Last Thing

A brutal wind whipped across the icy landscape, howling like a living thing. Snow churned through the air in a dizzying frenzy, blotting out the sun and transforming day into a swirling mass of white. A lightning forked through the iron-gray clouds overhead, illuminating the storm for a split second—just long enough to reveal the figure of SABER-1 as he kicked aside a chunk of rubble and emerged into the raging blizzard.

He stumbled forward, his massive form swaying precariously. The spot where he'd broken through was nowhere near the tunnel mouth he had entered days ago—he had no idea where he was now. Around him, jagged cliffs and boulders jutted from the snow, forming a jagged, forbidding landscape. The wind shrieked between them, carrying the sting of ice that bit into his armor's weakened joints.

Eilífr managed a few more steps before his knees buckled, the strain of his exhaustion finally overtaking him. He collapsed to the ground, arms shaking as he fought to keep his torso off the snow. His HUD flickered, vital signs dipping into the red, and every breath scoured his lungs like sandpaper. He could taste blood on his lips. 

He could barely see. He could barely think. Every nerve screamed for rest—he'd demanded the impossible from his body for too long. The frigid cold sank through the damaged seals in his armor, biting at his skin.

Still on his knees, he reached for a small hose mounted on the interior of his chest piece—the NutriFlow Sustenance Hose—a device designed to supply the user with a carefully calibrated mix of hydration and nutrients pulled from all five major food groups. He flicked the release valve, and the hose extended to his mouth. A thick, gel-like substance extruded onto his tongue, lemon-yellow (nicknamed "lello" by many soldiers), delivering a burst of electrolytes, proteins, vitamins, and carbohydrates. A taste both bitter and artificially sweet coated his mouth, but he forced himself to chew, swallowing against a gag reflex triggered by pure exhaustion. The rush of nutrients sparked a faint ember of vitality, just enough to keep him from blacking out then and there.

A sudden, bone-rattling blast of wind slammed against him, nearly tipping him over. He planted a hand on the ground, each finger trembling with fatigue. Through the swirling snow, he could only see a few meters ahead—beyond that was pure white chaos.

Despite everything, he had to signal for rescue. He let the sustenance hose retract and, with trembling hands, unloaded the plasma cell from his Z9 pistol. Reaching into the small compartment on his leg, he fumbled out a cylindrical device—the VX-Flash Flare—a single-use mini-munition designed to override the pistol's normal function and shoot a high-intensity signal flare, visible even in blizzard conditions.

His hands quivered so violently that it took him three tries to seat the VX-Flash Flare properly. At last, the cylinder locked into place. Gritting his teeth, he raised the pistol skyward, the frigid wind stinging the exposed gaps in his armor. Then he pulled the trigger and held it, letting the internal capacitor charge to maximum.

The weapon hummed ominously, building energy until the roar of the storm was eclipsed by the shrill whine of the flare's ignition. Then, with a final push of his thumb, he released the trigger.

A searing green bolt tore from the barrel, cutting through the snow-choked sky in a brilliant arc. For a fleeting moment, it illuminated the storm in a dazzling emerald glow—beautiful, haunting—before the raging white swallowed it whole. High above, the sky sparked as the flare's tracer left a lingering neon trail, a beacon of hope in the desolate storm.

The recoil or perhaps sheer exhaustion forced the Z9 from his grasp; it clattered against the stony ground and skidded away.

His heavy gauntlet slid up to the chest compartment where he normally kept the nuns' trinkets. The latch clicked open, and blindly, he fumbled inside until his fingers found something—anything. He pulled it free and let the compartment close as the storm raged louder.

Peering through failing vision, he realized it was Sister Lydia's rosary. The battered chain glimmered faintly under the meager light of his visor. A small, cracked smile ghosted across his lips, barely there. "Guess she's… still praying for me… after all," he whispered, the words nearly lost in the roar of the gale.

The screeching wind carried the ominous groan of twisted metal—debris from the collapsed mountain, or perhaps a sign that the land under him could give way at any second. It only half-registered in his mind. His body had nothing left to give.

Despite the swirling chaos and his trembling hands, he keyed in two short messages:

One to Sister Marianne and he Convent, and one to Icarus.

He watched the words flash across his flickering HUD, saw Delivery Confirmed, then let out a shuddering breath.

"…done," he whispered, his eyelids drooping. The wind roared in his ears, but it sounded distant now—like the ocean's waves, lulling him to rest.

Somewhere behind the cracked plating across his torso, an autonomous subroutine kicked in—Armor Life Support Autonomy—ventilators and micro-heaters humming to life in an effort to salvage the pilot. Hazy breath steamed behind his visor, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears, each thump feeling more distant, like it belonged to someone else.

His gloved fingers tightened one last time around the rosary, knuckles brushing the half-frozen ground. The blizzard swirled around him, white and relentless, devouring his silhouette.

Then he let go. The dark overcame him, and the titan soldier fell, slumping into an unresponsive heap. Only the faint hum of his armor's life support remained, beating out a tenuous rhythm against the raging storm.

A faint chime pierced the silence of the cockpit, rousing Icarus from a restless doze. She jolted upright, blinking away sleep as the soft glow of her HUD pulsed with an unfamiliar beacon request. Heart pounding, she tapped the console, bringing the message into view.

- Beacon ID: Unknown

- Attached Audio Message: Play?

She swallowed, thumb hovering over the command to listen. Fear and hope warred in her mind until she finally tapped PLAY.

Eilífr's voice crackled to life, barely more than a rasp, the dryness of his weak tone stark against her earpiece.

The low, persistent beep echoed down the narrow hallway, so faint at first that Sister Rosanna almost missed it. She had been tidying Sister Marianne's quarters—dusting shelves and straightening linens—when the sound grew louder, prompting her to trace it back to a small device blinking on the corner of a table.

Her heart jumped at the sight. It wasn't one of their usual tools or anything typically found in a convent. The device glowed with a tiny diode, pulsing at a steady rhythm. A single button flickered beneath a faintly illuminated screen.

Grabbing it delicately, Sister Rosanna rushed through the stone corridors until she reached the small sanctuary, where Sister Marianne and the other twelve nuns were gathered in silent reflection. Their murmured prayers trailed off as Rosanna burst into the room, her habit swishing around her ankles.

"Sister Marianne," she whispered, breathless, holding the device out with trembling hands. "It's… it's beeping."

Marianne's eyes widened, and she signaled the group to gather closer. The old wooden pews groaned as they abandoned their seats, forming a tight circle around Rosanna. Candlelight flickered against the high walls, illuminating the concern written on every face.

One of the sisters whispered, "Is it from… him?"

Marianne gently pressed the device's button. A burst of static filled the sanctuary, crackling like distant thunder. The nuns exchanged worried glances, their hearts pounding in collective suspense.

Then, through the muffled hiss and pops, a voice—low and unmistakably stoic:

"Thank you… for the trinkets and prayers."

The words were few, but the effect profound. Sister Marianne clutched her hands to her chest, tears glistening in her eyes. A relieved smile broke across Sister Rosanna's face, and the others exhaled shaky breaths they hadn't realized they were holding.

Even through the static, the gratitude in the message was clear. A hum of hushed excitement spread among the group. For a moment, none of them spoke, letting the weight of that simple message settle. It was an answer they hadn't dared hope for, a sign that their small gestures had truly reached their towering protector in his greatest trials.

Sister Marianne turned off the device, embracing Sister Rosanna with a trembling sigh. Her voice faltered with emotion. "He heard us," she said softly. "He truly heard us."

As the nuns broke into hushed, heartfelt prayers of thanks, the beep died out, leaving them in reverent silence—a quiet testament to their faith, and to the soldier who bore their blessings into the darkness.

Icarus hunched over the comms console, the whine of the engines a dull roar behind her. She keyed in the secure frequency to Hamilton Control with trembling fingers, her eyes still rimmed red from days of fitful half-sleep. A part of her was certain the locator flare had to have shown up on someone's satellite feed—she needed to believe that. It was the only speck of hope keeping her from losing herself to exhaustion and despair.

"Hamilton Control, this is Captain Trottle," she said, forcing composure into her voice. "Requesting coordinates on any signal flares received in the northern quadrant. Over."

There was a moment of static—long enough to send her pulse racing—before a voice crackled back in her earpiece, confused and cautious. "Captain Trottle, this is Hamilton Control. We have no record of any flares in the designated zone. Please confirm. Over."

Her stomach twisted. "No flares? Check again. A bright green plasma discharge, maybe twenty or thirty minutes ago..."

"Stand by." Another pause, then muffled shuffling in the background. She could almost picture them leafing through data logs. "Captain, we have no record of any signal from SABER-1's approximate location. The satellite indicates zero high-energy flares in that region. Over."

Icarus's grip tightened on the console. "No flares..." she repeated, her voice trailing off as she processed the words. Her mind screamed in protest—he had to have sent one. Right?

"Negative, Captain." The voice on the other end sounded apologetic, as if sensing her dread. "No indicator of SABER-1 emerging from the collapse. I'm sorry. Over."

She swallowed hard, her throat feeling dry as paper. A hollow sensation spread through her chest. For a moment, she forgot to breathe.

"Copy that..." Her voice cracked, betraying the tremor she fought to hide. "Standing by for further updates. Trottle out."

She cut the channel, staring numbly at the console. No flare... no reading... no sign. Outside, the endless sky stretched on, uncaring, as her heart pounded in a quiet panic.