Lawrence’s Hoshiga fighter sliced through waves of enemy Sarissa fighters. There was no end to them. And yet, Lawrence and his squadron—what remained of it—persevered.
The Imperium, backed into a corner like a wounded animal, was going all-out in its last-ditch attempt to stall time for Zeta’s descent onto Fasnakyle, and yet the dice rolls were against them. It was only a matter of time before they would take as many of his comrades with them before they truly fell by the cosmic wayside.
“I won’t let you bastards tag any more,” Lawrence said. His vision muddled with swarms of sweat. He brushed open his visor, beating them off as much as he frantically could.
“There’s... too... many of them!” The voice of one of his comrades screamed just as legions of Sarissa and Tacoma Mobile Troopers bore down like wild boars they were, their last triumph before death. The comms immediately cut to static—one of his wingmen was engulfed and reduced to nothing less than atoms. Lawrence’s Hoshiga captured his rage, it channeled his relentless fury, it belched and whined its laz cannons, each round, fiery shots of death smeared clean each Sarissa target, and the occasional Tacoma mobile troopers caught in his wrath.
“Ivan, Jill—whoever’s left, I’m going in,” Lawrence said. I’m not heartless, Victoria, I will come back for you! He gripped the joystick situated between his legs. He violently glanced at his sub-cameras. He couldn’t make out the Yellow Typhoon anywhere. Is she on Zeta? “I have no other choice,” Lawrence said.
“It’s too dangerous, Captain Mengde, we need to head back!” Jill said. But it was pointless, futile, to protest Lawrence’s steel resolve, much like a low tide crashes against the walls, it was just that.
“Then run away, save yourself! You’ll just hold me back,” Lawrence screamed. He accelerated the Hoshiga faster—the savage g-forces threw him back in his seat. His head rattled. His vision whiting out—but undaunted, he only steered forward, not once looking back.
“I’ll hold them off out here, go get ‘em, tiger!” Jill responded. She pulled back with Ivan.
Lawrence had plunged the Hoshiga towards Zeta’s rocky surface. All around him, scatter-shot bombs and concentrated laz fire were thrown recklessly like a livid God unleashing his brutal symphony of lightning bolts. Lawrence, being an ace among aces, faced the very real possibility of going down, but his determination prevailed. He zipped through the hellfire and was closer, ever so closer, to retrieving Victoria, Frank, and Friederika. He was going to do it; he made a promise. He was going to keep it—no matter what!
“Where are you, dammit?” Lawrence said. He glanced sharply between the optical cameras covering his flanks. “Give me a sign, Vick!” His chest ached, his head racked with unimaginable cluster migraines.
There, far to his left, an enormous explosion bellowed from a deep crater, and Lawrence chanced it. Was this it? It was only one way to find out. He took a hard turn—harder than what was necessary, nearly spewing out blood, his body in defiance as if it were being crushed between hydraulic presses. The Hoshiga flew over it, and sure enough, it was an entryway into Zeta’s interior.
But he wasn’t going to get in without a fight. Dozens of Sarissa flew up the smoke column, yet it proved no use for the Imperium pilots—their lives dramatically cut short in an instant by Lawrence’s superior gunnery skills. Never to return home from this hellish rock—never again to see loved ones, their little ones, their spouses. Lawrence felt no pity, no remorse for those who killed millions in the colony dropped over Ben Nevis. He was avenging innocent civilians caught up in a war where they’ve done no wrong, all because of the wickedness stemming from Jonathan von Churchill.
Lawrence cut through the Imperium formation, still seemingly in a state of shock from whatever they had emerged from. He wasted no time barreling inside Zeta; his mind raced at breakneck speed, navigating through the labyrinth of doom.
Yet, despite all the rage he held at his fingertips, killing more and more who lacked Lady Fortune’s grace, there was simply no sign of Victoria. “You have to be here, I know you are,” Lawrence said. His breathing grew heavy, his sheer determination, his sole promise, is what kept him going. Even his Hoshiga, his vehicle of destruction, whined and groaned, its internals rattled from being subjected to these lengths of violent twist and crazy maneuvers he put it through. How much more could it handle? Any moment now, it could simply just fail him. Lawrence didn’t know. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. His mind was hyper-focused on staying alive and making it out of this rocky hellhole. Together with Victoria. If he had to drag her out of Zeta on foot or in a stolen Tacoma, he would do it.
Then, an uneasy feeling swelled in him. It was unlike any sensation Lawrence ever felt. The grip on his joystick trembled, his shoulders shook. He reached a huge oval hangar with many entrances and a massive gun in the middle. It was in the middle of reloading, and Lawrence quickly deduced it must’ve been aiming at Confederate Star Monitors, since he saw one go down and crash over the horizon.
“Bastards, all of you!” Lawrence screamed. He pressed a side button on the joystick twice and unleashed two missiles on the target. He steered the Hoshiga into another, wider corridor, explosions and aftershocks nearly sent his Hoshiga spiraling out of control.
Then, directly ahead of him, Lawrence saw it—the massive, bipedal clam-like Mobile Gear Walpurgis. Lawrence gasped, panic seized him, but he threw off the net of fear. He charged ahead, dodging its rays of laz gun. Lawrence could only watch in horror as it effortlessly cut clean through solid rock. The cavern was beginning to collapse around him, and he fought to dodge both buckshot debris and the Walpurgis.
“Come and get me, you sonuvabitch!” Lawrence screamed. His mind felt invaded, and for a moment, Lawrence slumped in his seat, overwhelmed by the presence. But this wasn’t Victoria... or was it?
“Churchill,” Lawrence said. His brows furrowed. His grip tightened on the joystick. After an upward U-turn, Lawrence challenged the Walpurgis directly. He fired off everything he had—the laz cannons, the vulcan guns—even a few missiles.
Lawrence lost visual as the Walpurgis became engulfed in smoke. He zipped past it, leaned forward on the optic camera, and hoped he had a confirmation—did he do it? He had to have done it! He reached to switch the optical camera display to heat source—when his heart stopped. The Walpurgis, utterly unscathed, leap through the deep mist, crashing down and creating a violent rampart of asteroid debris hurtling towards Lawrence.
“You just don’t give up, do you?” Lawrence said. Were it any other pilot, this would’ve been the end. Lawrence, however, barrel rolled his way through the onslaught and made another attack run on the titan. He pressed firmly on the triggers—both of them, firing the cannons and vulcans in unison. Until presently, he heard the clicking of the cannon. He closed the distance, dodging the equally feeble attempts by the Walpurgis to smack him down with one of its many, slick sub-arms, as well as its point-defense turrets all along its chassis.
It was now or never. Lawrence knew at this moment he had no other choice but to take it down himself. He screamed, as he accelerated the Hoshiga at maximum speed: “I’m taking you with me—I won’t make the same mistake twice, I’m dragging you to hell with me!”
But it was different this time, for a moment, a brief moment, Lawrence lost Lady Luck’s graces. Presently, a terrible presence enveloped Lawrence, trapping him in a freakish realm, clouding his whole peripheral. He was seemingly enveloped by some sheer, unimaginable force that materialized itself as a Tyrian purple. Scorching red eyes stared back at him.
Was it an optical illusion? Or some insane Neo sapiens mechanism?
Lawrence emptied his bowls. He lost heart. He couldn’t bring himself to breathe. Lawrence’s courage evaporated quicker than all the laz shots he ever fired, all those which generated endless bereaving widows and orphans.
At the last second—the very last second. Lawrence swerved clear of the Walpurgis. He barely had time to recollect himself after the moment had passed. Just enough time to avoid crashing into a wall and race down one of the corridors. The Walpurgis was in hot pursuit.
He slumped forward in his seat, just for the moment. He tore off his helmet and ran his right hand through his utterly drenched hair. He cupped his hands together, pressing them against his forehead: “I couldn’t do it... I failed.”
Lawrence drew a deep breath, threw on the helmet, and recollected himself just as he came to another deployment hangar—and this time he spotted the Chizan Duo: Victoria and Friederika. They must’ve just cleared the combat nests out, given he saw nearby discarded MT-sized panzerfausts. He attempted to signal to them that the Walpurgis was behind him, but he couldn’t establish a connection in time. It was impossible even for him to slow down. Using what missiles he had left, he punched a hole just big enough for an MT to pass through. They needed to get out of here, now.
He made it through the scant hellfire aimed at him. He glanced at his rear optic camera just in time to see Victoria and Friederika nearly make it out—until the Walpurgis had seized Friederika’s Shinra Mobile Trooper.
“No, no!” Lawrence shouted, but it was in vain. He couldn’t turn the Hoshiga around at this rate. And even if he did, there was nothing he could do now—not even make another daring attempt to ram into the Walpurgis. At this pivotal moment, the realization crushed Lawrence like a titanium boulder as a result of his grave, cowardly mistake.
There was nothing he could do but scream as he witnessed the Walpurgis unsheathe one of its sub-arms and activate a photon sword, and plunge it straight into the captured Shinra. Lawrence felt a jolt—the most violent storm of emotions stormed him—it overpowered him, squeezed him, and paralyzed him like a crushed can.
Still overwhelmed, Lawrence found himself racing towards one of the few Imperium Star Dreadnoughts still left. It disgorged what remained of its Tacomas and Sarissas. Were they scrambling to intercept him, and him alone? Or was it a desperate attempt to rally to their Black Prince? It didn’t matter.
He glanced back just in time to see the Yellow Typhoon get sliced in half. Was this the end?
“I’ll take you on,” Lawrence said. His rage now like an exploding supernova, his vision nothing more than a waterfall. He yanked the accelerator lever fully down; the excessive g-force was literally going to kill him, but he didn’t care. He no longer valued his life. The most he can do for Victoria now is bide her time to finish off the Black Prince once and for all. “I’ll take you all on!”
Lawrence fired off everything he had at his disposal as he raked through the formation. Few responded—and Lawrence was now certain they were speeding to rescue Johnathon. Lawrence performed the most aggressive cobra maneuver he had ever accomplished, tilting the Hoshiga to fire back on the enemies racing away to Zeta. Smacks of blood splattered his visor as the unimaginable force squeezed his body like it was nothing more than a packet of sauce, unable to keep up with his will. Nearly all of the Imperium cavalry were wiped out, and what few stragglers evaded Lawrence’s scythe were intercepted by a legion of Shinras and Hoshigas.
Lawrence, lost in his sorrowful rage, screamed as he charged the Star Dreadnought. He fired off what remained of his ammunition until only the rapid clicking rang in his never-ending rattling head.
< Eject, Lawrie, eject! >
Caught off-guard by the voice, Lawrence resisted, but perhaps against his own free will, Lawrence yanked the emergency ejection handle—and his cockpit was jettisoned away from the Hoshiga chassis at similarly incredible speeds. Lawrence was thrown, utterly, into shock as his body, and for fleeting moments, he realized he was going to die. He saw the Hosiga ram into the command bridge of the Star Dreadnought and engulf both in an awesome display of fiery fireworks. Then, the capital ship slowly capsized and drifted onto Zeta.
Lawrence passed out. For him, it only felt like moments as he heard someone calling out to him. He opened his eyes to see Jill Frenda hovering over him—the two of them were in a Shinra’s outstretched hand.
She was overflowing with tears, but Lawrence couldn’t hear her. Only one thing reached his ears—or rather his mind: Lawrence... Lawrence... Lawrence...
“Victoria,” Lawrence said, a rasp. He tried to sit up, but Jill held him down. He had no idea what kind of condition he was in. Was he even still alive? Was this all a dream? He certainly felt like he experienced this time and again. Was it a twisted fate of purgatory? His sin for being a coward and avoiding the kamikaze attack on the Walpurgis.
His helmet was flooded fresh with tears. Some of it got into his mouth, mixed with the blood, and he opened his visor to flick his now-drenched hand free of all the cumulative sweat and tears. “Where’s Victoria?” Lawrence wanted to say.
Jill, in panic, slammed his visor shut. She was no doubt totally bewildered by his mental well-being.
“She’s... calling for me, but,” Lawrence brushed off Jill as he stood up. He leaned against one of the Shinra’s fingers, nearly collapsing if it were not for Jill. Lawrence, seemingly random, pointed into empty space. “She’s over there, I know she is. I have to... I promised her...”
Instinctively, the Shinra pilot obeyed, drawn to where Lawrence felt he knew Victoria was. And, soon enough, they came across a floating Confederate pilot. Was it Victoria?
Lawrence jumped off the Shinra’s hand and bearhugged the pilot. He tilted his head towards hers—and he knew immediately it was Victoria. She was unresponsive, to Lawrence’s horror.
“Vick, I’m here, Vick,” Lawrence said. He choked on his words. He patted her, but she remained laconic. “Vic?”
Victoria spurred; she blinked. First at Lawrence, then into space. Her breathing was frighteningly light.
Then, finally, the catatonic woman said: “There are large stars, turning on and off, like comets... no, that can’t be right.” Victoria fumbled to remove her helmet, an action that alarmed Lawrence.
“Victoria? What’s wrong?” Lawrence asked; the horror heightened in his voice as Victoria chuckled childishly. She wrestled an arm free and reached for Zeta, opening and closing her fist. Lawrence worked to keep her restrained as he reached to tap his helmet comms: “Commander Buttermilch, Victoria’s... Victoria’s...!” Lawrence trailed off; he clenched his teeth, and the tears flowed endlessly, filling his helmet like a fish’s bowl.
“The shooting stars are pretty, there’s just so many. So colorful, like... comets... swoosh! Just like that.” Lawrence patted her helmet. He squeezed her tightly and nodded, lips curled. Lawrence shielded Victoria from seeing Fasnakyle or Zeta.
A recovery craft shone its light on the drifting two. “It’s finally over, Vick,” Lawrence said, choking on each word as he teared up, “We did it.”