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Trapped in an endless cycle of violence and bloodshed, you can only imagine the reasoning behind it all. Don’t you know? The inevitable is exactly that—inevitable, inviolable, constant yet not consistent and always, always, always cruel…
According to us, at least.
God is exactly that and this and all the above. If we humans can only recognize Him and His as cruel, is that an indictment of God? A reflection could no better understand its origin. How can we claim that an image is the same?
No, the truth is in the connection. Humans cannot connect to God, just as God cannot connect with humans. We have fundamentally different principles, existing on conceptually different planes.
So, when we ask questions such as “why” and “how”, the answer always falls flat. A “God” is simply a natural disaster with free will. There’s no point questioning something like that.
Why waste your breath?
We exist in an endless cycle of violence and bloodshed, of death and rebirth. We are chained to his whims until he has discarded us; we’re nothing more than cogs in a cheap trinket he found on a whim.
This world is one where two girls can fight to the death above an ocean of corpses. This time and place is nothing more than the inevitable outcome to a God’s unthinking cruelty.
There is no other ending to this story.
That’s true. It must be true.
And yet…
“Hey.” She winces, touching the bloodiest spot of the bandages wrapped around her stomach, but that reaction is just reflex. The tips of her fingers and toes are cold. “Hey. Wake up.”
There’s a bit of rustling next to her, and a weak groan.
“Haven’t you… bothered me enough…?”
“Shut up.” Mary shifts against the tree she’s propped up against. The bark digs into her back, and she finds herself oddly grateful for her body’s increasing lack of sensation. Usually, it’s harder to rest against something with a hole through your body. “This is your fault, anyway.”
Her words have no bite. This is neither of their faults, not really.
“…sorry for… trying to live… I guess.”
But regardless, they both suffer from this outcome. Tanya recognizes this too, and though her apology is sarcastic and falls flat, the meaning behind it is real enough.
Mary tilts her head, or more accurately, she lets her head flop over onto her shoulder. Her vision is blurry and dark along the edges, but lying next to her, she can see the blonde hair and bloodied face of her most hated enemy… and, as a cruel twist, she can also make out the girl underneath.
How ironic, that this is the one person in the whole world who understands her best? They were chained together by unfortunate circumstance, connected by a God that had no interest in them beyond his own whims.
How incredulous, that these two would find themselves fighting again and again. That they would kill, again and again. How long has it been since Anson Sue or Vivi or Drake died, anyway? How long since Matheus Weiss or Viktoriya Serebryakov or Lotte?
It’s getting harder to think. It all bleeds together–they, too.
How cruel, that this endless cycle of violence led here, of all times and place, that the one person who understands her best is by her side now.
“You damn…” Mary tries to muster up the same hatred which carried her so far. She fails, and lets out a sigh that’s more of a pained hiss.
They’ve never really talked, she realizes. Then again, their relationship was always one of immediate action. The chance to share words was not something that came about.
There’s little point now. Why waste her breath?
And yet, she has so many questions…
…maybe, in another time and place… we could just talk.
“…what’s your favorite color?” Is what Mary settles on, for no reason in particular.
She’s met with silence at first. Then, there’s movement.
Though her body shakes and dark stains across her clothing grow darker, Tanya manages to shift from her front to laying on her back.
“My… favorite…?” Tanya says, slowly. She might be looking at Mary, though it’s hard to tell with a bloody gash cutting over one eye and painting most of her face. She could be looking at the sky. “…orange. I think.”
“Orange. That’s nice. What’s… your favorite instrument?”
“…bass. The guitar.”
“Guitar… my father owned a guitar.” Mary lets her eyes flutter shut. She’s tired, and she doesn’t want to see the other’s reaction. “But he sold it to one of my cousins before I could… before I wanted to learn. To play.”
She doesn’t want to ruin this moment.
“…Weiss… my Vice Commander.” Tanya’s voice halts and cracks, but it’s no doubt from her injuries. It’s hard to feel much of anything right now, for either of them. “He could play. He… taught me. A little. Maybe… I…”
Maybe you could’ve taught me. Mary thinks. If none of this ever happened. Maybe we could’ve just…
“…it was… fun. I wanted… to learn more about…” A harsh cough cuts her off, and Tanya gives up on that response.
Her injuries are more severe than Mary’s by far, but regardless, neither of them will survive. Really, that’s the only reason behind this conversation. There’s no one else to talk to.
It’s funny, in a way.
They should have killed each other—one or the other, rather. But in reality, all it takes is a single stab from behind to lose everything. Once upon a time, Mary would’ve been surprised at the Federation’s treachery, though not the Empire’s. But here and now, well…
Here they are now.
“I wish I killed you…” Mary whispers. If only to spare them both the suffering.
They should have killed one another, one or the other, so that they never ended up here. So they would have died never knowing of this pain.
Of what could have been.
“…yeah.”
We wouldn’t have to fight… or be chained to this cruel fate.
Maybe next time…
The Sun’s getting low.
“Next time… don’t…” Tanya’s voice is barely there. It’s low, and weak, and Mary has to strain herself to hear it. But her words are clearer than anything she’d heard up until this point in her life. “…or I won’t… wrap the wounds of… a dying woman.”
“I was… unconscious. I didn’t ask...” Mary opens her eyes slowly, as though each are weighed down by her sins. "Why did you do that? It’s not like…”
They’re going to die here and now. That’s the inevitability of this, of their place. From the moment the self-proclaimed “God” chained their fates together, there was no chance of survival for both.
It should’ve been one or the other, damn it.
It should’ve been…
They should’ve been…
“Keep your eyes… open. Mary. The Sun… it’s…”
Through the numbness, her gut wound throbs. Mary can’t help sharp gasp, but at the same time, she’s grateful for it. The pain keeps her awake just a little longer. Holding that air inside her lungs keeps her mind going just enough. No matter how much it hurts.
She keeps her eyes open, no matter how much her body tries to shut down.
It’s a shame. Even though she’s going to die, she still has so many questions.
“You could’ve died alone. I’m your enemy, right…?” She refuses to look at Tanya. She already knows. “Why waste your breath… on someone like me?”
There’s no response.
Mary looks forward, watching the setting Sun in silence.
It’s hard to make anything out. At best, what remains now is a memory interlaced with the blurry, fading image in front of her. It’s somewhere other than here—a better time and place.
Someone’s playing a song as the Sun gets lower, and lower, flooding the horizon with hues of yellow and red and...
And when she closes her eyes, her last dream is of the color orange.
…we could be chained to something nicer… like a key ring.
And I'd show you my favorite color, too.