yet Gwen feels none of that pride. If one is to scan the capital’s main street - hell, the city in its entirety - all you would find in the Republic’s Eighty-five administrative sectors would be people with blonde hair, blue eyes and a depressing level of apathy and ignorance.

Grimacing, Gwen picks up her pace and rounds the corner of Palace Staten, once home to the self-appointed royal court before the revolution, and now the new, luxurious headquarters for the military. This palace, and the massive iron fortification wall that circles the administrative sector, the Popularis Murus, serves as the command-and-control centre for the entire military, and happens to be her destination.

Gwen climbs the marble steps two at a time and flashes her ID card to the bored guard on duty. There are no soldiers fighting the Legion outside the defensive walls surrounding the Republic, only SP/DR’s, which are commanded from the control rooms of this very command and control centre. Well, officially, at least. This is why the soldiers inside or manning the Popularis Murus have never seen live combat. The walls have never been breached, and besides, if the drones are so effective, why should they bother? This is, sadly, despite the fact the defensive wall is heavily armed with land-based naval artillery, unguided rockets and guided missiles, minefields and reserve formations of artillery and infantry regiments. Other professions in the military are honestly no better as well, she thinks despondently.

As Gwen slips through the grand oak doors and passes through a silvery, autonomous security gate, she frowns, catching the familiar stench of alcohol and sweat. Passing by her are three officers, all higher in rank than her and drunk out of their minds. Gwen groans in annoyance. They probably used the control room’s large screen to watch football again. Before she can even spare a withering glare in their direction, the booming voices and laughter of more drunken soldiers fill the air.

“Those pigs sure were crying their heads off yesterday. Shit, was funny as fuck!”

“Damn right! It was a crazy fight as well. I think, like, five of the bastards died?”

As she glares at her incompetent colleagues, her gaze is met with sneering, drunken eyes.

“Gentlemennnnnn,” one of the soldiers slurs, lounging over a blue couch in the corner of the main hall. From a brief look, he’s a Lieutenant-Colonel. “Looks like our piggy-loving princess has something to say.”

His mates laugh as though he’s just made the greatest joke of all time and slap the glass coffee table with their hands in their uproar.

“Oooooo, scary,” a lackey says, taking a deep swig of an expensive-looking beer. “She’s better pissin’ off and playin’ with her precious little processors. How cutesy.”

“Why so sad, Major Stacy?” a particularly audacious Colonel laughs, making an over-the-top pouty face. “It’s just a few busted up drones!”

She wheels around, almost leaving skid marks on the white tiles, unable to contain her irritation.

“Oh, you do not wanna do this…” Gwen warns, her voice icy.

Before she can give them a verbal spray, an overly chipper voice calls out beside her. “Morning, Gwen.”

She turns to find Peter Parker, her best friend since middle school, swaying blearily and rubbing his tired eyes. He had joined the army the same year as her and is a technical lieutenant with the lab division. They had both skipped a grade, so he is currently her only friend of the same age. He wears a white lab coat above a bright blue tech-ops officer uniform.

“Morning, Pete,” Gwen says, still gritting her teeth in annoyance. “I thought for sure you’d oversleep again.”

She can’t help but smile at the thought, despite her foul mood. The last time Peter had overslept, he’d received the funniest reprimand of all time from the technical captain in charge of his R&D division. She had heard the barrage he’d received all the way from the other side of the Palace.

“Not this time. Unlike those morons,” he says, gesturing in the direction of the drunk officers, “I was here all night doing work, once again having to deal with a problem only my genius could solve, apparently.”

She looks again at the other officers, who are still leering and sniggering at her, and opens her mouth to retaliate. Before she can, however, Peter grabs her arm and drags her deeper into the lavish building.

“Forget them,” he says, throwing the officers a scathing look as he and Gwen walk away. “We’re in the Popularis Murus, Octavius is long dead, and the enemy will be gone in two years. If anything, you’re kinda the weirdo for taking all this stuff so seriously.”

Gwen rolls her eyes at him. “Me? Really? You know I think this country has gone down the—"

“Right, right…” Peter interrupts, rubbing his eyes and pushing his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, Gwen. I don’t think I’m awake enough for this.”

Gwen sighs and Peter awkwardly rubs the blonde hair on the nape of his neck.

“A bit of advice,” he says, kindly, as they enter a long hallway. “I really don’t think you should care so much about the drones – the Eighty-Six.”

Gwen looks away, biting her lip.

Peter continues, pressing the issue, his face concerned. He also sounds a little exasperated. “Yet you still do. Why?”

Gwen’s expression tightens. “You know why.”

Peter nods, slowly. They’ve reached an impasse, once again. This issue has come up before, multiple times in fact, but neither has dared delve deeper into the topic.

“Just don’t get too caught up with the Eighty-Six, yeah?” Peter says.

Suddenly, a shrill warning beep comes from the Para-RAID around Gwen’s neck, its circular blue light flashing.

Peter sighs. “The battlefield calls, I guess.”

Frowning, Gwen turns on her heel, Peter’s advice already forgotten. Her command instincts kick in and adrenaline begins to flow as her heart rate quickens. Leaving Peter behind, she takes the escalator steps two at a time, dashing through the halls of the Palace, making her way to her designated command room. The room is small, half-filled by a mechanical command console, but apart from that, it is an otherwise dark and cold space. The silvery walls and floor are only dimly lit by the glow of the console’s screens.

Taking a seat on the only other piece of furniture, a black, leather armchair, Gwen shifts her golden hair aside and presses the button on the back of the Para-RAID device.

“Initiate ID confirmation,” she says, her voice a cool, calm command. “Major Gwendolyn Stacy. North-Eastern Theatre Forces, Combat District Nine, 3rd Defensive Squadron, Command and Control Officer.”

Having completed its retinal and voice authentication, the control system turns on. Holographic screens flicker to life, one after another, displaying a dizzying amount of tactical information. The main screen is a digital map that displays the Republic’s, and the enemy’s, mechanised forces as diamond shaped blips. The friendly units, the SP/DR’s, are displayed as blue blips, numbering seventy in total. The 3^rd squadron, which is under Gwen’s command, has twenty-four units, while the 2^nd and 4^th squadrons have twenty-three each. The red blips, which far outnumber the blue, are OCTO-Legion.

“Activate Para-RAID. Synchronisation target: Pleiades Processor,” Gwen says, gritting her teeth and steeling her pre-battle nerves.

The blue-crystal portion of the Para-RAID begins to heat up, and Gwen rubs the nape of her neck where it’s situated. The heat isn’t real, only a trick played by her nervous system, but the feeling is still unnatural.

The Para-RAID, which has a sleek, flexible collar design, much like a bracelet, stimulates a specific part of the brain, unlocking a deep, vestigial function known as the ‘Night Head’ and connecting the “collective consciousness” of humankind. Miraculously, this allows consciousnesses to link and share information, provided the device is strapped around the user's neck. The RAID device was originally created by Parker Industries before being merged with the Republic’s in-house research and development division. It was later perfected by Peter, who took over his parents' role as lead developer of the program after they passed away following an accident caused by a mistake in the settings on a prototype.

“Synchronisation complete. Handler One to Pleiades, I’m looking forward to teaming up with you today.”

The ‘voice’ of a young woman, presumably a year or two older than Gwen, replies. “Pleiades to Handler One. Synchro channel clear.”

Gwen nods, smiling softly, despite the voice being laced with a tinge of antagonism. The voice isn’t real - the command room is empty aside from Gwen herself. The words of the operational commander are coming through their shared sense of hearing, or the ‘Resonance’.

Gwen looks to the main command screen, taking note of the distance between the oncoming units.

“Be careful, yeah?” she warns, trying to sound both nice and authoritative. “Legion are entering their firing range.”

Instead of the normal response of ‘copy’ or something along those lines, Pleiades makes a comment bordering on sarcastic. “Every time, you’re always so kind to us inhuman Eighty-six. It’s very sweet of you, human lady.”

*****

That evening, after the Legion’s red blips finally retreat east into the depths of their territory, Gwen returns home, a bitter taste lingering in her mouth. It was a pyrrhic victory. In exchange for the retreat, her unit suffered three casualties. Three SP/DR’s detonated, along with their processors. None survived.

There is no doubt that the Legion’s attacks have been getting more and more intense as of late.

Grabbing her keys from her uniform pocket, she approaches the huge, ornately decorated door of her home and unlocks it, jiggling the key in the lock. The well-oiled door swings open silently, and she steps inside. At the sound of the door unlocking, her father, George Stacy, leans out of the living room door. Deep in the room, Gwen can hear the sickeningly sweet voice of the news presenter emanating from the television.

“Hey,” George says, stepping out to hug her. “How was work?”

Gwen sighs despondently, not quite hugging George back.

The news playing in the background certainly doesn’t help her mood. Once again, they are talking about how vast the enemy’s losses are and the fact there have been no Republican casualties. As usual, the announcer praises the Republic’s humane and high-tech drones.

“What’s wrong?” George asks, stepping back and placing his hands on her shoulders, trying to catch her gaze.

Gwen remains silent, avoiding George’s blue eyes. Perhaps realising he won’t get a word out of her, George changes the topic, grunting slightly as he lets go of her and reaches for a tumbler of whiskey.

“The chef made a new dish for dinner,” George says. “Believe it or not, I think it’s something along the lines of real lobster.”

Despite her sour mood, Gwen’s stomach rumbles. Military operations, even ones where she isn’t on the frontlines or in active combat, are draining, and now that she thinks about it, when did she last eat?

George smiles and makes his way towards the dining room, his expensive, leather dress shoes clicking against the expensive marble tiles. Gwen removes her military hat then follows him. The dining table is set, as always, with silver cutlery, starched napkins and, sure enough, a silver platter filled with real lobster and… salad? As she sits down, she studies the salad closer. Most of it consists of factory-made, synthetic food. Having lost half its land, the Republic is rapidly running out of space to grow food for its increasing population. The eighty-five districts, closed in by their defensive walls, simply don’t have enough land to support large scale agriculture. Therefore, factories are now responsible for the majority of their food production. Foreign aid is also a no-go, as they are cut off from everyone else thanks to the jamming of their inter-nation communication systems by the Legion’s smallest unit type – the OCTO-Flies, a design basically identical to large species of butterfly. These mechanical drones inhibit any form of communication, whether for trade, diplomacy, or even confirming whether any other countries still exist. Hence, why the Para-RAID technology is so revolutionary - fully wireless, un-jammable communication.

A servant pours Gwen a glass of sparkling water.

“Thank you,” she says, as the servant lays a napkin on her lap.

Her father smiles, settling into his seat at the head of the table. Of the three chairs, one remains empty and unoccupied. Neither Gwen nor George acknowledge it. This has been the norm for… a long time.

“So, Gwen,” George starts, hesitating for a split second, before deciding to push ahead. “Isn’t it about time you quit the army?”

“Dad, I literally just sat down,” Gwen snarks.

George raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just trying to plan ahead here, Gwennie. Don’t you think you should be using your time to start looking for potential suitors from a good family? You’re going to be eighteen soon.”

Gwen grits her teeth and takes an aggressive bite of lobster. Sometimes she swears her father is a broken record. They have this conversation nearly every day, repeated word for word. Same as that ridiculous news broadcast. Pedigree. Status. Standing. Lineage. Superior bloodline. All trivial concerns to her, but the fixation of everyone else. This mansion, a symbol of that fixation, with its preserved relics and lavish design created back when the Stacy household was still considered nobility, stands as testament to that.

“You’re my only child, Gwen,” George persists. “I’m trying to think of your future. Besides, the Legion and Eighty-Six shouldn’t be of concern to someone of your status.”

“Protecting people shouldn’t be a choice, Dad. It’s my duty.”

George groans and rubs his temple.

“I know you want to be like your mother, but the news says the war will be over in two years as soon as the Legion hit their expiry date. It’s basically behind us.” George pauses, then in a strained voice. “Gwen, we need to forget.”

“How the hell can I forget?!” Gwen asks in disbelief. “How can I live in ignorance? We’re losing, Dad! People are dying!”

George slams his fist down on the table and stands, pushing his chair back with a screech. Gwen stands as well, meeting his fiery blue eyes with her own molten gaze.

“Your mother took pity on the Eighty-six and now you’re doing the same! Well, guess where that got her, Gwen?!”

Gwen gasps at his sharp words, anger boiling in her chest. “N-no, that’s not…” She pauses, her mind racing. Gwen deeply respected her mother, admired her even. But she doesn’t intend to follow in her footsteps. Because after all, she still remembers the silhouette… the insignia… and the words… She’ll never forget.

Gwen wordlessly grabs her plate and her cutlery.

“Where are you going?” George snaps but makes no move to follow her.

“My room. To eat.” Gwen stomps out of the dining room, leaving George alone.

“Fuck,” he whispers quietly, leaning his elbows on the table and burying his head in his hands.

*****

14 – 5 – 2148

Gwen snaps to attention, standing as rigid as humanly possible.

“Why are you, uh, changing my assigned unit…?”

The office of the division commander has golden wallpaper, streaked with dark-red stripes, giving it a profound, dignified atmosphere. Beneath Gwen’s boots, the floor is tiled in a classic black-and-white checkerboard pattern, polished to a mirror-like sheen. Plush couches are neatly organised at the centre of the room around a glass table that sits over a large insignia of the Republic’s coat of arms, inlaid into the floor. The heavy, deep-red blinds hang either side of the large windows, their texture rich and velvety. Though drawn back, they frame the sunlight streaming in, illuminating the room in a warm, golden glow.

Gwen blinks her blue eyes, her gaze fixed on the notice of personnel change she has just be given by the Lieutenant General, who is lounging back in a large, leather office chair. Squadron reorganisations are not new to Gwen. They are a grim constant in a war where the Republic’s forces face staggering losses against the Legion. It’s an endless cycle of merging, dividing or rebuilding squadrons to compensate for the attrition rate among Processors. Yet this reassignment feels… different. Gwen’s squadron has suffered far fewer casualties than the threshold typically warranting such changes. Her instincts scream that this is unusual.

The General’s scarred cheeks slacken into a smile. His well-trimmed beard gives off a feeling of gentle dignity and his frame is tall and broad-shouldered. He nods in confirmation to her question.

“One of the unit’s Handlers is retiring,” he says, his voice low and deep. “A new one is needed ASAP.”

“If the unit can’t leave their post until a new Handler is found…” Gwen feels a flicker of excitement in her belly. “Does that mean it’s defending an important area?”

“Correct,” the General says, grabbing a document from the pile on his desk. “The North-Eastern theatres Defence line 1, Combat District 1, the tip of the spear. AKA the Spearhead Squadron.” He hands the document to Gwen. “It’s comprised of veterans from every theatre. They’re nothing short of an ace unit.”

Gwen gasps, failing to contain her surprise as a smile breaks out across her face. She eagerly accepts the document and begins thumbing through it. However, as she reads, doubt begins creeping into her thoughts.

“Uh, sir…” she says nervously, trying to find the right words. “I don’t wanna sound ungrateful, or whatever, but… I only just got promoted to Major. I feel like I’m maybe just a teensy bit under-qualified?” She awkwardly emphasises the ‘teensy’ by raising her right arm and bringing her thumb and pointer finger together.

The General sighs and leans forwards in his chair, looking at Gwen directly. “Gwen, you’re the youngest person ever to make it to the post of Major,” he says, matter-of-factly. “If you try to be too humble and modest, you’re going to make pointless enemies.”

Gwen places the document back on the desk. “Maybe, you’re right,” she relents. “Thanks, Uncle Arthur.”

Lieutenant General Arthur Stacy had been close friends with Gwen’s mother, back when they were fighting in the now defunct Republic Armed Forces. He’s also the brother of her father, George Stacy. However, they are almost nothing alike. Different sides of the same coin, her late grandmother used to say.

“I’m sure Helen would be very proud of you,” Arthur says, glancing at a photo hanging on the wall. It features a young Gwen, her mother and Arthur.  It was the last time they were all together. “How is my brother, anyway?” he continues, casually, taking care to not betray a single emotion as his eyes shift back from the snapshot of the past to his niece. As always, he shuts his mind to thoughts of what could have been, had meddling outside influences not intervened.

“You really wanna know?” Gwen grumbles, slumping her shoulders. “He won’t stop telling me to find a husband.”

Arthur chuckles, dryly. “I’m sure.”

“It’s honestly so confusing,” Gwen cries in frustration. “I thought dads were meant to be, like, super overprotective and all like ‘I won’t let my little girl date until she’s fifty’!” She deepens her voice to imitate the way George speaks, drawing another wry chuckle out of her uncle.

“So, Gwen,” he says, slapping his desk and standing up. Abruptly, he has switched back to being her senior officer rather than her uncle. “The truth is, we can’t find anyone to take this role. This damn squadron’s been a right pain in my ass for months.”

“But they’re an ace unit, right?” Gwen asks, in confusion. “Wouldn’t people be jumping outta the wazoo for a chance to command them?”

“For the unit itself, yeah,” Arthur growls. He reaches past Gwen for the discarded document on his desk. As he moves to the lounge, he opens the document and gestures for Gwen to sit opposite him.

Accepting the offer, she takes a seat, watching the General as she waits for him to speak.

“The commander of the unit is known as Undertaker,” he says, cryptically, spinning the document around and tapping the name at the top of the unit list. “And there’s a story behind it.”

“Sounds spooky…”

Arthur nods. “They call it… the Reaper,” he says, his voice neutral and dry.

“Damn,” Gwen says. “That goes kinda hard.”

“You need to understand that it destroys any Handler who tries to take control of it.”

“Okayyy,” Gwen says. “Not cool.”

Arthur frowns at her, as if to say, ‘you done?’ Gwen resituates herself, trying to seem more professional.

“So, the Processor destroys the Handler?” Gwen asks, feeling both curious and dubious at the same time. “You sure it’s not opposite day? And it’s not just a ghost story?”

“I don’t have time in my schedule to share ghost stories with subordinates,” Arthur says, briskly. “Almost all of the Handlers for Undertaker’s units request to retire or change units.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, fidgeting with the pistol holster on his belt, clipping and unclipping the flap. Like he’s steeling his nerves. “Some have even committed suicide,” he adds, darkly, after a moment.

Gwen physically recoils, jerking her arm away from the document, like it has just burned her. “Suicide?!”

The General nods slowly, although his blue eyes are dark, unfocussed. “It’s hard to believe, but they say they’re haunted by voices of the dead. The damned. Crying out in pain, for revenge, for justice.”

Arthur stands. Gwen’s still glued to her chair, in shock, as a chill runs up her spine.

“You’re free to refuse, Gwen,” Arthur says, his tone back to its default setting, unreadable and emotionless. “God knows you work hard enough, anyway. Remember, though, that a Handler’s job is only to monitor their units and keep commands to a minimum.”

Arthur turns away from her and gazes out the window, crossing his arms behind his back. As Gwen stands, he watches her reflection.

“I’ll do it,” she says, her voice determined and unwavering, despite the risks. “I’ll be Spearhead’s new command and control officer.”

The General turns back to face her. “I knew you’d say yes. So, don’t do anything more than your job, and please, stop interacting with the Processors.”

Gwen grimaces and clenches her fist. She wants to do more. She must do more. She can’t be like everyone else. The photo of her mother watches her scornfully, judging. What’s it gonna be, Gwen?

“That’s literally my job,” Gwen insists. “You can’t ask me to not know my troops.”

“Okay, okay,” Arthur relents. “I chose the wrong words. That one’s on me. But you know what I mean, Gwen.” He rubs his temples wearily before becoming business like again. “Right then. I hereby appoint you, Gwendolyn Stacy, as the command-and-control officer for combat district 1, defence line 1. Have the paperwork on my desk ASAP.”

Gwen takes this as her queue to leave. She snaps to attention and salutes the General, turning towards the door. As she starts to swing it open, Arthur holds up his hand.

“One last thing, Major,” he says. “Stop including the number of fatalities in your reports.”

Gwen freezes, squeezing the golden door handle tightly. “What we’re doing is wrong,” she says, quietly. “We’re supposed to protect our citizens. All of them.”

Arthur looks at her with practiced apathy. “You really are just like Helen,” he says, dismissively. “Best of luck, Major Stacy.”

*****

“You’re a total weirdo, Gwen,” Peter teases, as Gwen places the patient gown neatly on a coat hanger.

Taking command of a new unit means quite a few things need to be changed, the most important of which is the target data for her Para-RAID. Which is why she now finds herself in the medical ward with her often irritating best friend. The ward is housed in a grand villa from the age of the self-appointed monarchy. It is a relic of opulence and gaudy old-world charm, but has since been converted into a tasteless, futuristic sort of design, defined by way too many glass panels and metal pylons. However, the exterior remains original, with a sort of vulgar Versailles aesthetic, achieved through a multitude of windows framed by columns, gargoyles and goldleaf trims.

As Peter is the officer in charge of the Para-RAID development team, all requests regarding Gwen’s Sensory Resonance settings are handled by him, hence the urgent appointment before taking up her new position. After finishing the examination, using a series of strange wires and other equipment, Peter has moved into the adjacent room, leaving Gwen to change back into her uniform.

“You gotta chill, Peter,” she calls out to him, buttoning her blouse. “It’s just a ghost story. I bet it was made up by some slackers who couldn’t be bothered doing actual work. And besides, it’s a huge honour to be assigned an ace unit.”

Fastening her belt, Gwen smiles to herself, still feeling pleased with her new assignment. She does her periodic Para-RAID medical inspections regularly, so there’s really no need for Peter to worry. But, then again, she is a workaholic...

“It’s true that some committed suicide, though,” Peter says, darkly, tapping away at his keyboard. “I mean, holy hell… one of Spearhead’s Handler’s went bonkers and blew his own head off with a shotgun!”

Gwen feels herself grow a bit nauseous.

“I’ve probably seen worse on the internet, though,” Peter admits, shrugging as he pulls up Gwen’s medical results. “Exams done. No problems as usual. Thanks for your cooperation, milady.”

“Are you sure I’m the weirdo?” Gwen grumbles dryly, putting her dress hat on and leaving the examination room. “Anyway, do we know why the Handler killed himself?”

Peter pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and yawns. “We were asked to look into it,” he says, resuming his typing. “High command thought the Para-RAID might have been bugging out or whatever.”

Gwen nods and takes a seat in the spare office chair next to Peter’s cluttered desk.

“Typical boomers not knowing anything about tech,” he grumbles. “But yeah, quitting isn’t a big deal, but a suicide has gotta be looked into.”

*Boomer – Slang referring to old, out of touch people. --ED.

“And?”

“Dunno,” Peter says shortly, looking at Gwen and shrugging. “The Handler was dead as a doorknob, poor guy. Brains splattered all over the shop. We couldn’t exactly investigate it.”

“Well… that sucks. Nothing came of it at all?”

“Look, we did our jobs,” Peter says, defensively, raising his hands and voice. “We ain’t slackers! And there was absolutely nothing wrong with the RAID device.”

Gwen slumps against the office chair, spinning in half-circles. So, they do know next to nothing.

“We did tell them that if they wanted to know more, they’d have to bring in Undertaker,” Peter sighs, despondently. “But those dicks at transport said, ‘this flight has no available seats for Eighty-six pigs’!”

“You didn’t even get to talk to Undertaker?” Gwen asks, huffing in annoyance.

“Nah, we just read the report, which, by the way, was a whole lotta nothing. When we told Undertaker ‘bout the dead Handler, all he said was ‘I see’. Guess we can’t expect anything more from the Eighty-six.” Peter’s voice is riddled with annoyance.

“Using the Para-RAID has its risks,” he continues, “which everyone just has to accept, I guess. Maybe the dumbass was all bricked up, wanting to get a kick outta watching the Processors get slaughtered in real time and decided to share vision, frying his brain.”

Gwen shakes her head in disbelief. Not because she doesn’t believe Peter’s hypothesis, but because this is the standard the Republic has set for its officer core. How embarrassing. Throwing the Eighty-six at the OCTO-Legion in wave tactics and believing the Legion will be defeated within 2 years has made them complacent and incompetent. She continues spinning back and forth. Peter suddenly reaches his hand out and stops the chair’s motion. Gwen looks up at him, broken out of her daze.

“Listen, Gwen,” he says, concern written on his face. “You should join us in R&D. The military is basically just a jobs program now. We all know the war’s gonna be over soon. And when that happens, former military won’t mean squat on your résumé.”

“You too?” Gwen snips, annoyed, then huffs. Peter is just trying to be a good friend. “It’s wartime right now, Peter, and the enemy is still gaining ground.”

Peter just shakes his head. “Gwen, you really are a weirdo.”

*****

The Para-RAID alert couldn’t have come at a worse time. Gwen was riding the subway home, her mind still spinning from the conversation she’d had with Peter. It had been the kind of talk that leaves a person with more questions than answers. Just as she had started to lose herself in the rhythmic clatter of the underground train and the periodic flashes of passing tunnel lights, the blinking, high-pitched urgency of the Para-RAID’s alert system had jolted her back to reality.

“Damn it,” she had muttered under her breath, frantically waving down the conductor. The elderly man had looked ready to protest until he caught the look in her eyes—desperation tinged with authority. He relented, and Gwen had vaulted off the train at an unscheduled stop, landing hard on the platform. She had sprinted four city blocks, her high tops slapping against the cracked asphalt as streetlights flickered awake, arriving at the Palace with her heart pounding and her lungs burning.

And now… her squadron is being obliterated. It isn’t a battle—it’s a massacre.

“What’s wrong, Pleiades?!” she shouts, her voice cracking as her eyes dart across the command screen. The chaotic swirl of red enemy markers swarms the blue diamonds of her squadron. This was supposed to have been just a regular, run-of-the-mill recon mission. Something so trivial, she wasn’t needed. A mere formality. Yet the Legion are here in force, far beyond what intelligence had predicted.

“Handler One to Pleiades, come in!” Her voice rises in urgency, but the line is eerily silent.

Finally, a harsh, bitter voice reverberates and breaks through the collective consciousness of the Resonance. Fury, the XO of 3rd Squadron, speaks, his tone as sharp as a blade.

“Stop,” he commands, harshly. “She’s dead.”

*XO – Executive Officer, the 2^nd in command to the commanding officer. --ED.

The words strike Gwen like a blow to the chest. Her breath hitches as a wave of emotions—grief, shock, helplessness—crashes over her. Gwen’s whole body feels like lead and her blood, like ice. She thinks she might be sick. Through the resonance, other voices join the chorus of battlefield chaos, some shouting, some screaming, some crying, almost drowning out the thunderous roar of cannons and relentless booming of artillery.

“Evasive manoeuvres!”

“Fucking damn it!”

The battle drags on for what feels like an eternity. In reality, it’s over in mere minutes. Gwen sits frozen, her head buried in her hands, until the cacophony of noise falls to a grim silence. Slowly, she forces herself to look up. The command screens show a sea of despair—seven blue diamond blips, gone. Seven Processors eliminated. No survivors. The list of Processors and their real-time information on the far-right monitor, glows red as it presents a cruel, mocking sight: DESTROYED. DESTROYED. DESTROYED. DESTROYED. DESTROYED. DESTROYED. DESTROYED.

F A I L U R E!! Her mind unhelpfully screams at her.

Despite the raw ache in her chest, she forces herself to speak, keeping her tone as even as she can manage. The red blips on the screen begin to pull back, retreating north.

“Handler One to Pleia—sorry, Fury,” she whispers, her right-hand trembling. “The enemy are retreating. Squadron Four will take over the patrol mission. Return to base.”

“Roger,” Fury replies, tersely, his voice as icy and unyielding as ever.

Gwen swallows hard and grimaces, her voice barely audible as she adds, “Pleiades and the others who died… I’m so sorry.”

The silence on the other end is heavy, but not empty. The Para-RAID’s psychic resonance conveys emotions far more vividly than words: contempt, anger and a profound, bone-deep bitterness. These are just some of the emotions she can feel resonating.

“As always, thank you for your kind words, Handler One,” Fury says, his tone laced with biting sarcasm and a cold hatred that Gwen can’t fully decipher. It isn’t the predictable disdain of the oppressed—it carries an edge of something darker, something personal.

Still, she presses on with her debrief, suppressing the tremor in her voice. She needs to keep it together. “I also want to inform you that Squadron Three will be re-formed with a new Handler. Thank you for everything.”

Fury doesn’t respond. She isn’t expecting him to.

Taking a deep breath, Gwen continues, getting her emotions under wraps, feeling her heartbeat steady. “I’ll be transferring to a new position as Command-and-Control Officer for Spearhead Squadron.”

The shift in the resonance is immediate and palpable. That seems to have caught the survivor’s attention. Intrigue ripples through the connection like waves, followed closely behind by a strange undercurrent of… excitement. For the first time, the cold, steely exterior of Fury’s voice softens ever so slightly.

“That’s great news,” he says, a hint of something almost genuine in his tone. Like he’s anticipating something. “You have my deepest sympathies, Handler One.”

Gwen jolts in her chair and leans forwards instinctively, gripping the edge of her console, even though it won’t make them hear her better. “What does that mean—" she begins, her voice tinged with desperation. She needs to know.

But Fury cuts her off. She can almost hear the smirk in his voice as he speaks his parting words.

“Say hello to the Reaper for me.”