Small Gesture

The ceremony stretched across the week, a sprawling testament to the valor and sacrifice of those who had fought in Operation Corsair. Every day was marked by solemn speeches, applause, and moments of silence for those who hadn't returned. Soldiers were called to the stage in groups, their chests adorned with medals as they accepted recognition from Grand Commander Sebastian Alexander himself, a towering figure with a presence that demanded respect.

On the final day, the atmosphere in the grand hall was different. It was quieter, more charged. Everyone knew who would be honored last, and the anticipation was palpable.

The massive hall was packed to capacity—soldiers, officers, and civilians alike. Large screens displayed a slideshow of moments from the operation: aerial footage of battles, the retrieval of civilians, the coordination of desperate maneuvers, and the aftermath of victory. Each image was a stark reminder of the cost of their success.

Grand Commander Alexander, clad in his formal regalia, stood at the podium. His voice, deep and commanding, resonated through the hall.

"Over the past week, we have celebrated the courage and sacrifices of those who made Operation Corsair a success. Many of you have earned recognition for your bravery, your skill, and your unwavering commitment to humanity's survival." He paused, scanning the room. "Today, we honor one individual whose contributions went beyond valor, beyond duty—whose actions defied expectation and defined what it means to be a protector of mankind."

A hushed murmur swept through the crowd as the massive double doors at the back of the hall hissed open. SABER-1 stepped into view, his olive-green armor polished to a haunting shine, every inch of it radiating an unyielding presence. The room fell into an awestruck silence as he marched forward, his steps measured and deliberate.

The screens shifted to display clips of his efforts: clearing hive nests, leading survivors to safety, holding the line against impossible odds. It was both awe-inspiring and humbling to witness.

As he ascended the stage, Grand Commander Alexander turned to face him. For a moment, the two men—one the embodiment of leadership, the other of raw power—stood in silence.

"SABER-1," Alexander began, his voice steady. "You are the epitome of duty, sacrifice, and strength. Your actions during Operation Corsair did more than ensure victory. They inspired hope."

An aide stepped forward, carrying a silver tray bearing five medals, each more ornate than the last. Alexander took them one by one, announcing each honor.

The Star of Humanity's Shield

"For single-handedly neutralizing enemy strongholds and protecting over 700 civilians during the operation."

The Valor Cross of the Eternal Flame

"For acts of extraordinary bravery and unyielding resolve in the face of insurmountable odds."

The Order of the Phoenix Medal

"For ensuring the survival of endangered civilian populations and leading them to safety, even at great personal risk."

The Apex Command Citation

"For exceptional leadership, coordination, and operational genius that turned the tide of battle."

The Medallion of the Unyielding Sentinel

"For going beyond the call of duty and exemplifying what it means to be a guardian of humanity."

As each medal was pinned to his chest plate, the crowd erupted in applause, their cheers reverberating through the hall. Yet, SABER-1 remained still, his helmeted gaze fixed ahead.

When the final medal was placed, Alexander stepped back, meeting his gaze. "You are more than a soldier, SABER-1. You are the hope that carries us forward."

The applause surged again, but this time it felt different. It was not just for his accomplishments, but for what he represented—a beacon of unbreakable resolve in humanity's darkest moments.

SABER-1 raised a single hand in acknowledgment before turning and walking back down the aisle. The crowd parted instinctively, their cheers following him as he exited the hall.

In the cockpit of her Thunderbird, Icarus watched the live feed, a proud grin on her face. "That's my Elfy," she murmured to herself, her voice tinged with a mix of pride and affection.

Back in the hall, as the doors closed behind him, Grand Commander Alexander returned to the podium. "Let us carry his example with us," he said, his voice filled with conviction. "For the battle for humanity's survival is far from over. But as long as we have heroes like SABER-1, we will endure."

The room was dark, the only light coming from the faint, eerie glow of SABER-1's lavender-purple eyeslits. They pierced the shadows, unwavering and predatory, as he sat motionless in the corner of the room, the massive bulk of his armor blending into the void.

Sister Lydia hesitated at the doorway. She had been searching for him for what felt like hours after losing him in the maze of hallways. Her fingers clutched her rosary tightly, a habit she found herself doing whenever she was nervous.

"SABER-1?" she called softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. The glowing eyes turned toward her, the faint movement of his helmet stopping her in her tracks. She felt her breath hitch, a flicker of fear she quickly suppressed. He didn't move, didn't speak, but his lack of dismissal gave her courage to step inside.

"Um… I've been looking for you," she said, her steps slow and deliberate. The quiet hum of his armor was the only sound in the room. "Are you… okay?"

His head tilted slightly, an acknowledgment perhaps, but his silence remained. Lydia swallowed hard and took another step forward.

As she drew closer, she saw him move, his massive hand reaching toward his chest plate. There was a soft mechanical whirr as a small compartment opened, and he pulled something out. She strained her eyes in the dim light and gasped softly as he held it out toward her.

It was her rosary.

"Thank you," he said, his voice deep and resonant, cutting through the silence like a blade.

"Oh," she stammered, stepping closer to take it. "You're welcome. But… you don't have to give it back. I gave it to you so you could have something to protect you, to remind you that someone is praying for you."

He paused, his helmet lowering slightly. Then, in a low, deliberate tone, he replied, "Monsters don't belong in prayers."

Lydia's heart clenched at his words. "You're not a monster," she said firmly, taking another step closer. "You're—"

"A weapon," he interrupted, his voice unwavering. He leaned back against the wall, the faint glow of his eyes narrowing as he looked away. "I was created to fight. To kill. That's all I am."

"But—"

"Do you think I deserve those medals?" he asked suddenly, cutting her off again. His voice wasn't angry, but it was heavy, burdened. "The soldiers who fought with me—who died—they had families. Lives. Reasons to make it back. I don't have that. I have no fear driving me to survive, no loved ones waiting for me. I do what I was designed to do, nothing more."

Lydia's lips parted, but no words came immediately. His words weren't laced with self-pity—they were a statement of fact, one he had clearly carried for a long time.

"They gave those medals to the soldiers because they fought despite their fear," he continued. "They were human. I'm not. I don't deserve to be honored for something I was programmed to do."

Lydia clutched her rosary tightly, her mind racing. She had never spoken to someone like him before, someone so isolated from humanity, yet so central to its survival. As a woman of faith, she felt compelled to guide him, even if she wasn't entirely sure how.

"You're wrong," she said softly but firmly, stepping closer until she stood directly in front of him. "You are not a monster, and you are not just a machine."

He didn't respond, but the slight tilt of his head told her he was listening.

"You say you have no fear, no emotions driving you," she continued. "But I've seen what you do. You save lives. You protected me and so many others. You didn't have to—there were easier paths, choices that would've made your missions simpler. But you didn't take them. That's not something a machine would do."

"I made the logical choices," he replied, his voice quiet but steady. "Protecting civilians ensures humanity survives. That's the mission."

"But what about the times you didn't have to?" she pressed. "What about when you stayed behind to hold the line, knowing it could've cost you everything? What about when you chose to prioritize lives over objectives?"

His head lowered slightly, and for a moment, the room was silent.

"I'm not equipped to feel," he said finally, his voice almost… reluctant.

"Maybe not in the way you think," Lydia said gently. "But I believe you care, even if you don't realize it. Maybe that's why you're struggling now. You've done so much for others, and it's hard to accept that someone might care about you in return."

He turned his glowing eyes back to her, and she felt the weight of his gaze. She smiled softly, reaching out to place a hand on his massive gauntlet.

"You don't have to believe me," she said. "But I'll keep praying for you anyway."

For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached out and placed the rosary back into the compartment in his chest.

"Thank you," he said again, quieter this time.

"And I'll pray you always have the strength to do what you need to," Lydia whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

SABER-1 nodded faintly, his movements measured and deliberate. As she turned to leave, she felt lighter, as if she had done something important, even if it was small.

And in the darkness, SABER-1 sat alone again, his hand brushing against the rosary inside his armor. For the first time, he felt something he couldn't name—a small, faint warmth amidst the cold.