The journey through the central block is time Simon and I spend in silence, at our respective seats. The towering establishments, crowded as they are here in the capitol sector, are just as imposing looming over us as they are from a distance. Eventually, much like the outlying villages from before, the sight of these intimidating dwellings becomes sparse. But unlike the expectation of seeing humble villages, we ride into vast swaths of land dotted with trees and the occasional lonely metal works.

But it’s not long before we ride into the industrial zone. Or more specifically, the industrial area and the adjacent housing area. On my side, well-kept—as well as the occasional neglected—green plazas scatter the Side’s landscape. Accompanying them are an assortment of apartment complexes, many are gray in their scheme but some with long-faded colorful attributes, and all mainly uniform in size: at least five stories high. It is here that most of the Brunsbüttel reside—those who are too poor to rent a better life in the city or even the estates in the first block. My father’s regime has, by large, chosen to neglect them—Simon and I do what we can to elevate their living standards throughout the years, however.

As beautiful as these plazas are, they do little to offset the overall miserableness that many continue to endure. The choking air, the suffocation of the nearby industrial plants, and the ever-constant fear of overpopulation in the complexes and food shortages bring me pain watching these people go about their days in agony. It pains me seeing children suffer, and since coming to this Side I’ve done all I could to provide them and their families with adequate support, rather it is generous donations or overseeing recreational centers, it’s simply never enough.

Stroking my scar tissue, I am left to wonder again how much more suffering these poor souls would have to endure if a Federation occupation force. The remainder of that dreadful Legionnaire landing force at Baltit grits my teeth: my imagination runs wild at the idea of legionnaires committing one atrocity after another on civilians that have done no wrong. But regardless of my victories, these people continue to suffer regardless. But that’s just one possibility of what could happen had I lost. For all I know, in a scenario where the Metropolitans succeeded at crushing the Mafia forces, there is a possibility that the occupation force won’t do anything nefarious at all. There is a possibility that the military might consider looking into doing what the previous establishments couldn’t do and improve the welfare of the general populace.

But frankly, there is little point in lamenting when the aftermath is set in stone. I have won, and the status quo throughout Toscana has been maintained. With a heavy sigh, I rest my arms and head on the open window, letting the rushing air lash me with each passing moment. For a moment, I blink tirelessly, intending to take a much-needed rest until we reach my manor.

But the more we pass through the residential-industrial block, the more something seems off to me. The atmosphere is denser than usual. Tent compounds become more prominent as we race through the horizon. Thick fogs blanket the whole top surface of the Side, owing to the despicable manufacturing plants situated nearby. But something seems different than the norm. Normally, the foggy clouds are not this prominent. Peering more out the window, I scan the horizon closely.

A few kilometers away is a rather steep valley—or, rather, a collapsed trench line. It is by large a straight line that seemingly stretches past the naked eye. Almost all of it cuts through the scenic fields, and at one point it has resulted in the partial collapse of an unfortunate apartment complex: some construction lifts can be seen surrounding the building, joined by a herd of tents and similar temporary housing, like small to medium-sized steel huts.

Dotting the trench’s cliffs are construction vehicles, mainly bulldozers and the occasional dump truck. Enormous mountains of earth next to any given one, sometimes piles of steel beams nearby. Leaning out the window some more, and bearing the unforgiving wind, I squint at the surface above us. Through the thick mist, I can make out a concerningly large circular silhouette swarmed by shuttlecraft hard at work with damage control.

It doesn’t take long for me to connect the dots: this must be the same damage to the Brunsbüttel that is visible on the exterior. Sitting back in my seat, I look over at the front mirror at Mark. “Mark, if you may, I’d like to make a detour real quick,” Mark glances at the mirror with surprise.

“Detour?” He asks, eyes trained on the road, “what for?” After I point at the trench line, Mark seems to think for a moment, his gaze shifting to Simon before giving a nod. “I see… let me see if there’s any parking. That damn sergeant bloke is always giving me a pat-down when I happen to pass through this area… always going on about my habits jumping from pubs, and such.”

“He’s a good man,” Simon muses “I’d be worried if you were behind the wheel, too. Sober or not, you have a tendency for road-rage,” when Simon finishes, Mark lets out a disagreeing grunt. Nonetheless, Mark heeds my request and pulls off the main road onto a well-worn dirt path leading to the proximity of the enormous ditch. After coming to a stop, I unbuckle and step out of the car, then make my way around the vehicle towards the cliff. And after seeing it up close and personal, I get a sense of dread at just how imposing the artificially produced valley is.

Being careful to look down below, I catch my breath at just how deep it seems to go. It could be more than fifteen meters long, perhaps more than twenty. The rift is likely just as wide, but possibly shorter. Peering more, I can make out metallic fragments marred with parts long burnt to a crisp. Several men are on and near it trying to excavate the remains. From behind, I am firmly gripped by Simon, possibly ensuring that I don’t fall to an early death.

“You must be wondering how this happened,” Simon says, stroking his chin. I nod, taking a step back from the edge before giving my insight.

“When I first saw the damage from the Castelforte, I surmised it was because of collateral damage from a civilian uprising. But I realize now that can’t be the case… it was too peaceful when we rode through the colony. If an incident had occurred, there would’ve been lackeys roaming about. It wouldn’t add up,” a brief pause as I stroke my damaged cheek tissue, “did it happen after I left for Valspon? I can’t say the idea ever crossed my mind that it could’ve even happened after the fleet first departed for Velksland. No, wait…” I turn to face Simon. Simon, having since let go, stands next to me with his arms crossed.

“It happened when Che sent the messenger from Baltit,” Simon says grimly, again rubbing his chin with a pained look “poor kid was at death’s door when I got to him. I was barely capable of comprehending the message he had of the Feds launching an invasion of Valspon,” Simon says, shaking his head “the workers down there told me the shuttle was stripped down nearly to nothing—not even a life support system. Poor guy endured so many jumps, and the doc said he suffered a lot of trauma because of it.”

I clench my pained heart. Swallowing newfound guilt.

“I recall hearing it from Sergi,” I say softly, turning my attention back to the sorry aftermath of the shuttle crash, “but I had no idea Che was in such desperation…,” I pause as I look back at Simon, “was it only one pilot?”

“That’s correct,” Simon says. As I look over the shuttle remains, I find it obvious the survivor would’ve long been moved by now. Indeed, after looking up to scan our surroundings, there is an unusually spacious compound with actual structures installed not far off from us. This, I take it, would be the rapid response medical facility. Unfortunately for the populace here, the nearest hospitable establishments are only a few clinics: the closest actual hospital is in the central block. If there would’ve been an attempt to move him to a proper facility, I have no doubt he wouldn’t survive the journey.

“The pilot… is he still alive?” I ask quietly, uncertainty in my voice. Simon is quiet for a moment before he responds with a slight nod.

“You want to pay him a visit?” Simon asks. Before I get the chance to reply, I am interrupted by the loud humming of Rocco’s car as it pulls up beside ours. It’s only after the engine dies down and the slamming of doors subsides do I give my answer.

“I suppose… I feel an obligation to do so,” I say, stroking my bangs, “never has so much been owed by so few,” I grimace a smirk at Simon, “I feel as though that is something you would say,” Simon chuckles and shrugs. Simon aside, I turn my attention to Brutus and Olga who have since joined us. “Sorry, you two, I’m going to pay a small visit to a Baltit survivor,” I state, pointing at the medical compound near us, “you can join me if you wish. It won’t be long, I hope.”

“I’m sure the fella would appreciate the visit more if you had a maid outfit on,” Simon muses, I nod before tinging from a frown. “Maybe it was a bad idea not to have one on hand…?”

“Sorry, what did you say?” I ask—and to my surprise, Olga has uttered something similar at the same time. Brutus is puzzled, perhaps in disbelief at what he heard—or thought he heard, as well.

“Oh, nothing!” Simon says with a hearty chuckle, “just an old geezer spouting nonsense,” Simon takes a few steps back and limps over to the two cars. “I’ll wait by over here—and I promise,” Simon glances back with a smirk, “I won’t be passing the time with a smoke: I swear.”

Bearing the moderate stinging, I smile, “I suppose I’ll take your word for it, Simon, it won’t be long. And as for you two,” I shift my attention to the other two looming over me, “if you wish to join me, you are more than welcome to.”

“I don’t mind…” Brutus says wryly “it beats sitting in a cramped car for hours on end! Now that we’re up and about, it doesn’t hurt for some proper exercise.”

“My,” Olga interjects with surprising smugness, “I was expecting you to complain about having to coop up with me in the car,” she steps closer to Brutus and pokes him with her elbow. Brutus only sags his shoulders and cuts loose an exasperated sigh. Pinching my scarred brow, I am left to wonder if it was, in fact, a mistake to leave the two of them alone. When I meet Rocco and Rami, the two of them shrug in defeat. It is times like these I wonder if Olga is a force to be reckoned with. “Well, that aside,” Olga continues “I think Brutey has the right mindset. We’re out and about, and if we’re getting crammed into those cars again, then I guess it only makes sense to make the most of our free time.”

As Olga and I start walking to the medical compound, Brutus doesn’t seem to accompany us. Looking back, the large oaf seems baffled. “Is something the matter, Brutus?” I ask, giving a slight rub of my cheek tissue.

“Brutey?” Brutus gazes at Olga. I can’t refrain from cracking a smirk.

“Brutey…” I repeat slyly. Brutus wags a finger before catching up to join us by my side, opposite of Olga.

“No,” the oaf says sternly, “I’m not going to let you start giving me ridiculous nicknames. So don’t even think about putting ideas in her head,” Brutus says, shooting Olga a glare.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Brutey,” Olga says coolly, attempting to force a whistling tune.

“I’m not letting this become a habit!” Brutus says more sternly this time. He then gazes at me with a frown, “look, Madame, I don’t complain about my treatment much. You know that, so… please, just this once, I’m begging that you and Olga don’t make this some kinda habit.”

“I think it’s rather affectionate, Brutey,” I remark warmly “it’s… cute.” Brutus lets out a long, pained groan, slapping himself in the face.

“Spare me, will you?” Brutus laments, to which Olga and I are more than eager to answer with a resounding no.

[author] Chapter was nearing 5k and wasn't finished yet, so I decided to cut it into two. Thanks for reading![/author]