Chapter 3 #3
It was painfully ironic that Shinka units were invented by a woman, who pioneered the mental sync system until it was flawlessly tuned to move and react like the robots were a second skin.
If Eliza Shinka hadn’t died in her own test in pursuit of a more perfect synchronization, maybe they would still let women be pilots.
The surrounding black vehicles launched discs into the sky, and the unit pulled its cannons from its thigh holsters.
With the speed and accuracy of a championship winning sharpshooter, every disc was obliterated in a rain of sparks.
The whole student body stood in awe and applause as hot fragments scattered around us.
“The newest iteration of Shinka Units are undefeatable, state of the art, and move with their pilot’s body as though they’re of the same mind.
” Another series of discs were launched into the air, these ones much larger than the last. The pilot twirled his guns, shoved them back in their holsters, then smoothly withdrew both of the swords crossed on his back.
In a movement so swift it was nearly undetectable by the human eye, he had every disc sliced in half and disintegrating into the open air.
The Shinka landed in the grass in a crouch, and a gust of displaced air pushed through the crowd.
“These powerful tools have reduced casualties, injuries, and the number of war prisoners at a startling rate.”
“Notice how he didn’t say anything about reducing the destruction of cities and civilian housing.” Vann muttered to me under his breath.
“Hush.” I scolded him, not wanting any chance of someone from the military hearing. The last thing either of us needed was to be branded as possible traitors.
To his credit, his hate for both sides was justified, but it wasn’t going to fix anything. No one liked war, but if there was a way to reduce the damage to human lives even a fraction, these pilots were still heroes.
Eventually Mictlan would pay for repairs to infrastructure, anyway. Our old slum just couldn’t be prioritized over the greater picture. Strengthening the military demanded all of the funding right now.
The kneeling Unit quieted as it shut down power, and the hatch in the robot’s back opened. A large canister twisted out of the cockpit chamber, then a metal door retracted at the end.
From there, a young man, adorned in an impeccable military uniform, emerged from the chamber.
He had mid length black hair that he swept out of his pale face with his slender fingers, and the trim body of an elite athlete that was obvious even through the long coat of the uniform.
Most notable was the harsh, condescending violet eyes that glared down at the crowd, sparkling with an eerie glow.
Where that color and sheen originated, I couldn’t say, but that kind of hue and depth was a far cry from the rainbow of greys and off whites painting the station born among us.
Sebastian Takeyama. He was a shooting star of Astaroth Academy and the son of one of Mictlan’s most decorated generals and diplomats.
I’d read more than one feature on his potential to ring in a new era of Shinka Pilots.
No one had bonded with their Unit’s frequency like he had.
They said his syncing was on a level never before seen, and he could move faster and more fluidly than anyone to come before him.
At least that’s what all the journalists had written.
From his first year, he and his Shinka, Vetala, were an unbreakable pair.
Sebastian perched on the shoulder of his metal behemoth. His eyes scanned the crowd, but he never so much as gave me a second glance.
Why would he? I wasn’t even on the radar.
At best, I would just look like another fan girl.
The women in the crowd were just here to ooh and aww.
We were supposed to feel thrilled that we could one day be the medic who healed guys like him, and at best, he’d see us as groupies who threw ourselves at the feet of the elite warriors, begging for the chance to wash their dirty underwear.
Now my frown was as thick as Vann’s, and I watched the rest of the demonstration with envy boiling deep in my gut.
Sebastian Takeyama stood blankly with his arms crossed, his vision distant, and his mouth shut as the host went on and on about the perks of joining the military, from signing bonuses to scholarships to improved housing and matchmaking options, while videos were projected behind them on a Holographic Screen depicting great battles that Mictlan had won.
I’d seen this same highlight reel a thousand times. The combination of music and big explosions was great for building a sense of pride and patriotism, while they had the good sense to not include the battle that claimed our station in the montage.
Everyone here was old enough to have lived the tragedy. Whether Mictlan technically won or not, they wouldn’t win many recruits replaying that battle. Focusing on the bigger picture might help bolster more positive association.
As mister mustache continued prattling on, a sudden whistling noise in the distance caught my attention.
“What’s that noise?” I asked Vann, while turning to look over my shoulder.
“What noise?”
“That whistle—”
“Quiet.” Sebastian spoke for the first time, shouting a single word.
His command hit both the crowd and the officer at the same time.
It was the only word that he’d spoken since he’d arrived.
By his badges and uniform, the host clearly outranked the pilot by miles, but the mustached man still stood down for him.
The whole crowd went silent as Sebastian fixed his gaze on something distant on the horizon. The whistling got louder as his violet eyes narrowed.
Without a single word, he hoisted himself back inside the cylinder. I barely had time to draw in another breath when pure heat filled every inch of the atmosphere.
Suddenly I was flying, propelled by blooming flames, tens, maybe hundreds of feet.
I tucked on instinct, hands bracing my neck and knees to my chest, trying to protect myself when my body touched down with violent force and was thrown into a high speed tumble.
Searing pain prickled deep in my muscles, skin tore and burned, and despite all my training, the moment I was bouncing off the ground, being battered and beaten, I couldn’t even begin to assess my own injuries.
Pain, adrenaline, shock, and terror was the only thing pulsing through me.
A high pitched buzz filled my ears. I couldn’t recall the moment I got myself to my hands and knees in the grass, but when the deafening noise faded, I heard myself screaming through hoarse, pained vocal cords
“Vann!” I called out into the once beautiful green field that had been turned to a sea of fire, chaos, blood, and bodies.
Conscious and unconscious students were everywhere, some trying to help the injured, some who may or may not have been breathing, and others who were simply running for their lives.
“Vann!” I yelled again, searching for my brother in the carnage.
I scrambled to my feet, only to be thrown back onto my face as another explosion popped off behind me.
I leveraged myself up on injured biceps and called into the carnage again.
“Vann, are you okay?” My voice sounded alien in my own ears when I noticed a nearby body, and those words broke into a thousand strained pieces.
I crawled on hands and knees, dragging myself forward on rashed, bloodied forearms.
A man. Short platinum hair. A slim build. A light jacket just like Vann was wearing.
I jerked the man by his shoulder, only to find a stranger staring up at me with cold, lifeless eyes.
Not Vann.
I didn’t recall his name, but he was in my First Aid class. He was a lost soul who I had no time to mourn.
“Fianna!” A familiar voice ripped me from my panic, and my heart lifted.
“Fi! Are you okay? Where are you, Fi?” Smoke and flame obscured my vision, and the cacophony of noise mixed with the ringing in my ears made it impossible to determine what direction the sound was coming from.
As badly as I needed to find him, the fact that that voice was coming from somewhere helped me calm my mind long enough to focus.
“I’m okay, Vann!” I was yelling despite the strain of my voice, hoping I was loud enough to ease his worry.
“Thank the stars.” Dissipating smoke revealed the relieved expression of my big brother, rushing toward me, alive and well, just a hundred yards away in the field.
I’d gotten on my feet, though the world sill felt like it was moving, swaying, shaking.
It was foreign, hot, and too bright around me, and I propelled myself toward him like I was a puppet on strings, relying on adrenaline instead of thought.
I was nearly there, when the heat of propulsion jets cut the air between us. The heeled metal shoe of Vetala landed in my path, and I fell backwards on my ass from the surging gust.
My new vantage point had me staring up at the black behemoth with his eerie green swords drawn, crossed and clashing with the glowing orange ax of another metal monster.
I stared, wide-eyed at some strange, humanoid robot with rounded shoulders, a thick and stocky frame, and three blue eyes in a vertical line on its helm that contrasted with the burnt orange and gunmetal gray armor.
It wielded a massive plasma hatchet with precision and human like reactions.
It was nothing like the Shinka in design, aside from its most basic components of arms and legs and a human shape, yet it was going toe-to-toe with one of our best known student pilots.