The Soul of Our Homeland, 3: Impact Imminent
05 Dec 2024Meowers
( 05.12.3310 / 12:00 GMT )
( Sol, Daedalus Station )
I can feel the war drums beating.
It's about to begin. The Titan is here, on our doorstep. Decelerating, searching for a place to stop.
"Just another system that's invaded", I said earlier. "Doing our job, as we did before". As much as I hope those mantras helped my pilots, I know it's anything but. I may not have said it, but do I really need to? It's in the air. It's in space around us.
The fear and panic of the evacuation are almost palpable, the crowds glow with it, irradiate it. The crowds exist in the state of panic, they are the panic. The mental barriers we have to rise in order to stop it from bleeding into our own minds are... Atrocious. You shouldn't have thoughts like that. They aren't human. But every way of distancing yourself, keeping both your mind and body in fighting shape are allowed now. Without it, you're as good as dead.
This day is only at its middle but I've had my fair share of pictures already.
Freelance pilot on a flaming wreckage of a Krait, firing his last boost, pointing the trembling, dying vessel at a Medusa. In a blink, the ship disappeared in flames. Told him to eject, but... Perhaps the comms were broken. Or maybe not. The staggered beast lurched, losing its aim and balance, and soon after it fell to our focused gunfire.
Rescue vessel cracking in half under Thargoid barrage, the poor bastard thought they could slip through unescorted. We dropped in only a few seconds before the Thargon swarm smashed itself against the cockpit, sending the ship into a spin, with a melted, disfigured mass of metal where the pilot was. As we reached the firing range, the bulkheads gave up, depressurising the compartments at once, spilling out already dead and dying. Infernal chorus of screams and groans overwhelmed the local channel. Those wearing suits lived for a few minutes longer, clinging to the interior of the vessel, and we did what we could, doubling the distress signal, but... What else could we have done? Our combat ships aren't meant to pick up and carry people, and there were still Thargoids around for us to fight.
There was a young man, by the name of Joshua Wilson, a Federal trainee pilot, still too green to fight. Trapped in a crumbled tech compartment by a jammed door. Did everything right, staying as calm as possible, rationing the air in his suit. Breathe in, breathe out, steadily, listening to my words as I drifted nearby, my gaze locked onto the sensors. Talking to him. Nobody came. Every evac transport was like that, full beyond full. We resumed our patrol once the comm line went silent.
Feeling of helplessness, of being unable to change anything, poisons you silently. Slows you down, makes your arms heavy, opens the door for apathy. Tells you to give up where you can at least try. Turns your thoughts away from action, making you think even your very life isn't controlled by you anymore. Fight it. Don't let it secure any ground, don't give yourself time for contemplations. Dark thoughts may be like a drop of ink into water, small at first, but then spreading in wild patterns, to every corner of your mind. This isn't the time for thinking.
Everyone's waiting for a miracle, but what miracles are, if not the combined effort of those who keep trying, who keep fighting beyond any hope? Miracles don't happen by themselves. They taste blood, tears and sweat.
If we need a miracle, there's no time like the present to start making one happen.
The war drums are getting louder...