A Fallen Brother

The war room within the mobile transport was a scene of grim determination, the metallic walls illuminated by the glow of holographic displays and the flickering light of monitors. Two wounded veterans, their bodies marked by the scars of countless battles, sat among a group of soldiers and a stern commander, their eyes reflecting the weight of loss and sacrifice.

"We regret to inform you that Prince Marcus, son of Consort Astria of House Hayes, has fallen in battle," the eldest of the men spoke, his voice tinged with sorrow. He sat in a chair, his wounds wrapped in bandages, as he placed a key on the table. The key was in the shape of a spear, a symbol of the prince's valor and leadership.

The other man, with fiery red hair and a burly build, his muscles just as bandaged, poured himself a drink from a nearby bottle, the liquid glinting in the dim light of the room. He downed several drinks in quick succession, the alcohol burning away the pain of loss and the memories of battle.

The commander, a figure of authority in his well-tailored royal gear, listened intently to the older man's words. "Is this confirmed with the vitals system in his IK, Hodin?" he asked, his voice steady despite the somber news.

Hodin, the elder statesman, nodded solemnly. "Confirmed, with the passing of his keys," he replied, placing a keychain with two twin dagger keys on the table. These keys.

"His keys and his Iron Knight have been recovered. His body however was beyond mutilated we regret to inform rebels were seen carrying it off into the ghettos. We will stage an assault there immediately."

The Commander dismisses this.

"No, you both are injured and you will need time to recover. I will send the Balmungs squad. The loss of the princess weighs heavy upon us all. Let us all have a moment of silence for the Prince who never once accepted a promotion, but in our hearts was always a great leader." 

The room fell into a heavy silence, the loss of Prince Marcus weighing heavily on the hearts of those gathered. But amidst the grief, there was also a steely resolve, a determination to carry on the fight and honor the prince's memory.

As the commander rose to address the room, his voice filled with determination. "We will honor Prince Marcus's sacrifice by continuing the fight," he declared, his words echoing with resolve. "His death shall not be in vain. We will press on until victory is ours."

With renewed purpose, the soldiers and the commander began to strategize, their minds focused on the task at hand. Plans were drawn up, alliances forged, and weapons prepared for the next battle.

Outside, the cityscape passed by in a blur, neon lights flickering in the darkness, casting an eerie glow over the streets below. The mobile transport moved swiftly through the cyberpunk city, its sleek design blending seamlessly with the urban landscape.

As the mobile transport rumbled on, the soldiers inside braced themselves for the challenges that lay ahead. 

"Records indicate they had stolen a next-generation Iron Knight, were you all able to confirm or deny this?" The commander's voice cut through the tension in the war room, his gaze flickering between Tor and Houdin, the two seasoned veterans who had seen their fair share of battles.

Tor and Houdin exchanged a knowing glance before Houdin, the elder of the two, spoke up. "Weren't no Knight down there, was some hostages, possibly they moved it," he replied, his voice gruff with certainty.

The commander nodded thoughtfully, taking in the information. "Very well, we'll need to investigate further," he said, his mind already turning to the next course of action.

As the discussion turned to plans for returning to the mainland in a month, the mood in the room lightened slightly. Lady Astria and Sir Helblin's names were mentioned, prompting a few chuckles among the soldiers.

"Don't you mean Lady Bindi now, sir?" one of the soldiers chimed in, unable to resist a teasing jab at the commander's expense.

The commander's face reddened slightly, embarrassed to have forgotten the recent title change. "Enough," he said, his tone firm but good-natured. "While some of you may find it amusing that a member of the royal family has decided to... come out as such," he stumbled over his words, unsure of how to address the situation.

"Does not mean you will go off and... snicker," he continued, his voice trailing off as he grew tired of the awkwardness. "Forget it, Tor, pass me a drink," he said, reaching for the bottle with a weary smile.

Tor obliged, handing him the bottle with a grin as the commander took a long gulp.

The returning to the main base all hostages and those who surrendered were processed as refugees.

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The land stretched out before me, a vast expanse of contrasts and contradictions. In the rural areas, where rolling hills and lush landscapes painted a picture of tranquility and beauty, houses dotted the countryside like jewels in a crown. Royal schools stood as bastions of knowledge and tradition, their elegant architecture a testament to the wealth and sophistication of the ruling elite. Artwork adorned the walls of grand estates, each piece telling a story of the land and its people.

But as the landscape shifted, so too did the atmosphere. In the cyberpunk district, towering skyscrapers loomed overhead, their sleek, futuristic designs a stark contrast to the rural beauty of the countryside. The city streets were crowded and chaotic, filled with the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Despite the clunkiness of the technology, there was a unique sense of beauty in the neon lights and flashing signs that adorned every corner.

And then there were the ghettos, where the beauty of the land was replaced by decay and destruction. Buildings stood in disrepair, their walls crumbling and windows shattered. Life bustled in these forgotten corners of the city, but it was a life marked by hardship and struggle.

As I watched the news broadcast, the contrast of the land mirrored the news of the war the Baskerville Empire was embroiled in. The death of the 15th in line for the throne cast a shadow over the land, a reminder of the fragility of life in a world torn apart by conflict.

But even in the face of tragedy, life went on. His royal majesty would send an envoy to attend the funeral, but would not attend himself, a decision that spoke volumes about the complexities of politics and power.

As the broadcast came to an end, I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the screen. I looked different, much younger than I remembered. My frame seemed smaller, and more youthful, but beneath the surface, I could still feel the same strength and power that had always been a part of me.

"I look so... different," I murmured to myself, unable to tear my eyes away from the unfamiliar face staring back at me. But as I looked deeper, I realized that while my appearance may have changed, the essence of who I was remained the same. And with that realization, I felt a sense of reassurance wash over me at least that's something I guess.

I found myself among others in the men's ward, my fate now in the hands of faceless bureaucrats.

As I was processed, I became inmate number 0015, just another statistic in a system that cared little for individuality or humanity. I tried to explain who I was, to assert my identity in the face of suspicion and hostility, but my words fell on deaf ears.

My first night in the hole was brutal, a barrage of fists and boots raining down on me as I lay defenseless on the cold concrete floor. But even as my body was battered and bruised, I could feel the wounds healing, the pain fading away as if it had never been there.

The morning brought another round of beatings, but this time something was different. The injuries healed almost instantly, leaving everyone around me amazed and bewildered. But for some reason, it felt like my body had... set as if the rapid regeneration had reached its limit.

As I lay there, contemplating my strange predicament, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at the edges of my mind. Same body, different build, same brain. Logically impossible, and yet here I was, living proof that the impossible could become reality.

And then, as if a dam had burst, memories flooded back to me. The woman with the egg, her mysterious presence haunting my thoughts like a specter from the past. Could she have been responsible for my transformation? Was it her touch that had brought me back from the brink of death?

And then, like a bolt of lightning, the memories of Tor and Houdin's betrayal came crashing back to me. The shock of their treachery, the pain of their deception, it all came rushing back with a vengeance, leaving me reeling with anger and confusion.

Why had they done it? What had driven them to betray me, to cast me aside like a pawn in their twisted game of power and politics? 

I can't believe those guys, we were supposed to be family.

Why?

The questions swirled in my mind, unanswered and unrelenting, a constant reminder of the betrayal that had changed my life forever.

The guards, afraid to touch me any longer processed me to be sent to a prison training area with other illegals they declared. And I was shocked by what this looked like and how they, released me into Gen Pop along with others, men and women in a co-ed environment. I and three other inmates were ushered in with an inmate buddy system. To my surprise, the inmate assigned to be my welcome buddy was female, her red hair stark against the dull surroundings. She had a star under her eye, a mark of distinction in this grim place.

She led me through the corridors of the immigration center, her grey jumpsuit blending into the sterile environment. "Welcome to the crystal city," she remarked, her voice carrying a hint of resignation. "Named because the pods are all see-through. Hard to do anything when everything is so crystal clear. Doesn't stop people from doing it, just means you have to be smarter."

As I was handed the essentials by the quartermaster—my suit, bed, slippers, shoes, and a single bar of soap—I felt a sense of resignation settle over me. This was to be my new life, confined within the walls of the crystal city, where every move was scrutinized and every action had consequences.

My buddy led me further into the area, her voice solemn as she imparted the rules of survival in this unforgiving environment. "Rule one, stay to yourself," she began, her tone serious. "Rule two, if something isn't your business, don't make it your business. And rule three, what the pod boss says goes. Stay off his radar and you'll be good."

I nodded, taking in her words as we reached our assigned pod. She indicated the bottom bunk for me, explaining that there was a cot on the floor for her friend when his roommate kicked him out for not paying rent. I couldn't help but be taken aback by the mention of rent in a place like this.

"Rent?" I questioned, bewildered by the concept.

She smirked, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Not gonna be making you pay me rent unless you give me a reason to, little man," she replied, her tone teasing yet strangely comforting.

As an alarm rang out and the guard called for a count, she extended her hand to me. "Name's Shiro," she introduced herself.

I hesitated for a moment, unable to use my real name in this new life. "Hanzo," I responded, choosing a name on the spot. "Zo for short."

With a nod of understanding, we headed out of the pod and joined the line for the count, standing alongside our fellow inmates. I couldn't help but notice the diversity among us—men, women, and even a few non-binary inmates. 

As I stood in line during the count, my eyes scanned the area, taking in the sights and sounds of the Crystal City. It was then that I saw her, walking from a nearby pod, her pink hair a stark contrast against the dull surroundings. My heart skipped a beat as recognition dawned on me. It was her—the woman from earlier, the one with the pink hair who had been holding the mysterious egg-like device.

But my moment of recognition was short-lived, overshadowed by the sight of her holding onto the pocket of a male inmate who scanned her up and down with a predatory gaze. He was tall, with the look of someone who had seen one too many bar fights, his demeanor rough and intimidating.

What the hell was she doing here?