Spearhead

Gwen is frozen in horror. The Sparrow type Legion, having finished its swift execution of the pilot, turns on her, leering over her small frame, bearing down on her.

It slowly trains its 12.7mm machine guns on her.

“If anyone’s still alive, cover your ears!”

It all happens in slow motion.

A SP/DR, bearing the mark of a headless knight, painted black, purple and green, races out of the foliage, skidding on the snow.

The Sparrow turns, sensing the greater threat and fires into the edge of the forest.

The SP/DR ducks, dodges and weaves with a grace unbefitting of something its size. Finding cover, it crouches and returns fire with its own machine guns.

Gwen screams and covers her ears at the deafening pings of bullets slamming into the Sparrow’s armour. The next moment, the Sparrow is slumping to the ground, armour and insides shredded.

She peeks up, looking around, seeing only the SP/DR lumbering towards her. It stops about two metres away, avoiding the raging inferno that is the crash site, and opens its cockpit. To Gwen’s shock, a tall, bald man with a well-trimmed beard and camo matching the colours of his SP/DR, steps out.

Slinging an assault rifle over his right shoulder, the man begins walking towards her, concern written on his face.

“Yo,” he says, kneeling in-front of her. “You aight?”

Shivering uncontrollably, Gwen looks towards her mother’s headless corpse and tears well in her eyes.

The man sighs sympathetically and offers a hand to Gwen. She is clearly in shock. She stares at his hand, uncomprehending, then eventually reaches out and takes it. The man feels the little girl place her trust in him as he guides her to his unit, making sure to block her view of her mother’s corpse.

He gestures for her to take a seat against the SP/DR’s legs, whilst he walks a few paces away to activate his Para-RAID.

“Prowler to Handler One, survivor located,” Prowler says, smoothly. “Returnin’ to base.”

Gwen doesn’t hear what the response from the Handler is, but a moment later, Prowler is walking back to her with his arm outstretched. Looking up, Gwen sees that he’s offering her a chocolate bar.

“You want some?” he asks, smiling. “Thought maybe somethin’ sweet might help with the shock?”

Gwen just looks at him dumbly.

“What? Do kids these days not like chocolate?” Prowler grumbles.

Gwen nods her head.

“That’s a relief,” he says, handing her the bar.

Prowler turns to walk away, presumably going to inspect the crash site now that she’s occupied. However, Gwen finally speaks up, albeit timidly.

“My mum…”, she whispers, shakily, tears just below the surface. “She told me we’re doing something terrible to the Eighty-Six. But even then… you’re still helping me… why?”

Prowler huffs and turns to face her again. “Well, that’s easy,” he states matter-of-factly. “We’re all citizens of Novus Atlantica. It’s our duty and pride to defend it. Some cowards will run away, but I’m gonna fight until it’s safe.”

Suddenly, his stomach growls, and he awkwardly smiles and rubs the nape of his neck. Still timid, Gwen wordlessly stands up and offers the chocolate back to him. Prowler chuckles and accepts the treat.

“Y’know, I’ve got a nephew ‘bout your age. I reckon you’d get along well,” he says. “Really talented artist, he is. Although, I suppose he’s probably in the army by now.”

“You haven’t seen him?” Gwen asks, curiously. Prowler snaps the chocolate and shares it between them.

“No, I’ve still got a job to do,” Prowler says, cryptically. He clambers up onto his SP/DR and into the cockpit.

“C’mon,” he says, gesturing for Gwen to hop in. “We gotta keep movin’.”

He helps Gwen climb on and settle onto his lap. The SP/DR only has a single seat and no extra space, so they have to share. Her small, trembling body nestles against his, seeking comfort and safety.

“Name’s Aaron Davis, by the way,” Aaron says, spurring the SP/DR to life. The engine rumbles and they set off through the snowy forest.

Gwen frowns. “That’s an unusual name for a Republic soldier.”

She had always expected the Eighty-Six to have foreign, strange names, rather than one that sounded like they could easily be her neighbour.

Aaron chuckles, impressed by her question, as well as her bravery. Despite the ordeal she’d just been through, she was still astute and curious. “Sure is. My brother and I migrated from the Anglo Empire. You’ve heard of it, right?”

“Yeah, they made the OCTO-Legion,” Gwen says. She is silent for a long time, and Aaron assumes she’s thinking about her mother, left behind in the snow. Finally, she says, “Are you scared to fight them?” 

Aaron shrugs. “Yeah, but if I don’t fight, I can’t survive,” he explains. “I won’t die yet. I can’t allow myself to. I’ve gotta get back to my nephew, after all.”

*****

Gwen picks up her discarded satchel and hat from the ground, where they were resting against a tombstone.

“I can’t believe Aaron is your uncle,” she gushes, happily. “What’s he doing now?”

She begins walking back the way she came, through the war casualty cemetery. Miles is silent for a few moments, then, he says softly: “He’s dead.”

Gwen gasps, freezing in place.

Miles continues explaining, his emotions unreadable.

“He died on the eastern front ‘bout five years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” Gwen whispers.

“It’s aight.”

Silence sets in for a couple seconds as the lush grass of the cemetery blows softly in the wind, creating a soft whoosh sound.

“Do you remember when you asked me if there’s anything I wanted to do after I leave the army?” Miles suddenly asks.

“Yeah…?” Gwen answers, not entirely sure where he’s going with this.

“Well, there ain’t anything I wanna do in particular, but there is something that I have to do,” His voice is now strong and determined, although slightly wistful. “I’ve gotta stop searching for him.”

Gwen cocks her head to the side and frowns. “You mean… his body?” she inquires, tentatively.

Miles laughs softly. “No… not quite.”

Out of nowhere, a vivid image of a headless corpse, abandoned in a snowy city, flashes through Gwen’s mind. She pauses, her gaze shifting to the unmarked memorial stone to her right. This must be one of Miles’ memories slipping through the Resonance. And while she can’t be sure, she feels a small flash of familiarity towards the SP/DR the corpse is seated in.

Although, with the moment so brief, it’s only natural Gwen doesn’t fully understand the significance of this brief snapshot in time.

*****

“Oh man, this is too good,” Gwen moans between bites.

Peter watches her from across his desk with amusement as she shovels strawberry cream cake into her mouth.

“I know, right?” Peter says, taking a bite of his own piece. “The cream is artificial, but the strawberries are all real.”

He briefly stands up to refill their cups of tea.

“By the way,” Peter starts, clutching a white tea pot. “Aunt May offered to take you dress shopping for the revolution festival next week.”

“Is it that time already?” Gwen groans, dramatically. “I’m probably gonna have to go to that, aren’t I?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I don’t think your dad will give you a choice,” he says with some sympathy. “May reckons all the good dress makers and tailors will be booked up if we don’t get a move on.”

“Sorry, I’m, like, totally swamped right now.”

“Y’know, it feels like you haven’t been around much lately,” Peter says, as he finishes pouring them both fresh cups of tea.

Gwen shrugs, noncommittally. “I heard you met another prospective partner,” she says, trying to divert him.

“Oh, yeah,” Peter laughs. “She’s kinda sweet.”

“Really?” Gwen asks, smirking slyly. “Reckon she’s the one?”

Peter scoffs, almost spitting out his tea. “Hell no!” he laughs.

“Why not?”

“Cause she’s even older than the last one,” Peter says flatly, pointing to the long line of printed out photos blue tacked on the wall. They all depict Peter’s long list of prospective partners, although each one has been crossed out in bright red marker.

“Ohhh,” Gwen cringes.

“I get they’re after my parents’ fortune, but at least try putting some damn elbow grease into it!” Peter grumbles.

“What’s with all the photos on the wall?” Gwen asks curiously, suddenly realising it’s a bit strange to have a collage of one’s exes in your office.

“A hilarious prank,” he sighs. “My team put ‘em up. I think they find my trainwreck of a love-life annoying.”

Gwen giggles, she’s gotta admit it’s kinda funny. Maybe she’ll tell Miles about it later…

Meanwhile, Peter continues his rant, unfazed. “I should prank them back. Y’know what will really annoy them?” he says to himself. “If I commit to the bit, settle down, live a happy life for twenty years and then sell my happy marriage to the devil to save my aunt’s life.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Gwen frowns, confused. “Why would you think of that? Actually, why would anyone think of that, for that matter?”

“It’s a dumb idea, sure, but it’d really piss ‘em off,” Peter laughs. “Anyway, have you been getting enough sleep?”

Gwen blinks and touches her face, despite the gesture being completely useless. “Oh, um,” she stammers.

“Don’t bother lying,” Peter admonishes. “I can clearly tell you’ve been overusing the Para-RAID.”

“Nuh uh,” Gwen replies, defensively. “I was just up all-night analysing combat data.”

“I’ve told you this before,” Peter groans, sitting up straight and staring directly into Gwen’s eyes. “But doing favours for the Eighty-Six is pointless.”

Gwen lets out a sigh and smiles, trying to remain civil, to keep the peace. Despite being such close friends, she and Peter do disagree a fair amount and hold strong opinions on certain topics. Such as this one. In her experience, sometimes the best course is to accept the impasse and leave it at that.

*****

Gwen hurriedly walks through the lavish marble halls of Palace Staten, grumbling to herself. Not because she and Peter had disagreed once again on the topic of Eighty-Six, but for another reason entirely.

“So lemme get this straight,” Miles questions. “You think attending this party will be a bad thing?”

It’s just the two of them connected via the Para-RAID, as has been occurring with more and more regularity the past couple of weeks. They’ve almost made their midday chats as much of a tradition as her nightly ones with the whole Squadron. Gwen’s voice carries softly over the link, chasing away the constant stream of mechanical noise as she recounts the details of her day, down to every last detail. To kill time, obviously. Not for any other reason, Miles thinks to himself. Yet, even as he tells himself this, he can’t quite shake the warmth her voice brings.

“Well, yeah,” Gwen says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What if a battle breaks out while I’m stuck waltzing with some weird prospective marriage partner?” She scrunches her face in disgust at the thought of that.

“We’ll be fine,” Miles says, plainly.

Gwen groans inwardly. You’re supposed to be on my side, idiot! Throw me a bone here! I need a solid excuse to get outta this thing!

“Who puts a party on during the middle of a war, anyway?” Gwen asks rhetorically.

“Anything that happens inside the walls has zero effect on us,” Miles assures her. “We appreciate your detailed enemy analysis but... it isn’t so important that its gotta take up all your free time.”

Feeling offended, Gwen comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the hallway. “Are you saying you guys don’t even need my help?”

“No,” Miles responds quickly, softly. “A macro level analysis is super valuable to us. We’re all glad to have you--”

Gwen gives a faint smile, a small blush creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks.

“--but… it doesn’t mean you have to spend all your time on us,” Miles finishes.

Gwen goes back to frowning and grumbles under breath. She starts walking again, with a sulky stomp.

“Spend too much time focussing on the battlefield… and, well, you’ll end up like me,” Miles says with the faintest hint of humour in his voice.

She realises he’s trying to make her feel better and can’t help feeling pleased. “Do my ears deceive me Captain Morales, or was that a joke?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny, although, if you go to that party, I might just tell you,” Miles teases.

Gwen smiles to herself. She notices some other Handlers watching her as they walk down the hall, and she quickly fixes her expression into something more serious and lowers her voice. “Fine… You win… I guess I’ll go…” she relents. “But because I never lose, I will attend the stupid revolution festival in my stuffiest, silliest, goofiest dress possible.”

Miles laughs loudly. “The revolution festival?” he scoffs, curiously.

“Oh, have you been before?” Gwen asks.

Miles thinks for a second. “I’m pretty sure I attended once… I remember seeing fireworks. And a garden in front of a palace of some sort? Or maybe it was a mansion…?”

Gwen suddenly perks up at that. Looking out the window, she asks: “A palace? Did you use to live in New York, or district one’s surrounding area?”

“Uhh, maybe?” Miles says, unsure. “My memories are pretty foggy from back then, but I think so.”

“Oh, wow!” Gwen says, impressed, as she turns a corner and prepares to ascend a grand flight of stairs. So that’s where his accent comes from… she’d never been able to quite place it before now.

“I know for certain though, that my uncle took me to see ‘em.”

Gwen freezes, one foot hovering off the ground. “Shoot, sorry,” she says, sadly. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“Nah, you’re all good,” Miles responds casually, unbothered. “Can’t remember much ‘bout my family anyway. Not their faces, voices…” he trails off.

“Your uncle reckoned that you’d grow up to be a strong man,” she says, kindly. “He really cared about you.”

Miles remains silent, although its clear he’s listening with rapt attention.

“He said he desperately wanted to go home so he could see you again,” Gwen finishes, beginning to ascend the staircase.

“I really hope you’re right,” Miles responds, sadly. Suddenly, from his end of the resonance, the kitten begins meowing loudly.

Gwen stops on the steps and frowns.

“Uh, Captain…?” she starts. “Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol right now?”

Before Miles can answer, she continues, sounding increasingly unimpressed. “Are you in your room?”

“My bad,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.

“If you think the patrols aren’t necessary, that’s fine, but at least tell me beforehand?” Gwen sighs in exasperation, continuing to climb the stairs.

“Yeah… see this is why I didn’t tell ya,” Miles says, dryly. “I knew you’d be angry.”

“I am not angry,” Gwen huffs. “I ain’t that much of a stuffed shirt or whatever.”

Suddenly, as Gwen reaches the top of the comically large staircase, a strange, jarring noise erupts from Miles' side of the Resonance—XBXo9uxboxBOFBU9OWUX. She stops dead in her tracks, gasping softly. The sound is loud, mechanical, inhuman. At the same moment, the tension on Miles’ end spikes. Gwen can sense he’s silently risen to his feet, his gaze fixed on something distant. The static that usually hums faintly in the background feels sharper now, buzzing louder. Gwen feels a sudden wave of exhaustion, her body straining as if the air itself has grown heavier.

“Major,” Miles’ tense voice breaks through the clutter of electronic noise. “We’re getting ready for combat.”

“Huh?” Gwen reacts in surprise, snapped back to the present. “But we haven’t given out any warnings or—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Miles answers, briskly. “The Legion are coming.”

*****

"The main force is most likely a mixed platoon of Wolf types.”

Each unit is stationed at a different spot in the area they designate as their kill zone to ambush the Legion while Gwen relays her analysis, cross-referencing radar data and battle records. Her report includes the enemy's unit composition—the only detail they are hazy about, oddly enough.

"Tank types should be scarce given their losses in the last battle,” she continues, briskly. “The Sparrows are poorly armoured and immobile—only useful in ambushes. If we neutralise them quickly, we can isolate the Wolfs."

"Anarchist to all units, Major called it," Hobie cuts in, fresh from a recon sweep. His tone carries a mix of awe and disbelief. “Seriously, do you ever sleep?”

Miles interrupts sharply, no time for jokes. “Major, disconnect the Para-RAID.”

“What? Why?” Gwen blinks.

“We’re about to fight Wolf types in an urban zone. Close quarters. Staying Resonated with me... it’s not safe. Not with this many Black Sheep around.”

Her brow furrows. “This many? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Miles was firm. “I’ll explain later. Just disconnect.”

“No.” Gwen’s reply is instant, her tone curt. “Flies are jamming us to hell. If something happens, this connection might be all we’ve got. I’m staying online.”

Miles hesitates, but the sound of the Legion closing in leaves no room for argument. He sighs. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The battle explodes into chaos. Enemies and allies blurred together, trading blows in a frenzy. Gwen clenches her teeth, staring at her radar as it struggles against the jamming.

Then she hears it.

“What is that...?”

It wasn’t coming from her room. It wasn’t static. It was... something else.

On the radar, a red blip—an enemy—closes in on a blue one. Miles. The two dots collide, and suddenly, a voice, cold and empty, fills her ears.

“Mummy.”

The word echoes, hollow and broken, like the final, faint gasp of a dying person. Gwen freezes, feeling her blood run cold.

"Mummy. Mummy. MumMY. MumMy. MOmMy. MoMMy. mummy. MumMY. MOmMy. MumMY. MoMmy. MUMMY. mummy. MumMy MoMMy mummy. mummy. MumMy MOmMy. MumMy. MUMMY. MumMy mummy mummy. MOmMy. MumMy. MUMMY. MumMY MUMMY."

"What the fuck?” Gwen asks. Every hair on her body stands on end. She plugs her ears with her hands, but the sound, emanating from the Sensory Resonance, ignores her efforts.

The dying wail assaults her again and again. The voice keeps calling. It isn’t just a word anymore—it’s raw noise, fragmented, tearing through her mind. Gwen lets out a strangled shout, trying to block it out, but the noise only grows.

A scream from the pit of her stomach drowns out the voice crying for its mother, but it’s quickly replaced by other moans of a similar tone, worming their way into her consciousness in rapid succession.

"Help me help me help me helpme helpme helpME HELPme helpmE Helpme Helpm—"
"It's hot It's hot It's hot It'shot It'shot It'SHOT it'shot It'sHOT IT'Shot it'Shot."
"No... No... NONONONONONOnononononononOnONo."
"Mama, mama, mama, mama, mama MaMAMamaMaMamAmA."
"I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die Idon'twanttodie Idon'twanttodie Idon'twanttodie IDon'TWaNtTodiE idoNtwanTtOdle."

“GAH! FUCKING- STOP!” Gwen stands, hunched over as she fights against the noise. She presses her hands harder against her ears but the voices crush her thoughts, drowning out everything.

“I DON’T WANT TO DIE!!”

“Major, cut the link!” Miles’ shout breaks through the storm. “GWEN!”

Miles’ usually composed demeanour is uncharacteristically tense, perhaps even borderline panicked. But she barely registers his voice. She groans and whimpers, frantically stumbling through the command-and-control office, her mind jumbled with fear and pain. Miles curses under his breath. Gwen starts to feel dizzy, her vision rapidly turning red as the Para-RAID burns against her neck. She lets out another strangled yell.

And then, with a sharp click of his tongue, Miles severs the resonance.

Silence.

Gwen gasps for breath, slowly lowering her shaking hands from her ears. The control room feels eerily quiet. She blinks, dazed, realising she’d fallen to the floor.

What the fuck was that...?

It wasn’t Miles. It wasn’t anyone she knew. And there were so many voices. Too many. One voice lingers in her mind, familiar and haunting.

“I don’t want to die...”

Her breath hitches. “Danika...? No...”

*****

Just as he cuts the Resonance with Gwen, the ‘herd’ of Black Sheep begins swarming around Miles, who squints in pain at the incessant storm of wails and shrieks. The majority of the enemy force are Wolf types, and having to cleave his way through them in a flurry of slashes with the high-frequency blade takes him too long to sever the connection with the Major.

Countless shrieks, wheezes and groans coalesce into a cacophony of anguish that shakes Miles to his core and threatens to rupture his eardrums. But at this range, one can hear each individual voice clearly, and Ganke is the first to realise it through his Resonance with Miles.

"Holy shit, no... That was Danika screaming just now...!"

Miles can feel several people gasp in horror, and within moments, the line erupts in an uproar.

"Danika...?! Those bastards took her...?!"

"God damn it... Didn’t Ganke cremate her with a HEAT round?"

Miles blocks out his comrade’s comments. He continues to focus on the countless weeps, trying to trace them back to “Danika”. This is just another responsibility of the Reaper.

It doesn’t take him long.

In mere minutes, he knows the distance and direction of her Legion unit.

Phin is closest to the target.

"Tinkerer. Direction 060, distance 800. There’s a group of fifteen. She’s in the front row, second Wolf from the right."

"...Roger."

Phin pivots in the direction and lines her sight, squinting. Taking a deep breath, she makes some final range adjustments and softly breathes out, squeezing the trigger. An APFSDS round streaks across the battlefield, seeking out its target with deadly precision.

Danika’s voice, continually weeping that she doesn’t want to die, cuts off the moment the shot connects, slamming into her thin side armour and penetrating deep into her internal circuits.

The Black Sheep are an army of the dead, of ghosts lingering and unable to move on until they are destroyed.

Still, within that endless spiral of wails that threaten to crush his very soul, Miles heaves a single sigh of pity.

"So now it’s a grudge match, huh...?"

As Spearhead continue to engage the remaining Black Sheep and Legion with renewed vengeance, a bitter, disappointed feeling deep in Miles’ belly rears up. He realises, suddenly, that Gwen probably won’t Resonate with him again. He grimaces, feeling exasperated with himself for thinking it’s a shame. It was always gonna be temporary, he thinks bitterly to himself. The Reaper always ends up alone.

*****

“Twas bound to happen at some point,” Hobie says, walking over to Miles.

The entirety of Spearhead squadron is hanging out in the rec room, once again. They laugh and chat intermittently whilst doing an assortment of activities. Miles, as usual, sits in the corner, silent and stoic, reading. He briefly looks up from his book, staring at Hobie.

“I guess,” Miles responds, neutrally.

“Everyone brought their A game,” Hobie says, taking a seat next to Miles and lounging back.

“They wanted revenge,” Miles sighs, continuing to read. He isn’t in the mood for idle chitchat.

Regardless, Hobie continues.

“Thought they woulda passed out from exhaustion by now,” he comments, gesturing towards the rest of the Squadron with his hand. Indeed, their faces are all drawn and tired, yet there’s a certain restlessness about them as unspoken words hang in the air. “Maybe they’re too lonely to sleep. Normally, it’s right around this time…”

Hobie taps the raid device attached to his ear. Miles’ eyes flick up. He’s starting to think Hobie isn’t talking about the squad.

“Oh,” Miles acknowledges, like he’s only just noticed the unusual feeling of silence.

“Once they hear the voices, the Handler’s calls always stop,” Hobie notes, almost like he’s trying to comfort him, or something along those lines. “On the bright side, you don’t gotta write anymore reports.”

Hobie stands up and pats the Reaper on the back before walking back to join the others as they start a game of darts. Miles shifts in his chair, repositioning himself. As his eyes search for the sentence he was up to, the Para-RAID suddenly flickers to life, and a silvery, bell-like voice fills his ears.

“Captain Morales?” Gwen says, tentatively.

It had taken her until well after sunset to calm her jumbled, panicked mind. Even now, she still feels flashes of fear at the memory of those voices… but she knows that if she doesn’t call now, there’s a very strong chance she’ll never resonate with them again. She has got to push through this. If nothing else, to find answers, even if calling this late might be inconvenient.

“Sup, Major,” Miles answers almost instantly.

The room falls dead silent as everyone turns to look at him, with shocked expressions. They spin towards him so quickly; he wonders if they have crinked their necks.

“First time for everything,” Hobie mumbles to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Uh, sorry, but… are you free now?” Gwen questions. “Just you,” she adds.

“Yeah, gimme a sec, though.”

It’s still only the two of them connected via the Para-RAID, and everyone else is silently pleading with Miles to let them listen in or translate what the Major is saying. Miles waves them off, tucking his book under his arm as he exits the rec room, ignoring the groans of frustration behind him.

“Aight, go ahead,” Miles encourages, his footsteps echoing down the empty hallway. He has no real destination in mind.

“Sorry that I kinda reacted that way…” Gwen apologises, awkwardly. “But I’ve gotta know, how did the battle go?”

“We’re all good,” Miles says. “But that isn’t what you called for, I bet.”

Gwen is silent for a second. Then, she cautiously asks: “Captain… what were those voices?”

As soon as the question leaves her lips, she feels a chill in the pit of her stomach. The static she'd always heard in the background of the Resonance - like the rustling of leaves in the depths of a forest - she now realizes was the distant echo of that mass of screams and moans. At least she understands why Miles is called the Reaper and why every Handler that worked with him was petrified.

"What are they...?" she continues, almost whispering.

For a moment, all she can hear is silence.

"I almost died once," Miles responds, plainly.

A dull, distant pain flashes across Gwen's neck – a dim, heavy feeling of constriction. As if something is strangling her. The sensation is coming through the Sensory Resonance... In other words, from Miles…

“Wait, scratch that,” he says. “I did die once. And the voices? Ever since then, I can hear ‘em. The voices of the dead. Because I’m the same. A ghost who lingers, who failed to pass on.”

Gwen gasps, but feels this explanation only leaves her with more questions than answers. “Ghosts…” she says, questioningly. “But the only thing out there was the Legion.”

“I think they’re ghosts, too,” Miles answers. “The army of a lost country with no reason to exist.”

“And so you always know the Legion is coming because…” her voice trails off, bewildered.

“Yeah,” Miles sighs. “Because I can hear their voices. Awake or asleep, it don’t matter. Guess it’s why everyone calls it my SP/DR-Sense.”

“Wait, hold on,” Gwen interjects, sharply. “Do you hear them right now? Is it constant? Can you hear them from far away?” Her questions come in rapid fire succession, as she tries to wrap her head around this insane information.

“Not sure about distance, but it’s pretty far. Far enough to be aware of every single Legion presence beyond former Republic borders.”

“That must be… so painful,” Gwen replies, sadly, her voice thick with empathy.

Miles grimaces. She has no idea. “I’m used to it,” he sighs in resignation. “Been like this a long time.”

“Then… did you hear Lieutenant Danika’s voice because she became a ghost as well?” Gwen’s voice is tentative, cautious… She is afraid of pushing him too hard, but she really wants to understand.

Miles doesn’t respond, instead quickening his steps. Without noticing, he had walked outside and was now on the other side of the courtyard. The night air is cool against his skin and he tightens the purple scarf around his neck. He doesn’t know how to answer Gwen’s question. Whether he should… But… she needs to know. He doesn’t-- he can’t--

“The Republic’s government reckons the war will end in two years, right?” he asks.

“How do you know that?” Gwen says, in surprise.

“Ganke’s old commander, the one he told you about before,” Miles responds, quickly. There is simultaneously a lot, and very little, time. “The Legion have a timer. And in two years, it’ll run out. Is that the idea?”

“Well, yeah,” Gwen says, not quite sure where he’s going with this. “Their central processing unit is modelled on a human brain. That design means it can only last twelve years or so, and we’ve been fighting for a little less than ten.”

Miles nods. That sort of thinking is only good in theory. “So, if that design has such a critical flaw, they need to fix it while they still have the chance, right? Especially since their creator is dead. And if the only materials they have access to are from the battlefield…”

“Wait… does that mean—”

“They harvest human brains to extend their lifespan indefinitely.”

“Holy fuck!” Gwen gasps.

The image that comes to mind makes Gwen sick to her stomach. It goes far beyond grotesque—it’s an utter defilement of human dignity. Miles grimaces but continues. She needs to know.

“Our central nervous system is way more complex than any other animal,” Miles says. “And the Republic doesn’t let us bury our dead or recover corpses, so they have basically an unlimited number of free central processors.”

He hears Gwen slump against her desk from shock.

"Although, we have found a bit of a workaround to stem some of their harvesting and, honestly, I don’t think it’s the actual brain—it’s more like a copy. Using real brains wouldn’t work; they’d rot pretty quickly, and most casualties don’t leave bodies behind. Corpses with undamaged brains are super rare. Plus, we run into plenty of Legion who sound exactly the same. Danika’s probably still out there somewhere."

He has been walking in circles as he speaks and realises he’s back at his Captain's dorm. He reaches for the door handle.

“It’s why we call ‘em ghosts,” he continues, “but I don’t think they’re what people usually mean by souls, either. The original person’s mind isn’t inside. You can’t communicate with it. Just a fading echo of what they were. Their thoughts copied moments before death. Ghosts that haunt the Legion.”

“And those ghosts are the black sheep?” Gwen asks.

Miles swings the door open and steps inside his cold, dark bedroom.

“Yeah,” Miles growls. “A black sheep hiding amongst a flock of white.”

Gwen nods, thinking she’s finally starting to understand.

 “They’re getting more common as well,” Miles adds, placing his book inside his makeshift bookshelf. “You may not know it yet, but you’re gonna lose this war.”

“Huh?” Gwen asks. “What’re you talking about?”

“The Legion with a new design isn’t gonna shut down in the next two years,” Miles warns her, grimly. “And it’s not like the Republic can throw more Eighty-Six at them, either. All that’s left of us are the children, and we’re on the battlefield already.”

He sits down on the creaky wooden chair and starts unclipping his holster.

“It won’t be long before we’re all dead,” Miles says, darkly. “And when that happens, there’s gonna be nothing between you and the Legion. Will the Alba fight? Do you even remember how?”

“Well…” Gwen starts, mind racing, searching desperately for answers.

“You can’t win.” Miles puts his holster down on his desk.

“But there are fewer Legion now!” Gwen argues. “Their numbers have basically been halved!”

“I suppose you’d be right if you only had access to Republic intel.”

Gwen freezes. The implicit meaning is not lost on her.

“The amount you can see has decreased, but that’s only ‘cos they have a fuck load hiding outta sight, waiting to be deployed in mass.”

“That can’t be possible!” Gwen says, wishing her words to be true. “Surely they aren’t that smart?”

“Or so you thought,” Miles sighs. “That’s the other reason y’all will lose.”

“You can’t mean—”

“Most of the heads the Legion take come from badly marred corpses, but still, black sheep are better at processing than any other type of Legion,” Miles explains, lying on his bed, one arm under his head. “Imagine what’d happen if they get an undamaged one.”

“Is that even possible?” Gwen asks, desperately.

“A ghost commander,” Miles continues. “We call ‘em shepherds, and the armies they lead? Well…” he chuckles, grimly. “They’re way more competent than anything else the Legion has.”

“Wait, slow down a minute!” Gwen begs. “This isn’t hypothesis?! Does that mean you can—”

"Yeah, I can tell ‘em apart by their voices. There are a few dozen on every front, and here, there's one." For a moment, Miles’ voice grows much darker, just like the time he'd told her that he was looking for his dead uncle. A presence of chilling, sharp madness. “He’s been waiting, too.”

Gwen falls silent, mind racing at a million miles an hour. The Republic would fall to ruin, disarmed and helpless due to its own incompetence and fear. It had used up the millions of lives it sent onto the battlefield, only to be dragged down by the ghosts of the Eighty-Six they never allowed to be buried. The irony is insane.

"B-but..." The words slip through her lips before she even notices. "That's only if you die within the next few years... Right?"

She can feel Miles blinking a few times.

"That's...true," he replies with reluctance.

"Then all we have to do is take the Legion down before that happens!” Gwen says optimistically, with a hint of desperation. “So, let’s fight!”

Miles closes his eyes and smiles wryly.

Gwen continues, her voice determined. “You and me together—” she starts, then interrupts herself. “No… I’ll do what I can from here. Captain Morales, I'll put every effort into making sure you win. Whether it's analysing the enemy's movements or coming up with strategies, I'll do anything I can... and I'll try to make it so the same happens across all the other fronts."

If they could track the enemy's movements, it should be possible to create a strategy to keep them in check. That would definitely be in the Republic's interest. It shouldn't be too hard to explain that to Command and have it applied to other squadrons as well.

"You end your service this year, right? Let’s set that as our deadline to beat ‘em! Let's survive this war. Both of us."

A look of sadness flashes across Miles’ face. If only.... But still, even in spite of it all, her optimism is infectious. And so, he smiles faintly, letting himself be deluded by this silvery voice in his ear.

"It’s a deal," he whispers, focussing solely on her, drowning out the mechanical background noise.

Well, at least for a little while.

There is another long silence. Then, Gwen’s voice floats through the resonance, soft and curious.

“Miles…” she starts.

He perks up, his smile growing wider. She rarely ever called him by his first name.

“Why did you tell me all this?” Why not let the Republic die? Why not take your vengeance?

Miles, at the time, would’ve claimed he didn’t know. That he didn’t particularly care. But deep, deep down, he did. And it all had something to do with the fact that when he heard her voice, he felt the long-lost urge to sketch.