Bitter. That’s one way I can describe the synthetic green tea Brutus gave me some time ago. I can’t say I have ever tried the drink before so I figured it would be a good time as any to try it out. Brutus originally offered me the cup as a stimulant since I’ve been struggling to keep my head up. I would have preferred something else, but seeing as he had already prepared the drink and stopped by to offer me it directly, I took it since I didn’t want to cause any inconvenience for him. He was being considerate, so I decided to reciprocate the kindness.

I needed something for an energy booster. Between sitting here anxiously observing the rather prolonged withdrawal of the Federation armada and extreme tiredness, I figured at the time anything would do so long as it kept me rejuvenated. As Simon might say— ’beggars can’t be choosers’. And being foolishly naive, I had no idea what those words meant until now. This synthetic substance truly lives up to its name as manufactured crud. It is unbelievably revolting. If I have to exaggerate for just a moment, I’d declare both my taste buds and stomach face a bigger hurdle than the likes of this entire conflict.

Simply put, the tea is extraordinarily bitter. Not even the awkward tastelessness of the vodka Olga and I drank at Lübeck can compare to the poor quality of this drink. Maybe the way Brutus prepared it ended up being botched, or it’s simply the way this drink is intended to be. If it were anyone but Brutus that offered me this drink, I would have tossed it out immediately for another. But because it is given by Brutus, andbecause beggars can’t be choosers, I might as well drink it down to the last gulp. But staring into the rather transparent-green liquid sloshing around in the cup, that may be a harder task to accomplish than I thought.

Bringing the cup to my lips and wincing at the forthcoming gulp, I can only wonder if it would be better to indulge in this moment of celebration with some alcoholic beverage. I wouldn’t mind trying more of the vodka that Olga and I tried earlier. In Olga’s words, the vodka is a frequent guest of our storage simply because most are put off by the quality. I would normally agree, but compared to the rancid taste of this ‘tea’, the vodka I tried is more than bearable.

Olga, Olga. Repeating her name over in my head makes my heart and my damaged facial tissue ache with pain. I glance at the rest of the bay, but nobody takes any notice of me. When it became wide-spread news that the Federation is in the process of withdrawing there was naturally much enthusiasm over it—celebration, even.

But knowing that I had thrown so many brave souls to a shore of corpses—among them, possibly Olga—there’s no way I could bring myself to participate. The crushing weight of my sins makes it unbearable, and so I withdrew myself into reclusion and let the men have their fun. And so long as they enjoy themselves, and enjoy this somber moment for a little while, then I am happy for them too.

At least that is what I want to deceive myself into believing. I clutch the cup intently and hunch over in my seat, rubbing my face with my free hand. “Olga…” I whisper under my hoarse breath “why— why did you do something so reckless?” Setting the cup down, I lean forward and rub my face with both hands. “Why did it have to come to this…?” If she lives—if she were by my side, then I wouldn’t have to shoulder all this burden myself. Olga didn’t die because of her recklessness, she died because of my over-determination in defeating the Metropolitan fleet. Her death is a direct consequence of my actions to break through the Federation dead-lock.

I should have never sent out that distress call. I should’ve heeded Brutus’s advice and had her flank around the front-lines. Maybe I was wrong in my whimsical decision-making about the Federation defenses extending like a sphere around the Trinidad.There was a point where Mafia ships from the asteroid field managed to break through—if I had risked sending Olga a message to divert her attention to a flanking maneuver… then perhaps she would be by my side right now. Perhaps even enjoying a glass of that dreadful vodka together, taking in the moment of our supposed-victory over the Federation.

“But to drink alcohol alone is rather sad, isn’t it, Olga?” I whisper into the contents of the cup after picking it up again “if it was me that died… would you still drink in light of our victory?” I should’ve never sent her to the Taiga. It was a terrible decision to send her at the anti-escort vanguard—and a greater disaster in sending the distress signal. I just wish that Olga wasn’t so obedient… she should’ve resisted the order and stayed with me.

“I’m a complete fool,” I say in between stifles of choked sobs “what use is a victory if you aren’t here with me?”

“…Madame?” The puzzled voice of Brutus makes me momentarily stiffen in place, before relaxing with an exhaustive sigh. I rub my blurry eyes with the heel of my hand, turning away from the direction of the man. “Is something the matter…?” He pauses for a moment, perhaps to look at my cup of cruddy tea “er… is the tea not up to your standard?” A slight scoff “if you didn’t like it that much…”

‎ “No, no…” I utter, trying to clear my throat. I finish up wiping my eyes with my forearm and turn to face Brutus, who holds with him a bottle of alcohol; a few swigs were taken from it I would guess. “It’s nothing like that, Brutus…” I grimace a painful smirk “while I think the tea is rather incredibly awful” I tilt my head upward “…I was agonizing over my miscalculations.”

“Your…” Brutus stares at me with continued bafflement, with a spice of hurt from the tea comment. He looks around for a chair and drags one up to my side. “Excuse me?Your miscalculation? Look around you! Look outside!” Brutus points at the glistening body of Federation ships, infinite in all of its might “your perceived miscalculations brought us here… we have achieved the impossible, Madame!”

“An impossible feat, yes,” I reply softly “one of which has cost us… has cost me so dearly,” I reply softly, glaring at my bunched-together feet. There is silence and no drunken retort from the bear of a man. I glance back at Brutus and find the man has been broodingly rubbing his chin. Brutus occasionally nods as he takes in the dawning light basking the cosmic sea.

“I’m sorry, Madame…” the confidant finally breaks the silence “I think I drank a little too much,” he shakes the bottle as its contents slosh around. Brutus then sets it down and spends the next few moments leaning forward with his hands clasped together.

“For such a big man, I never imagined you would be a lightweight, almost like…” I trail off biting my upper lip. Slumping forward, I resume staring at the floor. Normally Brutus would brush off the comment, but it doesn’t seem the brute is in the mood for our usual exchanges.

“I should’ve realized it sooner,” Brutus grumbles “if I had known you were hurting this much, you know I would’ve stopped by earlier and comforted you,” our eyes meet for only a second before averting them. “I would not have drunk this much… no,” he pauses “I wouldn’t mind sharing some of it with you. If it helps to be of any reassurance.”

I scoot my chair closer to Brutus. He seems a little hesitant—a little surprised—at the advance at first if a little uncomfortable with the closeness. I lean over and scoop up the bottle at his boots and cradle it in my arms. When it is evident of what I am doing, I notice Brutus out of the corner of my eye seemingly exhale with relief.

“I wouldn’t want to drag you down to my sorry state, Brutus,” I remark softly “you were enjoying yourself—” I look up at Brutus “were you not? There’s nothing better than getting to see all my beloved men enjoy themselves. This is what I wanted,” I stare into the bottle that I’ve nestled between my thighs, “this is what…” a few deep breaths “this is what… the others who couldn’t make it would want…” with increasingly blurred vision, I look back at the giant man “they would’ve wanted us to celebrate a victory, wouldn’t they?” I grimace a tearful smirk. Brutus shuts his eyes and reaches out to hold me in his arms.

Olga would want me to be happy, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t want me to dwell on her sacrifice, would she? It’s because of her that the two of us can sit here. Before us, the titanic Federation fleet continues its slow retreat across the Rouen corridor. On the other side of the vast room, the Trinidad is anchored next to us still, no harm to it as I promised.

This wouldn’t have been possible without Olga. It’s because of her that we can live. And the least I can do—the least any of us can do is honor their memory by striving to live.

But even so…

But even so…!

“I can’t live without Olga,” I gasp burying my face into Brutus’s increasingly wetted shirt “I cannot stand the thought of celebrating, knowing that Olga is dead…!”

“…We don’t know that, Li,” Brutus says clearing his throat “we don’t know if Olga survived or not.”

“It’s… it’s clear as day that she is, Brutus,” I stammer clenching his shirting “there’s no way she could be alive… if she was on the bridge and if she didn’t shutter her windows in time. Failing that, if the Federations engaged her in ship-to-ship combat…” I clear my throat “I don’t have the slightest doubt that she would doggedly throw her life away in the face of overwhelming odds…!” I let out with gasps. The more I squeeze Brutus, the more it becomes apparent I’m trembling.

There is an abrupt sensation of a burly hand stroking my head, an action that nearly forces me to recoil. Brutus’s embrace is rather tight, though, but I hear him let out pained grunts. Without realizing it, my fingers are dug into his back. “I… I’m sorry, Brutus,” I mutter trying to put myself at ease “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I didn’t get the chance to finish as Brutus releases his embrace and eyes me with a painful smirk.

“Don’t sweat it, Madame, I overstepped my boundaries. But if I have to be honest I think you should cut your nails a little,” Brutus has a wincing wink as he reaches behind him and rubs the area where I clawed him. I withdraw into my poncho’s collar to hide the flushed embarrassment and massage the aching pain stemming from my scar.

“There’s no helping it,” I eye the bottle still nestled between my thighs “you simply had a fair bit to drink,” I pour a marginal amount of the bottle into my half-empty cup of cruddy water. I let the contents mix for a bit before gulping the moderately alcoholic-infused beverage. It’s still resoundingly horrible as I might expect, and I can taste the lameness in the alcoholic element as well. But looking over at Brutus, partaking in some spirits isn’t so bad after all when you’re in good company. Isn’t that right, Olga?

“Was the tea that bad?” Brutus asks wryly “rather… were both drinks so bad you have to look like you’ll vomit?”

“You might be horrible at preparing beverages, Brutus,” I reply heartily “but even so, it’s a good thing you have a good head on your shoulders, and a good heart. If you ever so much as find a wonderful partner, I’m sure she would consider herself a very lucky woman to have such a fine man by her side.”

When I finish, Brutus’s eyes flicker and he averts his eyes to the windows. I follow his gaze and take in the increasingly sparse number of Federation ships passing us. Soon, they are joined by an influx of both Mafia and Federation ships cruising, which could only mean that it’s only a matter of time before the withdrawal is completed. Then, the Trinidad will be released from captivity as well. And all of this will finally, truly be over.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Brutus looking over at me. The giant confidant reaches over and rests one of his enormous hands over mine—dwarfed in comparison. His large, burly hand radiates so much heat, but it’s a toasty touch I feel for only a second. Brutus draws back the next moment before our fingers interlock again—I can only wonder if my distressing coldness caught him off-guard.

It only becomes apparent about a burning sensation from my chest—as if resonating with Brutus’s warmness. So much so, I can’t help but clench it with my other hand, my heart beating with excitement. As if on cue, Brutus scoots closer with his chair, his welcoming bodily warmth more apparent. He reaches out with his free hand and brushes it against my disfigured cheek. His touch provides tenderness that feels so alien to me—a human touch that I haven’t experienced before. “B-Brutus?” I utter, surprised at the tone coming out of my mouth “what’s, what’s exactly gotten into you? I…”

“Li… what if…” Brutus inquires softly, he leans in closer to me. His warm breath, tinging with the stench of alcohol, flows into my face. His eyes are a little drowsy but still nonetheless fixated on interlocking with mine. “What if the one I want to be with is with you?” Brutus whispers, his fingers, carefully, intricately, trace their way up the mature scar tissue. As if on reflex, my eyes avert from his, and then I tilt my head away. I experience short yet intense breaths as Brutus leans in more. His eyes flickering in anticipation of my answer.

Is this right? Is this what Olga would’ve wanted? To move on and find someone else to be by my side? So many incoherent thoughts race through my mind, but it’s impossible to keep any coherent train of thought. My eyes, darting around in a mild daze, lock with Brutus’s once again. I open my mouth to speak—but Brutus’s words, as well as the effects of alcohol, have left me momentarily stunned. As Brutus inches closer to my face, I instinctively place a hand on his chest; grasping a handful of his shirting.

“Brutus,” I reply faintly “you deserve… someone so much more than me,” his eyes flicker, the fingers caressing my scar carefully curl up. “I’m a murderer, Brutus, amonster,” my shoulders shake with each utterance “there’s no hope for me to…” the sentence cuts off as I bite my lower lip. A lump in my throat makes it hard to say anymore. My grip on Brutus’s chest tightens, my nails digging through the cloth into my palm.

The profound sorrow in Brutus’s pained eyes is more than enough to obliterate my fragile heart. For a fleeting moment, I want to change my mind—reciprocate his feelings. But through my shrouded judgment, I know deep down it could never work out. It would be futile—only pain in dealing with our sins—with my demons. Before I get the chance to react, however, Brutus pushes himself away and reaches for the bottle between my legs, which he is capable of pulling out without an issue. Then with one last apologetic look in his eyes, he gets up.

“Brutus, I’m sorry…” I state remorsefully, standing up with him. “Brutus…” I say again, grabbing his shoulder. “Please…,” with quivering lips, I pull myself to his backside “I’m just terrified… what might happen if…”

“I went overboard, Li,” Brutus replies somberly, reaching behind to pet me on the head “rather or not Olga is alive, it wouldn’t be fair to her, would it?” My eyes widen at the mention of Olga, and I bury my face into his back. Brutus carefully wraps his arm around my head, making a ruffling mess of my bangs. “I don’t know what I was thinking, frankly… I’m still a tad drunk,” Brutus states with a gentle shake of his bottle. “Don’t hate me for it.”

“Hate you?” I inquire “I have no reason to hate you,” I look up in time to see the oaf smirk slightly. “But seeing you so distraught makes me fear…”

“Don’t think anything of it, Li,” Brutus interjects, turning around to hold me by the shoulders. “If anything, I want to kick myself for being too… proactive,” he looks around at intrigued onlookers—among them the dazzling Skop “I’m going to be the target of envy for a while, so I’m going to tactically retreat into my room and drown myself with this bottle of spirits,” Brutus lifts the bottle to view, the liquids slosh around inside.

“I’m sorry, Brutus,” I say softly, scanning the hub of onlookers and causing many—barring Skop—to return to work. “I’ve certainly caused you a lot of inconvenience over this.” Despite the cold-hearted rejection, Brutus shoots a scoff and puts his hands over mine, signaling for me to release my grip. He proceeds to walk away as he waves. “Brutus… are you sure you don’t want me to…” my cheeks flush and I pull my collar up to cover myself “…would it be wrong to accompany you to your room?”

I hear murmurs from nearby lackeys, and Brutus brushes it off again with another embarrassed scoff, “no, no… I think Skop here seems like he has something urgent to say, and you are still needed to oversee the Fed withdrawal,” Brutus reluctantly glances over his shoulder “I brought this upon myself Li— Madame. Don’t hate the men if I end up black and blue in the waste department, alright?” Brutus shoots me a melodramatic grin, waving one last time before exiting the bay. Skop steps forward, hands behind his back. He briefly pats his chest with a balled fist before resuming his previous posture.

“Madame,” Skop begins “…a little too much to drink? Rather rare of you,” he asks abruptly “is it a bad time to give a report?”

“No—it’s fine, on with it,” I remark bitterly, surprising myself with my attitude. Skop blinks owlishly before responding with a shrug. I rub my scar aggravatingly and take my seat at one of the chairs, but the lackey declines the offer to take a seat.

“The bridge boys wanted to let you know they project ninety-nine percent of the Fed navy has completed its withdrawal across Rouen, as promised,” he pauses to allow me to glance at both sides of the windows. To the naked eye, there is indeed only the familiar sight of pale-green, to dark brown, and the similarly clashing mish-mash of blips that compose the Mafia fleet. Only the menacing Trinidad remains, along with the handful of escort ships at her side. This does remind me I have yet to assess the damage and our exact losses—but would I be better off being none the wiser about it?

“Wonderful,” I reply dryly, leaning back into the cold steel of the seat “The Trinidad… permit it to join its fleet. I don’t want the Metropolitans to start developing any wrong ideas,” I sway my head to one side and rub the part of the scar that trails to my eyebrow.

“Right…,” Skop frowns “should we send any ships to escort it across the corridor?”

“No, that would just cause some unforeseen consequences, I bet,” I remark with a sigh “I’m letting them go, er… scot-free. Also, before I forget, I want all theCastelforte’s couriers to return to the mothership for a quick briefing. Seeing as most of our fleet don’t have transponders, it will be difficult in getting a head-count of who survived the battle, so I’ll need them gathered to collect data for me firsthand… and, send a transmission to the Taiga…,” I look up at Skop who nods in silence “I… want to know firsthand if—”

“If captain Kaiser is alive and well?” Skop inquires, and I silently nod my head “say no more, Madame, I will see to it as soon as possible if she and the others are in good health,” and with that, I dismiss Skop. Finding myself now alone, I slump into my chair, hugging myself, bracing for the dreadful news that I know awaits me.

I just wish Olga were here to keep me company, or even the bumbling Brutus. But thinking about our awkward exchange makes me want to cover my flushing face with my collar more.

It’s not long before the Trinidad receives permission to leave. The slumbering giant of a ship lurches forward, and then steadily gains traction as it and its companion ships sail across the Rouen corridor. I observe as most of the assembled Mafia fleet maneuvers out of the way to let it continue its voyage. With bated breath, I observe the situation, hoping that not a ship disobeys any order and fires on the freed hostages. But thankfully, nobody in their right minds is idiotic enough to pull a blunder like that.

As the Trinidad takes less form of a ship and more of a tiny dot, several approaching spheres approach the Castelforte —those that quickly resemble shuttle crafts. I watch from my chair as one after another hail the Castelforte, enter, and land without issue at designated landing spots. After they all land and the smoke clears, I get up from my chair and approach the pilots who have lined up before their shuttles.

But after scanning the men and shuttles, something feels off. The Castelfortegenerally has about seven shuttles in total. But it seems that two or three are missing. And seeing as I watched all of them enter this shuttle bay, there’s no possibility of any parking in the Castelforte’s secondary bay block. Is it just my imagination? Are some of them still out there, just being slow on their return?

I position myself in front of them, and after a few moments of scanning their expressions—some are poker-faced, others look overly nervous for some odd reason. The suspicion returns, but I try to suppress it for the time being.

“I recalled you all to have you go around the fleet and be my eyes and ears on assessing the fleet’s damage—namely those who lack the means of communication. Find out from the surviving lieutenants who survived, and who perished. Then report to me your findings, that’ll be all,” I clear my throat, scanning the faces of the troubled men once more. Some stiffen up, others remain composed, stoic. One of the fellows quiveringly bites down on his lip.

For a moment, I can’t stand to understand why they are all nervous—and like a falling anvil, it hits me. Even though none of them particularly stand out to me, it’sbecause I don’t recognize any one of them that it makes me realize I don’t see that reckless, red-bandanna-wearing Julius with the prosthetic limbs among them.

“It has been nagging at me until now,” I remark tersely if a little hesitant “but it crossed my mind that I don’t see the pilot Julius among you…” I take a few steps closer to the lined-up men, some of the stoic ones lose their composure the closer I get. A few were beginning to sweat already, if only a little. “Julius… is he still out?” I muse as I stroke the mature scar tissue over my nose bridge. “I would have figured he would be among the first to arrive.”

“Madame…” one of them speaks up “Julius…” he trails off, his eyes flicker for only a brief moment before he clamps them shut, teeth grit. I feel a slight tinge of fear creep up my spine—has the dice of rate cruelly taken more from me? No, it couldn’t be. I don’t want to believe it for even a second.

“Julius,” I whisper, trying to contain my anger “where is he?” I ask more sternly, but none of the men answer. I quickly approach the nearest one and grab him by the collar“where is he?!” I shout again into the pilot’s terrified face. But upon realizing what I’ve done, I set him down. Shaken, the man collapses to the ground, breathing heavily.

“Julius…

“Julius died, Madame,” another pilot expresses. I reel around to face the speaker: a well-toned, stern-faced man.

What? No.

“…What did you say?” I whisper, an eye twitch and pulsating pain from my scar. I leave the paralyzed man on the floor and confront the middle-aged pilot. “Do I have to repeat myself?” I ask nearly butting heads with the pilot “…what did you say?”

“Julius was killed when he was trying to deliver orders to ships that failed to realize the Ruthenian motives in time. His shuttle… it must’ve been hit by stray shrapnel,” The man pauses, closing his eyes and heaving heavily “by the time we investigated, the inside resembled a pile of hamburgers…” behind him, his fellow pilots wince and look away in morbid disgust “…Julius probably never even had time to realize what was happening,” the pilot, having looked upwards amid my piercing gaze, finally locks eyes with me. He reaches for his back pocket and takes out a golden-scarlet bandanna—one with splotches of crimson. With a shaking hand, I take it from him.

If it were an anvil dropped on me earlier, then it is a grand piano that comes crashing down. I stumble a few steps back in complete shock. The true meaning of Julius’s absence becomes all too clear. ‘When this is all done and over with, and assuming we live through this slaughter, how about I treat you to the finest champagne Toscana has to offer? You can count on me…!’

The words of that overly bold, handsome pilot ring loudly in my mind. How much more must I suffer? Like a resilient pest, that agonizing question robs me of my thoughts. Once more a promise is broken. Once more I’ve lost somebody who dared get close to me. Fate’s roll of the die proves yet again to be unfair. Unjust. Unequal.

I fall to my knees before I know it, my body too numb from the revelation. My hands tremble once more, my grasp on the silky bandanna tightens as I bring it to my lips. None say a word, and the moment of silence fervently lingers in the air. When I do look up at the men, they return gazes with uncertainty. “Well?” I utter “what are you waiting for?” I point behind them at their shuttles “go! I gave you all a direct order. The least you fools can do fulfill it in his memory—you can do that much, can’t you?!”

With that declaration, the men quickly give their salutes and scurry off to their shuttlecraft. With a painful grunt, I heave myself up off the floor and shuffle away from the parked shuttles. Soon after, the suffocating smoke from engine startups sweeps through the hanger block as one after the another begins their ascent. It takes me a while to find my way through the choking mist that stings my eyes but also leaves a burning sensation on my damaged tissue. But when I do find both of the cheap-looking chairs, I take my place at one of them. The cold, hard surface of the seat does little to make me feel any less miserable than I already am.

I hold Julius’s bandanna closely to my chest, squeezing the cloth tightly as I watch the shuttles accelerate away from the Castelforte. It pains me deeply knowing that Julius is not among them—or perhaps taking a rest at my side—along with Brutus, and Olga, too. I would’ve wanted to enjoy this beautiful dawning light with all three of them.

But the roll of dice thrown by fate has proven time and again it will stop at nothing to see me suffer—even if it means producing a body of victims in the wake of dreadful circumstances. I do not know how much more crushing my fortunes may be, but I will never yield. I can’t resign to my fate after coming this far even though I am tired of it all. I wish for nothing but for these terrible dice rolls to end. But until it does, and until I can find peace, I will endure as much as I can with the ones I have left by my side.

I look down at my feet and scoop up the now-room temperature cup of watered-down cruddy alcohol. There’s still more than enough of it to drink, and without another thought, I take a few grimacing gulps from it. Just as I thought, it tastes disgustingly murky than before. Only does drinking it now after all this time does it make me wish I had poured more beforehand from Brutus’s bottle. At the end of it all, drinking alone simply makes me long for some company to enjoy it with.