Chapter 31
As we stepped out of Armsmaster's lab, my thoughts were still turning.
I still remembered the first time I heard about the Endbringers.
When I had died the first time, Being X threatened me that when my time as Tanya Degurechaff was up, there would only be oblivion. I had faint hope that something went wrong on his end and I had been reincarnated by mistake. A new life free from the bastard's influence.
I should have known better. He didn't break me in my second life, so why would he be gracious in defeat and leave me alone? The hypocrite.
So when I first heard about a literal angel attacking London, my initial reaction was terror. It had Being X's fingerprints all over it! That impression only solidified after hearing about the other two.
I didn't know what his game was this time. Back in my second life, the fraud wanted to stir religious fervor by forcing me to recite prayers every time I used Type-95 to devastating effect. Turning me into an unwilling missionary was his idea of irony, no doubt.
However, this time Being X had turned to an altogether different kind of weaponized religious iconography. I would have questioned the difference in approach, but at the end of my first life that incompetent did whine about modern people abandoning faith in favor of materialism.
Given that Being X had seemingly taken my comment about his business model being flawed to heart, perhaps evangelism through mass extinction was his take on better marketing. You couldn't signal any more obviously than sending biblical creatures to punish humanity for its sins until they repent or some other nonsense. It neatly solved the overpopulation problem as well, which was another point on his list of self-inflicted problems.
Naturally, the cosmic egotist had failed. His sermon fell on rational ears and, aside from fringe cults like the Fallen or Haven, no one was buying divine stock anymore.
But it didn't change the simple fact: the Endbringers were killing this world. There was no way to rationalize it otherwise. Anyone with a calculator and a working brain could plot the slope of decline.
Even if not every battle against the kaiju was lost, the definition of victory in this case was simply not losing everything — this time.
Win or lose, the attrition of industry, trade, military assets, human resources, and civilian infrastructure over time was staggering. That wasn't even mentioning the outright loss of national territory, which either became an irradiated wasteland, sank under the ocean, or had to be walled off to prevent the contaminated survivors from escaping.
The very thought makes my skin crawl. Ever since I learned what exactly the Simurgh's attack entailed, I have been watching over my shoulder. It is one thing to know someone might shove you in front of a train out of irrational spite; another entirely to know there are thousands of potential Mary Suoxs!
When they had to address the issue, the picture governments painted in order to reassure citizens was that of a stalemate that would soon break in our favor. Empty platitudes. A smokescreen thin enough to see through with minimal research or education.
Mostly, the news cycles tried to gloss over every attack and return to their usual stories about Eidolon manhandling another criminal with low enough IQ to start shit in Houston.
It was desperate, but people still bought it. A comforting fiction and the average citizen clung to it because the truth was unlivable.
No one liked to even talk about the Endbringers. The monsters were killing the world's will to fight.
And while that sentiment was excusable coming from the general populace, the passivity of the officials was baffling. There was no superweapon project, no government-backed initiatives to destroy the Endbringers, no indication at all that the problem was being addressed on that level.
Perhaps such a program existed under lock and key, but given how much these creatures eroded public confidence, one would expect something—a hint, a rumor, a rallying slogan to keep the spirits up. 'Death to the Endbringers!' would one hell of a platform to win presidential elections.
And yet, there was only disquieting silence on the subject.
Back in my second life, the Empire would never have allowed people to stew in quiet dread. The General Staff had a very keen understanding of the impact of national morale on the war effort.
But here in the U.S.? Where was the propaganda?
Everyone was just praying the next attack would be repelled with relatively minor losses.
It was defeatism, plain and simple.
And yet, some people refused to despair. While the world waited for the problem to somehow resolve itself, Armsmaster was building the solution.
At first, I had cultivated ties with the Protectorate's leader purely out of professional calculus. Director Piggot might hold the official authority over the Wards but Brockton Bay was an exception in that regard. Standard protocols were written with the assumption that the Wards were part of the Protectorate forces, and the bulk of them were left as is even after the transfer of authority.
It created an infuriating mess of contradicting responsibilities, but from what I was able to figure out, Director Piggot had the control over deployments and day-to-day operations, while in the field nothing had changed and the Protectorate heroes still acted in the capacity of the Ward's senior commanding officers.
That made ensuring Armsmaster's goodwill an investment in my safety. Not to mention how beneficial a rapport with the member of his standing and connections could be to my career overall. And with our convenient familial link through his son, I already had one foot in the door. Only a fool would fail to exploit that.
So I had encouraged my brother to help the Tinker with his work, while inconspicuously tagging along. I had even found small ways to contribute, like keeping Shirou focused on the task instead of mouthing off his father, asking clarifying questions when I could tell the Tinker lost my brother, or even aiding Armsmaster directly with his lie detector project.
But I had never quite realized just how important his work really was.
Sure, I would assume nanotechnology was an exciting field of research for any scientist, especially for a military engineer like Armsmaster.
Science fiction and cinema provided plenty of examples of its potential: nanobot clouds that could strip down buildings in moments, armor and weapons that could shift configuration on the fly, vehicles that could assemble themselves. The possibilities were endless.
As such, was it any wonder that the Tinker whose specialty revolved around miniaturization invested so much time and effort into this project?
I had underestimated Armsmaster. Making Shirou assist him might have been my best decision yet!
While Being X sent his angels and demons, the man was busy developing the tools to kill them. A man in his lab, fabricating his own god-slaying halberd. On a budget, no less!
My respect for the man rose. He wasn't just a paragon of discipline and hard work; Armsmaster was someone who could potentially rid me of the greatest danger to my well-being!
Hah! He was practically the protagonist of a shōnen manga! Just older and mercifully without the harem subplot. Although he seemed to be good friends with Miss Militia? Hopefully it was professional. Romance at the workplace was something I had been heavily discouraging and strictly avoiding myself during my HR days. Armsmaster didn't need a scandal marring his perfect record, and Miss Militia didn't strike me as suitable mother material for Shirou anyway.
Frankly, with the man's working hours, he'd be better doing what I did as Salaryman and employ professional service. At least until he'd dealt with the Endbringers and could afford larger time investments in other things!
I wasn't going to get my hopes up prematurely, of course, even if my understanding of physics lent credence to Armsmaster's confidence in nanothorn. However durable the Endbringer flesh was, it shouldn't matter in the slightest if it was dismantled on the molecular scale, right?
But in any case, I definitely felt better. Someone was being proactive in killing them. I would be sure to cheer for him from the sidelines.
When we stepped into the PHQ lobby, Shirou's voice broke through my thoughts. "Alright, let's find someone to drive us back to HQ. I'm not taking the bus again."
Of course you aren't. The mighty Armiger sharing public transport with commoners? Perish the thought.
Personally, I saw no problem with that. Sure, while in costumes, every bus ride turned into an impromptu meet up with the fans. People stared, asked questions and requested to sign autographs, but it wasn't that tiring. It was a cheap way to increase our visibility.
My brother disagreed. He seemed to treat PR as a personal affront.
A common malady among the Wards, really. Missy and Sophia hated PR work with a passion, and Dennis considered it a waste of time.
They complained often and loudly about how they could be making some real difference instead of uselessly prancing in front of cameras. The girls were more vocal, but Dennis had some very sharp comments about Image, the PRT, and Director. I had to suitably chastise the boy for calling her Piggy in front of me.
Personally, I found such commentary distasteful. I would be the first to reprimand someone for an unkempt appearance at the workplace, but while Director might not embody the ideal of athletic grace, her approach to grooming was military. The excessive weight was the legacy of a battlefield injury, not gluttony. Comparisons to pigs were simply uncalled for.
It took a fifteen-minute lecture and a showing of her service record to finally break through his thick skull to the underdeveloped frontal cortex beneath to make him realize that he was mocking a wounded veteran.
Dennis was very embarrassed after that.
Discipline begun with these small corrections. Dennis was lucky he had me to correct such behavior, otherwise one day his superiors may assign him to a pillbox in range of enemy artillery fire.
The rest of the Wards were more reasonable. Carlos and Dean at least understood the importance of PR, though neither had enthusiasm to match. Carlos simply saw it as part of his duties as team leader and strove to set an example of discipline for the rest. But I got the impression that he privately agreed with the girls. Dean, on the other hand, came from old money and absorbed the importance of image through osmosis. A lifetime of fundraisers and etiquette dinners had left him fluent in optics, if not very fond of actually utilizing those skills.
Ah, the troubles of the rich from birth. To turn your nose up at the fruits of education is the privilege of those who already possess every advantage imaginable. Hopefully one day I will be able to afford such luxury.
Chris was the only one who actually enjoyed it and had the right mindset. Unfortunately, he lacked stage presence and confidence. Still, the boy was willing to learn. And even he didn't like when it took time away from his tinkering.
So in truth, Shirou's attitude wasn't unique — merely on the louder side of obstinacy.
Children. All of them.
I didn't particularly enjoy propaganda shoots either, but at least I understood our organizational goals.
But coaching them on PR came secondary to raising their combat effectiveness. Well, except for Shirou, whose combat effectiveness was inversely proportional to his PR training. To the point of affecting my own image. He will get all the coaching I could spare.
"Actually, brother," I said, glancing through the doors toward the bay, "since we're near the ocean, I wanted to try something."
Raising an eyebrow but refraining from questions, Shirou followed me outside. We stepped out of the PHQ and onto the transparent bridge spanning the dark water, forcefield humming faintly beneath our boots.
"So?" he finally asked. "Don't tell me you're thinking of going for a swim. Beach season is still quite a way off, sister."
"If everything goes according to plan, I won't have to," I replied. "If not... well, falling into a body of water is better than plummeting to the ground."
Shirou glanced toward the Boat Graveyard, visible in the distance. The rusted hulls of the ships loomed like rotting carcasses of some great beasts.
"I don't think these waters are safe to dip into," he said. "Maybe you won't get heavy metal poisoning so far from the toxic heart of the city, but I know for a fact that the fish peddled on the Asian market serves better as batteries than food."
"Toxic heart?" I repeated in mock imitation of his voice. "You are in a poetic mood today, brother."
"Tell me I'm wrong."
"That would be lying," I conceded. "I could write a thesis on the subject. Still, what inspired the sudden romanticism?"
He fell silent for a moment, looking up at the skies. It was a cloudy night, starless. But the moon was full, shining cold and bright through the swirling dark.
"The Moon, I suppose," he said eventually. "Nights like this leave me... contemplative."
"Thinking about the meaning of life?"
"Something like that."
"Well," I said, stretching my arms. "It just so happens I'm in a mood too. Don't you think it's a perfect night to go flying?"
Shirou looked at me in surprise.
"Flying?" he asked. "Don't you fall to the ground in about five seconds?"
"That was before you built the Azoth Sword for me," I replied, drawing the sword-turned-mace from my belt and letting the moonlight ripple down its length. "Now it's between eight and eight point nine seconds."
"Don't you mean Princess Argent's Magic Wand?"
I sent him a glare that would make a communist pray to nonexistent God, but he just smirked at me.
Either I'd gone soft, or my brother had developed a worrying disregard for his own well-being.
But I knew the answer to that already. This new and peaceful childhood had made me lose my edge. Tonight was about getting some of it back.
"So your plan is to push that limit?" he asked.
"Exactly. Well, it's less about making the most of each individual calculator and more about practicing chaining the flight formula. It's easier to do so over water that back at the HQ."
He gave a faint hum of disapproval; I ignored it.
The problem with my flight was that even with the Azoth Sword stabilizing formula structure, whenever a calculator burned out it interrupted the formula, which then had to be reapplied. For a moment I would be in free fall.
In these circumstances it was risky to reach high speeds, because at any moment I could lose control and splatter against a wall. Even staying too low to the ground was dangerous.
As such, it was imperative to stress-test the precise timing of each burnout under constant changes of direction and acceleration.
It wouldn't change the underlying limitation of having only a limited amount of airtime, but at least I could do more than short bursts of acceleration and rooftop hopping.
"I predict," Shirou said evenly, "that this ends with you taking an unplanned swim in chemical runoff."
He was right, of course.
...But it had been nine years since I last took to the skies. Nine years since the roar of wind drowned out all worries.
Flight had been the one pure joy the Empire ever gave me.
Mud of the Rhine sucking at my boots, the merciless heat of the Southern Continent, the Russy frost that lived in your bones, the ever-present reek of cordite — every misery that could grind a soul down — none of it followed me into the sky.
Rising above the filth, suspended between the clouds and the endless horizon... for a moment, it felt like being free.
I missed that feeling. I missed… a lot of things.
"I want to fly," I said forlornly, the admission slipping out like breath on glass.
Shirou tilted his head, the helmet hiding his expression. After a few quiet moments he shifted his posture with a rueful sigh.
"If that's all you want," he said finally, voice calm but oddly gentle, "there is no need to risk illness."
He exhaled, steady and slow and brought his hands together as if framing something unseen. Then he... intoned.
"I am the bone of my sword."
The way he said it prickled at my awareness, making the hairs on my neck stand on end.
"...You've nailed the delivery," I said slowly. "I'll grant you that. But if you're aiming for dramatic flair, maybe rewrite it. I don't think it makes as much sense as you believe."
His jaw set, and his entire frame tensed like a bowstring, to the point that I could muscles straining the cloth of his sleeves.
"Steel is my body, and fire is my blood."
"Shirou, is this poetry?" I frowned.
The only indication that my brother was using his power and not, say, trying very hard to go Super Saiyan on me, were flashes of light between his fingers.
"I have created over a thousand blades," he gritted through his teeth.
"Very evocative, but I don't think you are even in triple digits."
By now, Shirou's whole body was surrounded by a greenish vortex. Chirping electric arcs jumped between his hands and the bridge.
"Unknown to death," his breath hitched, "nor known to life."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "This is just edgy."
Thankfully, I was spared from further embarrassment by a blinding flash of a violent electrical discharge.
Momentarily blinded, I hear the dull clink of metal striking the forcefield
When the light show ended, I opened my eyes and, following the sound, saw a sword at my feet. Small sparks of green lightning still danced on its surface.
It looked rather simple but with the air of austere elegance. Dimension-wise, I'd say it was about the size of a Roman gladius, maybe a touch shorter. The steel was so pristine it caught the moonlight and scattered it like glass, giving the sword a certain ethereal quality. As if the blade rejecting impurity.
Somehow, it made me more aware of the filthy state of the surrounding water and pollution in the air.
Dark leather wrappings crisscrossed the grip, simple and worn-looking, but perfectly symmetrical and a crimson gem glowed faintly as its pommel. Much like with the Azoth Sword, there was no handguard to speak of. Or rather, it was present but small; the blade simply widened at the base, making it largely pointless.
And Shirou had complaints about his father's design decisions.
I shelved that thought and rushed to his side.
He was braced on one knee, groaning slightly.
"Are you hurt?" I demanded.
"I'm fine," he dismissed my concern with a raspy breath. "I just... first time Tracing something of this rank. This body isn't used to it."
"Wait..." I stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Is that the backlash from overusing your power? Why would you do that?"
Shirou's powers, while versatile, put him in a rare category of parahumans with hard limitations on how long they could remain active. Outside of Thinkers, most parahumans could use their powers indefinitely if they had to, as far as I was aware. Shirou was a Thinker of course, but instead migraines, the overuse of all his powers caused a backlash expressing itself as internal burns. Ironically, his Thinker power didn't seem to be limited in that way at all.
Not that Dr. Miller had the chance to test any of that, since Shirou had simply refused to push past the certain point.
"You wanted to fly, didn't you?" he said simply. "If I understand the issue correctly, this might be your chance."
The sheer casualness of it made my pulse spike. He looked like he'd just offered to hand me an umbrella, not nearly set his innards on fire for an experiment.
Idiot! I want to fly, but it doesn't mean I want you to get hurt over it!
"How do you know this stunt of yours did cause internal damage?" I nailed him with a glare.
"Aside from the fact I know my body?" he raised an eyebrow. "Have you forgotten about Structural Analysis?"
I blinked. Up until now, I'd assumed that ability only worked on non-biological matter. I had assumed Manton Limit and never questioned it. Plenty of powers had that strange quirk where they were able to affect only organic matter, or the reverse but never both.
"So you can tell if there is internal damage?"
"Yes, and there is none," Shirou replied, rolling his eyes. "I'll be sore for a while, but there won't be any lasting consequences."
Convenient, I thought. One of the shortcomings of my medical formulas was that they didn't identify the exact nature of the injury, forcing me to rely on triage. Analytical formulas existed for that, but they weren't particularly precise by themselves and required proper medical training to interpret—like showing a CT scan to a passerby. They wouldn't know if the patient was healthy or terminal. As such, these formulas weren't part of aerial mage training curriculum.
I briefly considered letting Shirou suffer for his stupidity, but eventually sighed and took his hand, dosing him with painkillers. "Just rest for a bit. It should kick in momentarily."
I turned around and moved away to give my brother space.
Well, let's see what all this fuss is about.
I went to examine Shirou's new creation. I picked up the sword and... nothing. Channeling mana into it didn't yield much result either.
"Is this another Azoth Sword?" I asked, tilting the blade to catch the moonlight. "Do I have to attune to it?"
"It's in another category entirely," Shirou said. "Azoth Sword is training wheels of sorts. Useful to a point. What you're holding is Sword of Paracelsus."
Another reference to medieval alchemy, much like with Azoth Sword. Although wasn't Paracelsus a real physician here? The history of this world was much the same as my first life, but Theophrastus von Hohenheim was famous Germanian mage in my second, along with several other figures who were fictional in my first world. For example, it was generally accepted that Myrddin was very much a real person, on account that no one raised an eyebrow at someone being a wizard. Such historical discrepancies between world sometimes blurred in my memory.
"I would caution against imitating Myrddin, brother. I know you like him, but from what I've learned, the image he has cultivated might actually be somewhat detrimental to his professional life. No reason to set yourself up for an uphill battle."
He scoffed. "Trust me, I have no intention of going around calling myself a wizard, sister."
"Well, as long as you understand. It's not that I question your general competency, brother, but until you've shown appreciation for certain important topics, I'm afraid I'll have to double-check on you."
"Tanya," his tone sharpened. "Enough about PR. I've had more nagging from you this week than from Alicia and Sumire combined."
"As your only surviving female relative," I replied with perfect composure, "it's my solemn duty to continue their work."
He muttered something about the women in his life. "Just give me the bloody sword."
Grabbing the offered handle, he immediately dragged his palm horizontally along the full length of the blade, letting the blood flow down.
"Shouldn't I be the one doing that?" I tilted my head.
"Unless it's a passive effect, I doubt anyone here can use this class of projections. Not unless they are uniquely compatible." The tone in his voice suggested he found that prospect laughably unlikely.
"Then what's the point?"
"Sword of Paracelsus operates on the same... paradigm as Azoth Sword. In fact, they are the same type of tool, though that undersells the degree of separation in sheer... quality." Shirou shook his head. "Look, it's better than Azoth Sword. The point is, I can use it, and due to how it functions we can attempt a certain workaround."
He handed me the bloody blade.
I didn't need an explanation for what he wanted me to do, but I still looked at him questioningly.
"As the owner of this projection, and due to its underlying nature as a Mystic Code, I can bind it to my bloodline as its owner and pass it down, so to speak. It's something of a loophole and counts only for this particular copy, but if you attune to it now, you should be able to wield it."
Mystic Code, I rolled my eyes.
"So it's gene-locked?" I clarified. "Your DNA samples are compared against mine, giving me authorization based on blood relations?"
"...Exactly."
I sighed. It was difficult to tell whether Shirou's habit of describing his tinkertech through mystical mumbo jumbo came from his chuunibyou tendencies or from simply lacking the vocabulary to express himself otherwise. Just because his power allowed him to build something advanced didn't mean he possessed the scientific language to explain it. He was in middle school, after all. As such, he was perhaps defaulting to metaphors to work around his difficulties.
Still, I was a real mage, and Shirou's explanations often clashed with my Imperial education, making things unnecessarily confusing. Thankfully, the longer he worked with Armsmaster, the more he learned to use proper scientific terminology.
...Although it wasn't as if Armsmaster's explanations made much sense to me either.
I took the sword from Shirou offering hand and gave its bloody blade a look over.
Compared to the way sci-fi DNA locks worked, this process was very unsanitary and resembled some kind of primitive blood-bonding ritual. But in all honesty, Shirou was right about pollution, so blood of the covenant was cleaner than waters of the Bay. Plus, I knew my brother was healthy.
And if it would allow me to fly...
I cut my palm in the same manner as Shirou, letting blood and mana flow.
My eyes widened.
Better Azoth Sword my ass!
At its core, standard computational orb had three basic functions: numerical computation, mana flow stabilization and formula stabilization.
Military models added flight control, since aerial maneuvering was the main selling point of mage corps.
After extensive experimentation with Azoth Sword, I had concluded that it functioned as a mana flow stabilizer for precision casting and formula stabilizer that assisted in maintaining formula integrity.
Its computation abilities were non-existent, but that's where calculators came into play.
This whole setup allowed me to mimic a basic single-core civilian model computational orb. Crude, poorly configured and low processing setup — albeit surprisingly mana efficient — but functional nonetheless. Mental throughput on my side was through the roof, but fortunately I had ample practice. Even with military models, mages were never fully spared from manual calculations if they wanted to maintain more than one spell per core.
Judging by the mana flow, the sword in my hands felt like a complete single-core computational orb. Only that core was unlike anything Elenium Arms ever produced.
Running Medical formula to close the cut on my hand felt like the formula was completed almost faster than I finished my input. Other than supplying mana, maintaining it didn't require any other action on my part.
Flight formula, observation formula and heat detection formula followed. Same result.
Reflex Enhancement formula.
Strength Enhancement formula.
Optical Decoy formula.
Voice amplification formula.
Tactical Interface formula.
Communication formula.
Mage Shell.
Active Barrier.
Mage Blade.
Second Mage Blade.
My eyes widened with every additional formula I was executing, and maintaining simultaneously. None of it felt like I'd been putting a dent on the core's processing capabilities.
The multitasking was insane!
It blows Schugel's cursed creation out of the water!
The realization slammed into me and my blood turned to ice.
Immediately I examined my thoughts for any traces of mental contamination. Creeping euphoria and sick righteous mania of religious psychosis emblematic of Type 95.
My eyes darted around. The world was still in motion; the clouds were still running through the sky, the shimmer of PHQ's forcefield hadn't frozen in time.
"Tanya?" I heard my brother's voice.
I turned to him, pulse hammering. Was this the moment Being X strikes? Did he get to my brother? Would I have to watch Shirou rave madly about divine providence now?
If he...
I didn't want...
"What," I asked calmy, "is this?"
I was observing him closely.
He looked almost amused. "In terms you would understand... It's a quantum computer."
My thoughts screeched to a halt.
"A quantum computer?"
"Yes."
"How did you come up with a quantum computer? So far you'd only been making magnetic swords. And elemental ones during power testing."
"How did Armsmaster come up with nanothorn? I simply thought about what I need and then science. It's not like there's any other explanation."
"...Divine inspiration?" I tentatively offered.
His scoff was instantaneous. "If you want Divine from me, sister, you'll be waiting a long time."
He was dismissive of the very idea.
Relief came in a rush so strong I nearly laughed. What a ridiculous overreaction on my part!
Phew.
Thinking about it rationally, it made perfect sense. While the processing power of the thing in my hand was breathtaking, I was simply holding an advanced computer. The leap in performance was simply a generational leap between simple calculators and futuristic tech. A quantum leap, literally.
The sword's mana fixation capacity was also a far cry from Type 95's bottomless well, which was another indication of the absence of blessings.
The only other weirdness was how easy it was for me to interface with the device, but if early 20th century scientists could build mana-compatible technology, then why not super scientists from 2011 who could build wonders far ahead of their time?
"So, are you going for a fly or not? It's well past your bedtime."
I grinned.
I was being upset over my subpar flight capabilities, and in response my brother had outdone Schugel on the spot. And with no aid from the omnipotent incompetent to boot.
Take that, you hack!
A simple thank you didn't feel like enough gratitude, and I wasn't so childish as to hug him, but perhaps...
Schooling my features, I dropped on the ground and calmly walked up to him, until my forehead bumped into fake abs.
Shirou blinked, surprised, then chuckled — warm, quiet and maddeningly gentle. "My, my, is this my little sister actually asking for a hug? We must be really standing under the blue moon."
His hands went to wrap around me, and that's when I struck.
Reinforcements still running, I quickly turned around, hip-checking him off-balance. Seizing his wrists, I tugged his hands tightly around myself in one smooth motion. His startled shout tore through the night wind as I shot up to the skies.
We didn't stop until the clouds broke, and higher still, until the lights of the city stopped obscuring the stars.
I laughed.
And laughed and laughed and laughed! Sharp, free, and unrestrained — for the first time in years! It burst out of me raw and violent, too big to contain. Shirou's panicked shouts only made me laugh harder!
After nine years chained to the ground, I was flying again! Truly flying!
As free as anyone could ever be, in any world! We could go anywhere! If the mood struck, I could fly us back to New York, to Boston — to Berun even! The destination didn't matter. The sky was mine again!
For a time, I simply drifted aimlessly between the harsh light of the stars and the dark sheet of clouds beneath me. Loops became rolls, rolls became hammerheads. To my right, Koenig was performing perfect Immelmann. Above me Weiss and Grantz wheeled in a defensive spiral, two silver motes dancing across the air. Somewhere distant, Neumann called out a warning, his Chandelle flaring against the moon. Jokes, jeers and laughter filled the radio.
My breath hitched, but I didn't let that stop me.
The sky was alive again. My sky. My men.
Eyes misty from the wind, I canceled the Mage Shell and tilted forward, surrendering to gravity. The freezing air roared in my ears, Visha's panicked screams fading behind the rush of velocity. I fell, weightless and alive, until instinct—or memory—caught me, and I climbed once more, faster, higher, until the air thinned and the stars turned sharp as pieces of broken glass.
Finally, I hovered in stillness.
The view was breathtaking. The lights shone bright across the endless horizon, refracting from the clouds and turning the sea of clouds into something fantastical.
There were only us now, suspended in the empty kingdom of moonlight.
A/N
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