01 - Defend the Kojima Reactors

>/I made it, old man/.
>/OMER’s gonna make me their Lynx. Surgery’s two weeks out from now/.
>/Pay’s good. Real good. A few years there, and mom’ll be safe. Might even make enough for her to skip out to another colony/.
>/…/
>/…Don’t gimme that fuckin’ look/.
>/You ain’t comin’/.
>/Only reason you’re still around is ‘cause I/-

>“Anon?”
>The sudden chatter rips you from your wanton rumination, staggeringly clear; sharp, even.
>Returning from your deep-seated traipse into memory, your mind isn’t sure which of your bodies to return to first, but the AMS makes the decision on its own, however jarringly.
>Nestled in the NEXT’s head, your viewfinder beholds endless stretches of sloping ash and irradiated sands as you barrel over all of it at a steady pace of nearly eleven hundred kilometers per hour. 
>Aside from the dust you’re kicking up, it’s a pristine little patch of nowhere.
>You check radar once, twice, three times - a blank slate for each.
>You’re alone in the greyout.
“Yeah?”
>A terse moment passes before your operator speaks again, the raspiness of her voice choked away by the cold static of your comms unit.
>“Your brain waves spiked,” she explains, monotone. “Just making sure you’re okay.”
“All good here.”
>“Mm.”
>Apart from the dull rumbling of the NEXT plowing onward, an uncomfortable silence all but strangles the two of you.
>It’s so unlike her.
“Distance to OBJ?”
>“Two minutes out. No errors with the Judith?”
“None. Paid good creds for this FCS, it /better/ not fuck up. The vendor said it was factory new.”
>Even so, you eye your readout like a hawk. Targeting systems failing in the middle of a sortie isn’t something you’re keen to navigate. 
>You hear her typing away over the radio for a few moments before the audio fizzles into a far grainier quality.
>“…Alright, we’re on a closed channel,” she breathes, her sigh charged with apprehension. “Anon, this sortie’s a crock of shit.”
>The body you were born with, nestled deep within the core of the NEXT, furrows its brow.
“Can’t RTB now. The transponder’s been on since I left the garage.”
>“We can say the FCS didn’t work out. It’s a third party component, it happens all the time.”
“They’ll want the readouts when we get back.”
>“What about a health issue? You said you were feeling a bit light headed when you hooked up to the AMS earlier.”
“You know they won’t buy that, Hel.”
>She falls silent, and your lamentable guts roil with guilt.
>Unwilling to let the roar of the engines dominate the airwaves, you speak up on your own after another pregnant pause.
“…Listen, I’m not gonna pretend I don’t have the jitters over this whole thing, but the payout’s exactly what we need. Once we’re done, we’re making tracks /tonight/, alright?”
>Static, and the sound of a comms station idling some hundred or so miles behind you.
“Hel?”
>“…You better not get cold feet this time,” she nearly whispers, the young, headstrong recruit you’d met four years ago all but buried.
>It hurts what’s left of your heart.
“I promise, kid. Run me through the MO one more time, I wanna be thorough.”
>You know it by heart after agonizing over it for days, but you’d rather not let the poor girl worry herself to death - no matter how justified she is.
>A moment later, your immaculate view of the wasteland is dimmed as a rudimentary model of the facility’s layout flickers into existence, its neon grid pounding at the backs of your eyes.
>If only the combat cocktail you were dosed up on had eletriptan in it.
>“The intel division received reports yesterday that one of their legacy Kojima reactor plants, located in Grid 0256-B, was being actively scouted by a Normal of unknown affiliation equipped with multispectral cloaking systems and radar jamming suites. After the craft was disabled, the pilot refused to divulge any information about his employers or mission directive.”
>The model rotates to offer a top-down view of the base and its surrounding terrain. Sat at the bottom of a massive sand basin, a massive rock shelf jutting from the earth to its immediate rear envelops the sprawling subterranean sections of the facility, shielding it from direct attack.
>That said, the surface facilities may as well be a kill house. Tiny, totally exposed, boxed in by its own walls - so much so that base defenses would be woefully ineffective against any well-planned attack.
>You’re stumped as to why Omer thought to put a facility there in the first place, no matter how safe it may be in a region as remote as this.
>“They’re expecting an assault soon,” Hel continues. “Orbital scans confirm that a large ground force is mobilizing, currently twenty five hundred kilometers out. Two hostile NEXTs were spotted in the formation as well; as a precaution, they’ve bolstered the base’s defense systems and called for a company Lynx to be stationed on-site.”
>You grumble as the schematics disappear from view, the world regaining its light.
“They’re decommissioning the place in a few weeks, right? What do they care if it goes up in smoke?”
>“Even this far out, a blown reactor’s bad news,” she explains. “Radiation’ll shut down a couple important supply routes nearby, ones Omer doesn’t want to part with.” 
>You grumble to yourself. 
>They’ve been trying to get rid of you quietly for months now. Faulty equipment here, bad intel there, the works. Anything to keep your execution an unassuming affair; a sob story that all prying eyes would be satisfied with.
>Evidently, the depths of their polite depravity were still being hollowed out.
>One Lynx in a lightweight NEXT to stop all of that?
>Pompous fuckin’ snakes. Who do they think they’re fooling?
>…
>They’ll get what they want, then. Not exactly how they envisioned it, but they’ll get it.
>In your impatience, you disengage the safety on your dual rifles. Combat mode engages and the heads-up display comes alive, the horizon a portrait now framed by indicators and headings. 
“I’ll get it done. Hel, the /moment/ I wrap shit up over here, get over to our secondary exfil down by the south wall. I’ll meet you there after I get paid.”
>“A-firm, el capitan,” she replies, a bit of her vigor returning. “Want me to grab some grub for you?”
“Yeah, but just get somethin’ from a back alley vendor. We don’t need anybody… spotting…”
>You trail off, thoughts of cheap rations and coffee sludge drowned out by the sight before you.
>More sand, more dust, more dunes; but there, an inordinate stretch in front of you, you notice a funnel of undulating black.
>It splinters the sky in two, imperceptible to unaugmented vision at this range.
>A smoke stack.
>“Oh, /shit/,” Hel exclaims. “That’s the facility!”
>Your overbooster engages before you can consciously recognize you’d commanded it.
>In a matter of seconds, you’re stopping hard at the edge of the basin, peering headlong into the center of the trough as you kick up the long-settled dust around you.
>The billowing stovepipe of smog is monstrous at this distance, encompassing the majority of the above-ground dome installation. Light bends and refracts wantonly around its very base, where bright flames try their damndest to lap at the sky above.
>“Reactor facility 0256-B, this is NEXT callsign Presage and its operator, Helene Allard,” Hel calls out over the base’s official channel. “If you’re receiving this message, respond immediately. I say again: if anyone’s alive to hear this, /respond immediately/.” 
>While you both wait for something back, you scan the radar, but find nothing to suggest that whoever did this stuck around.
>“Not getting anything,” she says, flustered. “HQ completed those orbital scans this morning… Did we get bad intel?”
>You eye the precious few parts of the base that aren't covered in ash, watching for any sign of movement.
“Unlikely, given who we work for. Probe their network, gimme a status on those reactors.”
>Moments pass; the blaze rages on.
>“Fully operational,” she relays in disbelief. “I can’t hail HQ, either.”
>That little niggling feeling in the base of your gut skyrockets into full-volume alarm bells.
“Comms error?”
>“No, the line’s just… completely dead,” she stutters, her nerves getting the better of her.
>Not that you blame her, of course - if your real body weren’t immersed in inertia dampener gel, it’d be sweating bullets.
>“Anon, whatever’s going on, you need to get out of there. Screw HQ, this whole thing is tits up. We-“
>Unexpectedly, an emergency flare erupts from the plume, its crimson glow a knife through the tangible sense of dread.
>You trace its trajectory all the way back to the very center of the desolation, where the fire seems to be raging the hardest.
>Beyond the rolling inferno, not even /you/ can see.
>You glance at the radar again, but with each rhythmic sweep of the area, the analog canvas returns blank.
>…
“…Search and rescue’ll get ‘em,” you mutter, fully aware there will be no such operation. “I’m not chancin’ it.”
>Hel sighs in relief as you gently engage your frontside thrusters, sliding away from the edge and turning back in the direction of where you came from.
>“/Thank you/,” she nearly whispers. “I’ll disconnect and start packing up once you’re halfway home, just to be sa-”
>The target lock alert screams alive only a second before you’re shunted forward by several explosive impacts to the rear of your NEXT.
>Primal armor renders the blow painless, but you cry out in shock nonetheless.
>You spin back around, and to your dismay, your own targeting system whirrs to life as it combs the newly occupied basin.
>Wisps of soot and ash whip about from the backs of the three scorched NEXTs now barrelling up towards you.
>At the front of the pack, a lightweight blades-only craft shatters the sound barrier as it engages its overbooster, arm reared back for an upward swing.
>Flanking to your left, a mid-range with reverse joint legs takes off into the sky, its dual rifles trained on your position.
>The furthest away by a decent margin is a missile boat on tank treads, a fresh volley of ordinance now slung free from its shoulder-mounted and handheld launchers.
>In response, the AMS hookup floods your flesh with an extra dose of combat stimulants.
>Tastes like noise.
>Your thoughts narrow as a heartbeat - your own - begins to pound in your ears.
>Your field of view widens, environmental details sharpen.
>You don’t care where or how they hid. 
>Who they are is inconsequential.
>They’ll sink beneath the sand all the same.
>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2tyuG3Mjm0
>“Enemy lock!” Hel shouts into her headset. “Evade, evade!”
>You’ll do just that.
>A quickboost to the right sees the lightweight NEXT barely miss you as it rips past, its laser blade humming as it cuts through open air.
>You keep the momentum going as you shift into a backpedal, the overeager brawler still hot on your tail.
>The new FCS locks onto him in a matter of milliseconds at this range, and you open the taps with your assault rifles and back-mounted grenade launcher.
>His primal armor ripples and undulates under the strain of automatic fire, but holds firm. 
>He weaves left just as the rocket barrage arrives. You dodge most of it with another quickboost, but a few stray rockets make contact despite your frenetic pace. 
>All the while, the concerningly accurate airborne Lynx rains munitions on you with his own weapons, chipping away at you.
>Bastard must’ve tuned his NEXT for sustained flight.
>Another target lock alert breaks your concentration.
>From the corner of your eye, you spot another cluster of rockets heading your way.
>You need cover.
>Playing defense against the airborne Lynx with your shoulder-mounted scatter missiles, you make a break for the biggest dune nearby, which breaks the missile lock.
>The dogfighter grounds himself, no doubt to evade.
>The melee NEXT charges you again, but he peels off behind the dune when you pelt him with the remaining grenade launcher ammunition.
>Alone, if only for a moment or two.
>You purge the armament from your back and instantly become several tons lighter.
>You’ve still got the compact missile launcher, so defensive options are solid.
>“AP’s at two thirds left,” Hel anxiously informs you over comms. “That first hit took a chunk out of you, but the primal armor got most of it.”
>A haggard sigh fills the air; for a moment, you don’t even recognize it as your own voice.
“Who the fuck /are/ these guys?” you ask, heated as you turn to face the massive mound of sand. “Independents?”
>“They aren’t registered on Collared. I tried to check HQ’s Lynx database, too, but I can’t get in. But their combat maneuvers, their tactics, they…”
>She trails off in a stupor before she can finish her sentence, but you weren’t born yesterday.
>It was all straight out of the company playbook.
“Kill comms and get to secondary exfil.”
>“/What/? Anon-”
“Smuggler’s already got her credits, she’ll take you when you get there.”
>Your stillborne attempt at continuing your instruction is choked out by all three enemy NEXTs soaring over the dune, weapons pointed in your direction.
>Your newfound speed helps you evade fire more efficiently as you circle around the terrain in a desperate attempt to bait a one-on-one with the melee build.
>To your chagrin, the aerial ace quickboosts back over the hill, lighting you up the entire time.
>You sling a missile salvo his way to throw his aim off while the pest of the group bears down on you.
>Both rifles tear his primal armor almost completely away, but instead of evading this time, he overboosts straight at you for a downward swing.
>The ghastly mint glow of his armor is completely withered by the maneuver, but it puts him directly in front of you.
>You dodge left, but the blade just barely clips the upper section of your right leg unit, passing right through the rectification field and taking a solid chunk of primal armor with it.
>It leaves a nasty gash, and your overall AP dips a considerable amount as a result, but you quickly turn and shred him with more rifle fire.
>His generator tries to re-form his armor by sloughing out Kojima particles, but it isn’t fast enough. 
>You punch enough holes into the core that dampener fluid from the cockpit begins to spill out from them, some of it stained red.
>The NEXT skids and falls face-first into the sand, crumpling under the force of its own momentum.
>Must’ve been eager to prove himself. 
>…His friends aren’t gonna go as easily.
>“AP just dropped below half,” Hel exclaims. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not leaving you!”
“You’re a loose end!” you shout as the two remaining NEXTs appear from behind the dune and reacquire you. “Don’t even pack, just /run/, god damn it! Use the old tunnels!”
>More missiles, more machine gun fire. You chain boost to evade while trading blows with the reverse joint NEXT, but he’s somehow just as agile as you.
>Your AP keeps dropping.
>“But what about-”
>The distant shattering of a window interrupts her.
“I’ll be fine! /GO/!”
>“…Damn it, Anon,” she mutters brokenheartedly as you hear her rip the headset off and run.
>The comms link falls to pure static, and a moment later, goes completely silent.
>You know she doesn’t believe you. Naivete was never something you could attribute to her.
>That’s the least of your worries, though, as the corner of your hud flashes red after another close scrape with a missile salvo.
>“AP at forty-two percent,” your onboard AI chimes in.
>You’ve got plenty of ammo to throw around, but not enough time to see the war of attrition all the way through.
>The strain on Presage’s hull is starting to register on your brain, like a barbell steadily having weight added as you hold it. Before long, you’ll break under the pressure.
>If you run, they’ll just gun you down with your tail between your legs.
>You can throw yourself at them in an all-out assault, but that wouldn’t do any good beyond getting you killed even faster.
>And sure, you can keep hugging the dune, but that reverse-jointed cunt’ll just keep you in check by hovering just out of range.
>Everything you come up with, they have an answer for.
>Your evasion turns almost absent-minded as your breath hitches in your throat, veins frosted over.
>There’s no way out. You’re gonna die here, swallowed by the gray sands, an obscured footnote in OMER’s storied expanse of cruelty.
>You aren’t even afforded the comfort of knowing Hel is safe. 
>The worst case scenario, like a broken record, plays out ad nauseum in your head.
>Her body, as still as the unmarked crypt it’s bound for.
>Blood running, filling the cracks in cheap linoleum tiles.
>Faceless aggressors spouting codified legal nonsense as they stand over her, as if she can still hear them.
>All of this for /nothing/.
>Your icy blood boils at the very thought. You begin to wonder if an all-out assault might be in the cards after all, but as the reality of the inevitable sets in, another path presents itself to you.
>One that, in better circumstances, you’d slap yourself for even considering.
>If you can’t bury them in sand, you’ll bury them in glass.
>Turning on a dime, you set off for the reactor facility, your opponents following close behind.
>You’re far more vulnerable to missiles, being chased in the open like this, but that advantage won’t last.
>As you skate down the side of the basin, your hud flashes once more.
>“AP at thirty-four percent.”
>You reach the front gates and plow headfirst into the flames. Even sheltered away beneath untold layers of steel and shielding, your body begins to sweat.
>Through the miasma, you spot the silo doors that lead to the facility’s lower levels.
>They’re closed, but that won’t stop you. A few missiles to the least structurally sound segments, and they’re blown to bits under the impact, revealing a massive industrial elevator shaft.
>No wonder they planned on closing the place down.
>As you plummet into the lowest guts of the facility, your comms link sputters to life once more; an unknown contact is hailing you.
>You dismiss it before it can ring twice - it’s way too late for that.
>The elevator itself buckles under your feet as you hit the bottom and immediately boost forward.
>Old turrets and other lethargic defense systems kick on as you charge down spacious corridors, all struck down before they can even begin to process you as a target.
>The lack of base personnel only further confirms the self-serving sabotage at play.
>Somewhere behind, you hear your pursuers crash down into the metal labyrinth as well, but it brings forth no further sense of urgency. At this pace, you’ll have /just/ enough time.
>As you blow through one last set of doors, the roomy halls culminate into the beating heart of the facility.
>Sat in the middle of a colossal open space are the two Kojima reactors you were assigned to protect, pulsating to such a degree within their solid steel shells that even Presage seems to vibrate in tandem.
>Free-floating particles lilt through the air, the entire room painted in their deathly luminescence.
>The radiation is so strong that your primal armor’s strength starts falling rapidly, your AP following suit.
>“AP at thirty percent. Consider immediate combat withdrawal.”
>The moment you cross into the room, you train your weapons on the reactor core closest to you and fire away. All the while, you begin prepping your generator for an assault armor burst, which should add enough particles to the reaction to bring it to criticality.
>Free of any complications, such as up-to-code rectification field defenses, your bullets sink effortlessly into the target, shredding the integrity of the carapace.
>Just as it peels away to reveal the blinding reaction underneath, your assailants burst into the room, boosting at wild angles to avoid catching the cores in the crossfire.
>It’s all too little, too late, though. The energy buildup in your generator reaches its crescendo, and your primal armor explodes outwards in one last act of defiant violence.
>Time slows to a near-crawl as you scream your lungs out, taken completely by fear and rage.
>Arcs of energy dance from Presage to whatever they deem worthy of their presence, a mass of them converging on the reactor.
>The two assassins hang suspended in the air, eerily still. You curse them with all of the remaining resentment in your heart, leaving you with nothing left but regret.
>Regret for your choices, for your friends, for your parents…
>For Hel.
>Dead or not, you’re halfway through mourning her when the world erupts into pure white, and nearly all thought ceases.
>Moments from giving in completely, though, something strange happens.
>Soundless and searing, the pale, unending death begins to pull apart into fractals of brilliant pastel color, like the threads of a shirt unraveling as it’s ripped open.
>A cold unlike you’ve ever felt blankets you in both flesh and metal.
>Ever so faintly, you hear a clicking noise somewhere behind you, and it all fades to black.

…

>You jolt awake.
>…
>…Awake?
>No, that’s not right, you just-
>Biblical pain threatens to split your skull open from the inside out, and the vibration from your resulting moans make it far worse.
>You fall silent as you cradle your head in your hands - your /real/ hands, to your surprise.
>Did your AMS jack decouple from your occipital socket during all of that…?
>Blind feeling with your nearly-numb digits confirms as such, the barely noticeable divot in your skull remarkably empty.
>That could be an issue.
>Fearful of more pain, your eyes slowly glide open, and the claustrophobic cockpit of your NEXT greets you bathed in red emergency lights.
>The stasis tank surrounding your pilot’s chair hasn’t drained yet, so you hit the manual override underneath the seat and sit back as the dampener fluid drains loudly into the hidden reservoir beneath you.
>Time for your least favorite part.
>You hug your stomach tightly and lean over the railing as you flex your abs and begin to wretch.
>The protestations of your vocal chords are cut short by the unceasing flow of dampener fluid, expelled first from your lungs and then from your stomach with each heave.
>When you’re finally cleared enough to breathe, you gasp for air, each breath tainted by the pungent stench of your innards.
>The glass tube recedes into the alloy panels above, and you fall back into your chair as you shakily fetch your telemetry tablet from its smoothed-over slot in the wall.
>You connect it to the power socket in your chair, thankful that the backup generator kicked in somehow. The readout is nothing but the basics, but that’s about all you can handle at the moment.
>Against all odds, all limbs of the NEXT are still present and accounted for. The exact damage to each unit is unknown, sure, but at the very least, they’re still there.
>The main generator is offline and took heavy damage to its circuitry, no doubt thanks to the stunt you pulled with the assault burst.
>The onboard AI is offline, but the emergency power is just enough to support comms and log entries through the tablet.
>Your most pressing question, however, isn’t addressed.
>How are you even /alive/?
>You’d think you were done and dusted, but the throbbing in your head, the frigid air turning your skin prickly, the foul smell… it’s all far too real to wave off.
>Your fingers, still replete with paresthesia and slow to respond to your commands, tab over to the radio display.
>Hel’s compromised, so you’ll have to wait for /her/ to call /you/, if anything.
>Before you can become bogged down by indecision, you start to work your way down the relatively small list, starting with your garage.
“NEXT callsign Presage to Navel Mechworks, requesting emergency rescue in grid 0256-B. Will provide details and payment upon acceptance of assignment. How copy?”
>Static.
>Line Ark should have a listening station nearby…
“NEXT callsign Presage to Line Ark HQ, requesting emergency rescue in grid 0256-B. My craft is disabled and I'm in immediate danger of Kojima radiation poisoning. How copy?”
>More static.
>Okay… Collared, then?
>Your would-be assassins weren’t registered with them, so it should be safe.
“NEXT callsign Presage to Collared, requesting emergency rescue in grid 0256-B. Will provide considerable payment upon acceptance of assignment, provided the responding Lynx acts with discretion. How copy?”
>Dead air.
>Collared can be reached damn near anywhere - the Kojima radiation outside must be interfering with your comms capabilities.
>Even so, you make one final hail mary, no matter how queasy it renders you.
“This is NEXT callsign Presage in the blind, requesting rescue. Can /anyone/ hear me?”
>…Nothing.
>You’re dead in the water, entombed by the metal sarcophagus surrounding you.
>Stricken, you swipe over to the pilot log tab and begin a brief recording.
“This is NEXT callsign Presage, Lynx-”
>You cut yourself short. 
>What use are titles now?
“This is Anonymous T. Rasa, entry dated second of April… I’m gonna die.”
>You pause for a moment to collect yourself.
“The blast didn’t kill me, but I almost wish it did. I’ve got no food or water, and if dehydration doesn’t take me first, the radiation levels outside /will/ once they seep into the cockpit. I don’t really wanna find out what severe dehydration feels like, so… yeah. Hell of a way to go, after getting so close to the end.”
>You inadvertently shiver as another wave of pain wracks your head.
“To the one that finds this, you owe me a debt now: bring Omer Science Technology down, no matter what it takes. I don’t have a blueprint on how to do it, but if we wanna live another century, it needs to happen. And if the person who finds this happens to be from Omer, /fuck you/. I wish I could’ve taken all you sacks o’ shit with me. And Hel, if it’s, uh, if it’s you that found this, I, uh…”
>You pause again, throat tightening.
“…I’m sorry, kid. Glad you made it. I wish I could’ve seen you grow up, but, uh… you know me.”
>Your finger taps the stop button before you get too choked up.
>A few shallow sighs later, you slide the tablet back into its alcove and sit up on your elbows as best as you can.
>It’s not great, but it’s all the pain, nausea, and hampered vision will allow. Judging from what gravity feels like, Presage must be supine.
>You right yourself into a crouched position and start to feel at the crevices of the overhead entry hatch, fighting off lightheadedness the entire time.
>You refuse to waste away. 
>The ring finger on your left hand slides over a slight imperfection in the metalwork - /there/.
>Deep breaths, Anon. Face this with some dignity.
>An eternity later, you shove the button as far down as it’ll go, and the hatch unseals.
>The cockpit decompresses, and a faint beam of light cuts through the darkness.
>With all your might, you shove it open and stand to your full height, shielding your eyes from the glacial breeze that buffets your face.
>You steady yourself against the door as your vision adjusts, and though the dull throbbing urges you to return to the cramped gloom you came from, you resist.
>Eventually, your eyes find equilibrium, and you behold a...
>...Generous snowfall? 
>The flakes of which now dust your taut skin.
>You’ve seen snow before, of course; it’s no cause for alarm on its own, but you should be /underground/.
>And if that wasn't perplexing enough, the green substance below Presage, burgeoning through in occasional patches that flutter with the blowing of the wind…
>What /is/ that?
>…Well, you’re headed for the grave anyway.
>You shuffle onto the hull to get a closer look, but slip and tumble sideways off of your NEXT and into the ground.
>Through the agony, you reach out and touch the strange material.
>Whatever it is, it’s not soft, but it… /tickles/?
>You palm it only to come away with one of its kind stuck damply to your hand.
>Rectangular, verdant, pleasantly scented…
>…You’ve read about this before. Grass, was it?
>That can’t be right, though. Grass hasn’t grown in almost six centuries. Not on Earth, anyhow.
>But there, dotting the horizon… What the hell are those?
>Aren’t those /trees/? They’re shrouded in snow, sure, but you remember learning about all of that stuff from your aunt when you were young. 
>You can’t feel the radiation in the air, either; not even a hint of iron on your tongue.
>Your breath mists over as you retreat into yourself for warmth and cast your gaze all around, flanked by frosted foliage on all sides. A snow-capped mountain in the distance to the rear of you looms over all.
>Even if only for curiosity’s sake, your will to stay alive skyrockets.
>Clumsy and discombobulated, you stumble away from your NEXT, casting only a sparing glance in its direction.
>It’s beat to hell, but you’ll come back and get a more comprehensive look later - right now, you need to find the nearest colony.
>What appears to be a road lies just shy of the trees, so with heavy footfalls, you head over to check it out.
>Thankfully, there’s a signpost at the nearest crossroads. In your haste to figure out where you are, you barely even register that it’s made out of wood.
[NORTH - CRYSTAL EMPIRE, 23 MILES]
[SOUTH - GALLOPING GORGE, 67 MILES]
[WEST - LUNA BAY, 142 MILES]
>You’ve never heard of any of those places. You’re young, sure, but you’ve been around the block a few times as a Lynx.
>Regardless, you opt for the one that sounds most like an established colony.
>Bit of an odd name, but at this point, you aren’t picky.
>Following the sign, you trudge along the roadside until you feel something start to drip from your nose.
>Thinking it’s merely snot, you go to wipe it, only to have your trembling hand come away with a swatch of deep crimson.
>You fall to your hands and knees in a sudden fit of vertigo, paresthesia dulling the normally painful impact. 
>The pitter-patter of bloody droplets meeting driven snow makes you sick to your stomach.
>Seems the sudden disconnection from the AMS may have left you worse off than you had initially thought.
>You can’t do anything but roll over onto your back as a wall of gloam robs you of sight.
>A man's voice in the distance nearly brings you back, but the tendrils of a sinister rest drag you away beforehand.

02 - Ascertain Relative Location

>Gently, you float up and away from nearly dreamless sleep.
>Sensation returns in divine fashion, touch restored by a soothing ocean of silken down enveloping you from torso to toes.
>The rhythmic chime of an EKG monitor divvies up the otherwise continuous dull roar of indistinguishable voices, gently prodding you further awake.
>Brash notes of disinfectants and other chemical agents assault your sensibilities with a wanton cleanliness that borders on the psychotic.
>Harsh light overhead penetrates the sanctity of your crusted shut eyes.
>Then, as if begrudged by the world itself, the throbbing arrives.
>Wave after wave, your stomach churns as the migraine spreads beneath your skull, rootstalks growing through brain matter.
>Far and away, it isn’t the worst pain to have ever graced your head, but it’s agony all the same.
>Slowly, deliberately, your hand obeys your desire to reach up and rub your temples. There’s no relief, of course; the only comfort you’re afforded is the relief of being able to move at all.
>You slowly open your eyes, struggling to adjust under the sterile glare of fluorescent bulbs. Shielded by your outstretched hand, though, the miasma of a fresh awakening eventually dissipates.
>A sprawl of alabaster ceiling tiles sits overhead, dotted by specks of ash like the inverse of a night sky.
>Head on an aching swivel, you pan around and soak in the muted greens and inoffensive grays of your lodgings.
>The room itself is relatively spacious - plenty of room for a gaggle of sorry sods like yourself, but much to your surprise, it’s all solely for you.
>Looking down, you’re caught somewhat off guard by what you’re lying on; rather than a single cot, two child-size beds have been pushed end-to-end to fully accommodate you.
>As if that weren’t off-putting enough, you trace the myriad wires suctioned to your bare chest back to an EKG that looks like it stepped straight out of a retro-science catalogue.
>Various jars and bins tucked neatly into the corners of countertops housed tools that followed the same archaic styling, centuries removed from anything you could tangibly recognize. None of it would look out of place caked in mold and dust, but against all odds, everything seems pristinely kept.
>Whoever found you must be in dire straits, relying on tech this old. It’s a wonder they were able to keep you alive at /all/.
>Your fingers glide smoothly over the grooves of your philtrum and come away completely clean, not a hint of dried blood between the grooves of your prints.
>How the hell did they bring you back from a bleed that severe…?
>As if reminded by its current predicament, your head throbs anew, the constrictive pain flaring to new heights.
>Your eyes shutter closed once more, both hands desperately shielding them into complete darkness.
>The gesture is all but useless; the pain persists.
>Critical thought is squashed to null - the wordless, riotous ruckus beneath your skull has no place for it.
>Minutes pass by at an unbearable crawl until you hear the resounding click of a door being pulled open. Whoever’s come into your room takes great care to close it as quietly as possible, no doubt holding the handle downward until the latch slots into its housing without a sound.
>You don’t bother opening your eyes to greet them; not while light fancies itself your assailant.
>“Oh, you’re awake now!” an older woman softly cheered. “Good, good. How are you feeling, sir?”
>A cavalcade of pressing questions fight to leave your lips, but you deign to stick to the essentials.
“I’m…”
>You struggle against your weakened mind, basic speech in jeopardy of failing outright.
“…Fine,” you answer tersely, voice hoarse beyond recognition. “How long was I asleep?”
>Footsteps echo off of the tiled floor in an incredibly odd gait, like two people wearing dress shoes trying to keep in time with each other.
>“Just under four days,” the stranger says. “For a moment, we were worried you might’ve started regressing into a coma. With your unique anatomy, supportive care would’ve been uncharted territory.”
>…Odd comment aside, you’re surprised you /didn’t/ fall into a coma. Either fortune is in your favor, or you have one hell of a doctor looking after you.
“Where am I?”
>“We’re in Gemstone Township, just south of the Crystal Empire,” she explains, still cheery. “A good samaritan brought you in after he found you unconscious in the outskirts of town.”
>Relief, however miniscule, takes root in the anxious tangle underneath your ribs. Guarded though you may be, mere proximity to a colony is a reassurance you hadn’t dared to hope for.
>Regardless, a myriad of questions remain.
“How far are we from the Navel?”
>“…The what?” she asks, politely confused.
“The Navel of God,” you extrapolate. “The coastal colony. Surely, you’ve heard of it?”
>“I can’t say that I have. Is it coastal to the Luna Ocean, or the Celestia Sea?”
>…The /what/?
>You’d throw a look of bewilderment in her direction if your eyes weren’t still screwed shut in pain.
“It’s in the Anatolian peninsula.”
>You can almost hear the gears in her head churning away at full speed.
“We’re still in West Asia… right?”
>“I’ve never heard of anywhere like that,” she says, almost as confused as you are. “We’re in the northernmost region of Equestria right now, though. Does that ring any bells for you?”
>…Are you being fucked with right now?
“/No/,” you answer, deadpan. “I don’t even know what-”
>You grimace as another wave of pins and needles wracks your skull from the inside out. An involuntary groan escapes your lips, uneven and pathetic.
>Your fingers, distant and delayed, lightly brush your oil-slicked forehead. The sensation feels alien, as if you were touching someone else.
>“Oh! Hold on /just/ a moment, sugar,” she says as you hear her rummage through drawers. “This should help with the pain. Do you take your pills with or without water?”
“With.”
>Ordinarily, you’d tell her to shove that pill where the sun doesn’t shine, but pain always tends to make questionable choices on your behalf.
>A briefly running faucet serves as something to focus on other than your withering synapses, and moments later, you hear her oddly paced footsteps draw closer to your bedside.
>“Alright,” she says. “Bottoms up!”
>With great effort, you manage to sit yourself up onto your haunches, one arm behind you for support.
>Your eyes flit open, squinting against the overhead halogens, but when they find your mysterious benefactor, you physically recoil.
>The first thing about her that you properly clock is her outstretched appendage, sleeved in short, baby blue fur and terminating in sleek, rounded keratin of a similar, darker coloration. The fur is mottled by disparate patches of gray and white, like smudges from a hasty paint brush.
>Following its length to terminus, you find that its owner is a quadruped, the remaining three appendages planted firmly on the tile below.
>Her oblong body seems to be covered in the same fur as the limb, apart from a strange pattern on her rear that you can’t quite make out from this angle. Tucked just out of sight is a white tail, the ends of which peek through her hind legs.
>She’s carrying what looks like a messenger bag, a specialized harness holding it flush to her left side.
>Her head, though properly proportioned for her body, is larger than you anticipated, a fair chunk of it taken up by her concerned eyes. Adorning it, akin to a crown, is a nurse’s cap, folded neatly and tilted just so.
>A thick line of white fur runs from her hair down to the tip of her snout, where her mouth hangs slightly agape in surprise.
>From the depths of your memory, a candlelit lesson about long-extinct wildlife resurfaces.
>/She’s a horse/.
>Rather, an approximation of one. The name of the smaller variant always seems to escape you.
>“Are you alright, sir?” she asks as she sets the pill down on your bedside table, where she left the glass of water.
>The subtler movements of her facial muscles underneath skin and fur unnerve you further, but you do your best to prevent it from registering.
“…No. No, I’m hallucinating.”
>Her eyes soften as a smile returns to her lips.
>“Don’t worry,” she reassures you. “It’s just a harmless side effect of the procedure we conducted. You’ll be right back to normal before you know it.”
“You got a timetable for that?”
>“A few more hours before the medicine wears off, give or take.”
>Another wave of pain cascades over your face, akin to someone taking a sledgehammer to the back of your eyes.
>Unceremoniously, you take the pill and drop it on your tongue, a swig of water following quickly.
>Your nerves heighten as you feel it travel down into your labyrinthine intestines.
>So much for being guarded.
“How’d you keep me alive?” you ask as you lay back down. “My brain may as well have been leaking out of my nose.”
>“Funnily enough, your massive nosebleed was the easiest part of treating you,” she says as she takes the cup and washes it in a nearby sink. 
>“The more serious issues were your symptoms of a traumatic brain injury.  Even our most experienced diagnostic specialists couldn’t pinpoint a cause; every full-body scanning spell in our repertoire came up blank. They even tried /scrying/ to find out what happened to you, but predictably, it didn’t work.”
>She sets the cup on the counter and turns her attention fully to you.
>“We did everything we could to bring you back to a state of relative normalcy,” she says, her tone softer. “While we seem to have succeeded in terms of cognitive function, it’s likely that you’ll still undergo the physical symptoms of your injury for an indeterminate amount of time.”
>She pulls a document out of her bag and hands it to you, the paper still warm from being freshly printed.
>“Here’s your continued care sheet. You’ll still need to remain in-hospital for a few more days to make sure no complications arise from the treatment, but after that, you’ll be free to go!”
>Lifelessly, you sit up and leaf through the handout, weary eyes only catching on words and phrases designed to break your spirit.
>Your list of possible symptoms alone is enough.
>Sudden loss of consciousness, ranging from minutes to several hours.
>Intense, persistent headaches.
>Loss of coordination and general weakness of muscle tissue.
>Convulsions. /Seizures/.
“Is there /any/ chance I’ll be symptom-free again?”
>Sympathy overrides her previously disarming expression.
>“It’s unlikely, sir. Over time, they may ease up in terms of intensity, but TBI symptoms are usually lifelong.”
>Your hand goes limp, the document careening carelessly onto your lap.
>Even as you spit in death’s face, Omer still gets the last laugh.
>Forget the toll it may have taken on your piloting capabilities; there’s no corporation on the planet that’ll medically clear you to fly with how fucked up you are.
>…
>…That’s it, then.
>No backing out this time.
>Just like you promised.
>A chest-deep tumult winds, tightening the more thought you give the predicament.
“…Right,” you sigh, doing your best to put it to bed for the time being. “Listen, what corporation does this place belong to? I wanna know who just put a pill down my throat.”
>Her oversized eyebrow hikes in confusion.
>“We’re funded by the crown,” she explains. “I don’t think a single hospital in the general Equestrian region operates otherwise.”
>That rules out any of Omer’s shell companies, but you’re not exactly out of the woods yet. If you can figure out who they’re operating under, you might be able to suss out your general location.
“Who’re they a subsidiary of? GA? Interior Union?”
>“We’re /federally/ owned and operated, sir.”
“So, the League as a whole cuts your checks, then?”
>She squints her eyes at you for a moment before her brow unfurrows in realization.
>“I apologize,” she says, bringing her hoof to her face in embarrassment for a moment. “I hadn’t even considered any possible cultural differences we might have. What sort of government does your society follow?”
>You briefly glance around the room to ensure you aren’t the ass-end of an unfunny joke.
“…The League of Ruling Companies,” you reply, bewildered.
>“Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of a business being in charge,” she says, a tad amused as she blows smoke up your ass. “Locally, we’re governed by the Prince and Princess of the Crystal Empire, but we’re also a sub-territory of greater Equestria, which is ruled by the Diarchy of the Two Sisters.”
>…
>You wait for some kind of punchline, but no such relief arrives; she simply holds your dumbfounded gaze.
>The combat stimulants must still be in your system, reacting negatively with the medicine; making you hear things incorrectly.
>Or is it some kind of weird, trauma-induced AMS psychosis?
>It’s one or the other, obviously, because you can’t believe for a single, solitary moment that any of this frou-frou bullshit is coming out of any sane cunt’s mouth, illusory horse or otherwise.
>Actually, you know what?
>Maybe it /is/ Omer. Poking at your fucking brain, seeing what makes you tick; you’re no different from those POWs, now.
>Or you’re in hell. Serves you right, if that’s the case.
>Maybe you’re not even-
>“Sir?”
>A gentle, concerned hoof finds its way onto your shoulder. Your equine nurse has crossed the room and now stands firmly within your personal space, her sizable eyes combing your own.
>The subtle scent of raspberries preoccupies your nose.
>“You looked like you were about to pass out,” she exhales, stepping back. “I’ll let you get some rest - it’s late, anyhow.”
>/Get out/, you want to yell. 
“Yeah, that’s… sure.” 
>She scurries about the room as she gathers her equipment, her measured pace long-since practiced. Just as she reaches the door, she turns to face you one last time.
>“Doctor Bonesaw will be by tomorrow to ask you some questions now that you’re awake. If you need anything overnight, just press that button by your headboard, and a nurse will be with you shortly. Sweet dreams, sir!”
>She reaches up with one of her hooves and turns the overheads off. You keep your jaw clinched shut as she disappears beyond the threshold, her humming cut short by the click of the industrial door.
>The nigh-stygian darkness creeps up to your shins and swallows your feet, leaving the rest of you bathed in the pitiful blue wash of a dim moon barely breaking through drawn curtains.
>On any other night, you would already be fast asleep, snoring the hours away until sunrise.
>A fleeting grip on reality makes for a poor sleep aid, it seems.
>Devoid of a clock, you’re left to wonder whether the agonizing passage of time is relegated to minutes or hours.
>Every rationalization of your predicament that you can come up with is met in kind with a symphony of cranial throbbing.
>What’s worse, you can feel your body starting to ache, every movement dully protested by the sort of soreness that only arises when you’re sick.
>Has shock really taken so long to catch up with you, or is this simply one of your new symptoms manifesting from the get-go?
>Either way, it’s…
>…It’s neither.
>You’ve been out for four days.
>/You haven’t taken your immunosuppressants/.
>Your ocular augmentations whirr to life and cut through the shadows with ease, faint visual snow coating your field of vision.
>As you sit up, your eyes comb the various wires attached to your bare chest. Thankfully, they’re all simply suctioned to various places on your pectorals and abdomen, somehow avoidant of your myriad surgery scars.
>With reckless abandon, you begin to pull them away in fistfuls, the heartbeat monitor defaulting to an uninterrupted monotone as the last few come off.
>Any minute now, the door will be thrown wide; the disconnection undoubtedly just set off a pager or two.
>You scramble out of bed and fetch your neatly folded pilot suit from the bedside table, shivering as the cold air grafts goosebumps upon your skin. It offers little in the way of insulation, but it’s better than your undies.
>The disregard for your decency might’ve set you off in any other set of circumstances, but you’ve precious little time to dwell on it.
>You stumble over to the nearby window, wrap your unsteady fingers around the oversized latch, and pull as hard as you can.
>The slab of glass comes free, its seal broken. 
>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sGkh1W5cbH4
>A frigid gust of outside air pelts your face, and you blink rapidly to stop your eyes from drying out.
>You lean out and discover, much to your dismay, that you’re on the third floor. Although the outer wall of the building seems to have plenty of handholds and footholds for you to clamber down, the prospect of your unsteadiness leading to a fall gives you pause.
>It’s not as if you have any choice in the matter, though. The archaic-looking town below is desolate under the pale moonlight, not a soul combing its cobbled streets; a more opportune time to depart simply doesn’t exist.
>The thought that this might all be a stimulant-induced fever dream crosses your mind; you’ve never known a settlement to be anything other than bustling with people.
>Without delay, you hoist your leg over the windowsill, your foot finding its first perch soon after.
>Inch by inch, you labor down the side of the building, your already shaky grip weakening by the second as your full weight stretches your hands to coffin length. Before long, you scarcely feel any blood circulating through the tips of your fingers.
>Three quarters of the way down, your impatience reigns over sound reasoning, and you elect to let gravity finish the trip for you.
>You gently push off with your legs and close the ten-foot gap to the ground in a little less than a second. 
>Your knees buckle as your full weight slams down onto cold stone. Driven to your hands and knees, you wince as the shock races up through your weary bones.
>Fighting the pain, you rise to your feet and look around.
>Single-family homesteads line the street, tall and ancient by architectural standards. Gleaming pearl stucco glimmers from between dark beams of timber, broken up by the odd four-pane window here and there. Not a few of them even had gardens out front, wreathed in color aplenty, ornate picket barriers surrounding.
>You’ve no time to gawk at the fairytale your mind has undoubtedly conjured for you, though. Shivering against errant gales of winter wind, you initiate a location ping.
>The world comes alive after a concerning few moments of inactivity, a translucent half-compass adorning the crown of your field of view as the snow-dusted village is draped over with a lifeless, gray orientation grid.
>Ordinarily, the visual feed would become tightly congested with different points of information, but here, it remains woefully uncluttered. No location data, no connection to a nearby service tower…
>Nothing, save for a single blip on the horizon as you turn left, towards the mountain you saw before you passed out.
>Six-point-four kilometers northwest - Presage.
>Wordlessly, you trudge forward, acutely aware of the growing discomfort in various locations across your body.
>Clock’s ticking. 
>The amber glow of lit candles behind frosted-over glass eventually recedes into the total darkness of a new moon as you leave the village behind for open fields. If it weren’t for your ocular implants, you’d be flying blind.
>Step by step, you lurch forward as the distance ticker falls by a single digit every few minutes. Every full kilometer or so, the benchmark for your internal pain deepens. Before long, you aren’t just curling inward to keep warm, but as a visceral reaction to the bomb roiling toward ignition beneath flesh and synthetics.
>You can feel your body waking up to what’s inside you, no longer certain that all is as it should be.
>The trudge flounders into a jog; your head throbs in protest, but you push past it.
>Mercifully, you arrive at the outcropping you first woke up in just as the pain starts to become debilitating.
>In the middle of the clearing, Presage lies eerily still, its slumber all but permanent if the outward damage is anything to go by.
>The entire left arm’s outer shell of armor is shredded to bits, the metal musculature underneath almost entirely exposed, stray bits of undone wiring descending from the mass. With every errant gust of wind that blankets the clearing, loose panels of suprasteel plating threaten to launch into the snow, rattling and waving under the storm’s scrutiny. The left leg’s armor doesn’t look all that better, but if you could ever get the thing moving again, you’re fifty-fifty on whether it would hold long enough to get you somewhere safe.
>The MR-102 rifle assigned to the left hand was effectively atomized - like the rest of Presage /should/ have been - apart from a small chunk of the lower receiver, still clutched tightly by the dormant mech. Occasionally, you see metal shavings come airborne, lost in the minutiae of open air soon after.
>Outwardly, the rest of the NEXT is covered in the standard fare of severe battle scarring, much to your relief. Not ideal, but you can manage as long as the boosters are alright. 
>It’s the damage you /can’t/ see that makes you nervous. Generator, power routing, FCS…
>…But you can’t afford to focus on that right now.
>It dawns on you that, in your ill-timed venture to troubleshoot Presage on a surface level, you didn’t notice that the orientation grid is beginning to present visual artifacts with steadily increasing intensity.
>Alongside it, the pain grows evermore, metallic thorns now driven deeply into the guts of your very being.
>Rejection is imminent. Single-mindedly, you stagger towards your craft, feet dragging trenches along the snow.
>It takes forever, but you eventually reach Presage’s side. You take no time to rest as you attempt to hoist yourself onto its chest unit, but climbing up is an entirely separate ordeal from what you did to escape the hospital.
>A few measly feet off of the ground, what little strength you have left falters, and you fall into a heap on the frozen ground.
>You cry out as the agony blooms in ferocity, but have no intention of staying prone. The next two attempts, however, are even more pitiful than the first.
>The orientation grid shorts out, replaced by rampant pixel glitches and texture noise. Not long after, your ocular implants shut off entirely, the world before you blanketed in a translucent, apathetic wall of gray. You can just /barely/ make out your surroundings, but it’s a far cry from being of any use.
>You curl into yourself, back against the NEXT, and shiver unceasingly as you’re slowly stripped of the concept of warmth.
>…
>…You’ve heard freezing to death is actually somewhat peaceful once you pass the point of no return.
>Stories from centuries ago seemed to romanticize the idea, anyhow. 
>At least the cold’ll get you before the pain becomes unbearable. You draw some morbid facsimile of comfort from the notion that something of nature’s design will be your end, as opposed to Omer’s engineering.
>Almost as soon as you accept your fate, though, a voice rouses you from your desolation.
>Even over the roar of the blizzard, you hear it, entirely unimpeded by the thunderous wind.
>As if it were speaking to you across an otherwise empty room.
>“My word… Are you alright?”
>Light and airy, with just a twinge of that pompous drawl most of your higher-ups had.
>You ignore her ridiculous question and pick your head up to face this new stranger.
>Even through the mottled gloom, there she was - swaddled entirely in flowing fabrics, an oversized hood shrouding her features.
>Another horse, if you have to guess from stature alone.
>You curse your addled mind for refusing to shirk these childish hallucinations.
>“Most ponies tend to prefer shelter in a storm of this magnitude,” she half-joked, concern overriding condescension. “What could have brought you out all this way, I wonder?”
>She draws closer. Unable to work out who she is or what she wants, you shrink away, assuming the worst.
“D-don’t…” you murmur plaintively.
>She stops in her tracks, one of her forehooves held high against her chest.
>“I intend no harm, stranger,” she reassures you. “I seek only to aid you in your time of need.”
>You weigh her words skeptically, but the severity of your situation all but erases the usefulness of mistrust.
>Though her eyes and face remain shrouded, you’ve no doubt that your withered gaze meets hers in kind.
>Words fail you for a few moments before another wave of lancing pain helps you find your voice.
“My… m-medicine,” you shout over the wind. “Please.”
>She draws a few strides nearer, seemingly eyeing Presage from head to toe.
>“Am I correct in assuming it lies somewhere within this strange contraption of yours?”
>You nod.
“T-the cubby… ‘side the chair,” you groan. “Bottle o’ pills.”
>“…I see. Just a moment.”
>Without so much as a warning, she gracefully leaps out of your still-narrowing cone of vision, the snow from her launch point almost completely undisturbed. A metallic thud rings out from behind you - she cleared the width of the chest unit in a single bound.
>She lands back in front of you not ten seconds later, your bottle of stockpiled meds encased in wisps of blue light, floating by her side.
>“Here you are,” she offers, the bottle gently lilting through the air toward you.
>Forget hallucinations - psychological freefall seems more apt for the state your brain must be in.
>Nevertheless, you catch it as it draws near and twist with all your might to remove the cap. The previously effortless endeavor damn near kills you, but in the end, it comes free.
>You let the cap fall to your side as you jam a finger into the opening and claw a pill free and toss it into your maw.
>It goes down easily.
>Which leaves you nothing to do but wriggle and writhe, pressing divots into the snow beneath you.
>“Regrettably, I don’t have an extra cloak on hoof,” she laments. “But even so, we will make do.”
>She’s close enough for you to see the same glow from before shine out from beneath her hood, an odd swishing sound accompanying.
>Overhead, a dome of what appears to be directed energy takes shape, bringing the harsh wind and overbearing noise down to null.
>You’d protest against the inaccuracy with which your own mind portrays the defense mechanism, but it’s hard to fault it after everything you’ve put it through.
>With another flash of light from the stranger, a stone manifests in front of you, swathed in radiant amber that bathes you in inexplicable warmth.
>‘Warmth’ does the sensation no favors, however. If it were no more than heat, it would simply glide over your frozen skin, a battleground long claimed by hypothermia.
>But the moment the light hits you, you feel it seep into your pores.
>It slithers underneath fascia, curls around tendons, seats itself deep within the fathoms of your bones.
>You’re defrosting from the inside out.
>“Transmutation is far from a specialty of mine, but this should suffice for now,” she says.
>Needled misery restricts your reply to a throaty gurgle as you clutch your body indiscriminately.
>You can’t pinpoint any sort of origin - it’s simply widespread at this stage.
>“How long will it be before your medicine takes hold?”
>You chuckle grimly.
“Don’t know. An hour, maybe m-more.”
>“Well, that simply won’t do,” she says, rising to all fours and closing the distance between the two of you. “Not for one so deserving of rest.”
>You grit your teeth and nod.
>She bends down, her nose inches from yours. Something pointed rests gently against your forehead for a moment…
>A horn.
>There’s no flash this time; only the same blue glow as the dome, gentle as it shimmers briefly.
>For a fleeting moment, the abyss beneath her hood gives way, and a pair of turquoise eyes softly holds your dumbfounded gaze.
>Just as quickly as they surface, they recede, nascent no longer as she pulls away.
>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Agw_EN7k1hA
>An odd feeling billows from behind your eyes, lulling them half-shut.
>You go to rub your face, but find that your limbs aren’t as willing to obey your whims as they usually are.
>Groggy and uncoordinated, you stumble into the realization that you’re utterly overcome with exhaustion.
>The pain is still ever-present, but the sandman marches on in spite, beckoning you past it.
>“That should last you through the night,” she explains. “In the meantime, I will return you to your lodgings at the hospital. I’m sure your nurses will be pleased to know that you are safe and sound.”
“How… do you…”
>She shushes you as though she were a doting mother soothing a child after a nightmare. 
>“Sleep now, outsider. We will speak at length soon enough.”
>The veil of sleep drags you under as you’re lifted from the snow.