Note: Egregore reactor is fundamentally metastable. Sufficient blowback of doloric energy through functional parapsychological inputs would kickstart an implosive feedback loop as doloric energy begins to consume doloric energy production. For single reactor cores, this would rarely be a problem, but for large-scale facilities, core reactor complex must be sealed from outside inputs of doloric energy. Catastrophic failure could result.
Egregore Reactor Prototype Design Specifications, Dr. Ulysses Kane and Dr. Hannibal Markov, UCF 260
GETHSEMANE Complex, deep interior, Corpus Christi, Texas, Axis Mundi, Earth, UCF 05/20/454, 1451 hours
Hanabi wanders the halls of the GETHSEMANE complex, alone. The facility has been evacuated, and most core functions were automated to begin with. Her footsteps echo hauntingly through the corridors. Alone. The word bites with condemnation.
No time for grief. For self-pity. For sorrow. Again, the mission demands more of her. The mission requires she set aside her pain for the uncountable masses of the future. She continues walking through the facility.
A transmission came in moments earlier, through the personal commslink on her wrist. “Locate core reactor complex. Objective is to disable the core.” She suspects, by now, the People have broken through, and flooded the facility with their numbers, also searching for the core reactor room. The alternative does not warrant consideration. That the People’s forces may have been defeated at the door, held back by the ARC infantry. Hanabi shakes her head, as if physically warding away the thought. Not a chance.
Hanabi continues deeper into the complex. Light filters from a doorway, flowing cleanly through the dustless air of the hermetically sealed complex interior. She investigates.
Inside, a high, arched ceiling rises above. Rows of seats, and coffins, line the large room, split down the center by a narrow walkway. The Chapel. Hanabi has found herself in the church at the heart of the grief engine.
It’s a horrifying thing to behold, to consider. This beautiful refuge of light and prayer, as worship to a God of blood and cruelty, in the center of a factory for suffering. Hanabi almost offers a prayer herself, for the fallen of the People. Hesitates. There is no God here. There is only history. One lesson, among many, she has learned from the People. Hanabi offers a nod to the coffins before turning to go. Then, she hears a groan.
Hanabi whips around, hands held up, prepared to defend herself. At the far end of the nave, sitting behind the pulpit, is a man. Bleeding. Hiding, presumably, from the coming PLAA forces. A man with a sensor array for eyes and a bionic arm. Hanabi blinks, a mote of recognition identifying the remaining half of his face.
Seraph?
“So. It’s you who’ve come to do the honors.” Seraph coughs, blood splattering on the flawless carpet of the chapel.
Hanabi is frozen, met by the ghost of her sins. Here, in the house of the God she abandoned. Have I come to meet judgment after all?
“No words for me? Just as well. What could you possibly say?” Hanabi’s eyes begin to search the room. Her gaze rests on a nearby coffin. Unmarked, save for a rank. And a ceremonial sidearm.
“Flechette. You must know you are wrong. The side you have chosen is wrong. The people you’ve killed, we were your comrades.” Another groan, as Seraph attempts to stand. He succeeds, haltingly, tottering on his failing body.
“You are a traitor, Flechette. You betrayed your cause, your people, your family. You don’t deserve the BIRTH OF VENUS.”
Seraph reaches out a trembling hand, as if offering. Hanabi’s gaze is grim, unwavering. She looks up.
“Ka Lǐ Jiànguó. Soldier.”
Seraph looks at her confused. Hanabi continues.
“Ka Wáng Xiùyīng. Astronomer.”
“Ka Zhāng Àimín. Caregiver.”
“Ka Ligaya Bautista. Factory worker.”
“Ka Perla Dimaguiba. Carpenter.”
“Ka Tomas Magsaysay. Historian.”
“Ka Chén Guìfāng. Architect.”
“Ka Liú Wèidōng. Soldier.”
“Ka Sūn Zhìqiáng. Factory worker.”
“Ka Jong Malsun. Farmer.”
“Ka Choe Kwangho. Office worker.”
“Ka Nguyễn Văn Tâm. Teacher.”
“Ka Trần Thị Hoa. Farmer.”
With each name, she steps closer, down the aisle, towards Seraph.
“Ka Kailani. Soldier.”
Hanabi reaches over, runs a hand over a coffin. Takes hold of the ceremonial sidearm. Weighs it in her hand. She looks directly at Seraph’s mangled face. She thinks about beautiful green eyes.
“My name is Ka Hanabi. I am a woman, and a soldier of the PLAA. And I will die for this revolution.”
She fires a bolt directly into Seraph’s chest. The blast echoes through the chapel.
Hanabi walks away. She has wasted too much time here. The reactor core still needs to be found. The mission, completed.
As she walks away from the pulpit, she hears a croaking attempt at a word.
“…Brother…”
Hanabi does not look back.