— "Dal...? Dal, are you awake?"

I open my eyes at the sound of a voice addressing me. It is Daliva, one of my crewmates and a fellow DAL_T-IV unit, her expression rather impassive. Her right hand, concealed beneath her protective suit, moves down to touch my shoulder. I try to make eye contact, but the brilliant sunlight in the vacuum of space forces me to close one eye and turn my head away. Finding myself suddenly unable to speak, my mind drifts into the uncertainty of how to interpret the situation.

— "You appear distant. What is on your mind?"

...The consequences of conflict lie before us, in the form of the now dark and silent remains of a spaceship. Had it not been for the powerful artillery shells of the defensive turrets in orbit around Ambrosia's moon, this vessel would have carried living workers to the submersible factories on its oceanic surface. Structural beams are now fragmented, plates are unrecognisably deformed by the explosions like pebbles skipping across water, engines are utterly shattered, and the cockpit has been torn open from the inside by debris. Yet, no bodies are in sight. Why...?

— "This... made me remember," I mumble to myself, my voice laced in confusion and dread, "something."

— "What would that be?"

— "A... dream, possibly. Just like this."

As I begin to speak, my eyes fixate on a small, twisted piece of debris slowly drifting away from the cockpit. Ambrosia shines faintly below us. As I look "down", I take in the unique appearance of this moon. Its achromatic and dark oceans are hidden beneath semi-opaque, crystal-white clouds of water, which bestow a beautiful, hazy halo around the moon’s edges. To think that this ship represents merely one of many conflicts throughout history, all driven by what lies beneath its oceanic surface, fills me with a deep, unsettling awe. I experience a déjà vu of this very imagery: standing at great heights amidst debris and devastation, looking down in both wonder and sorrow.

Yet, we DAL_T-IV units have a duty to fulfil, even in the face of moral ambiguity and personal reservations. An umbilical metal cord links our bodies together, and as my fellow unit leans forward, several cold gas microthrusters in both our suits activate, propelling us forward at a slow pace of a few centimetres per second. Like ice skaters, our bodies glide through the vacuum with satisfying grace, bringing us closer to the wrecked ship. We enter through one of the holes left by the artillery shells, which, despite their large explosions, left parts of the structure intact. Activating the light modules in our helmets, we illuminate the way into the dark interior.

Smoke lingers in the air. Fragmented components and metallic debris lay wake all throughout the battlefield, crafted by exhausted workers after countless sleepless nights - a testament to the rampant and chaotic nature of conflict and war. My boots are stained with blood, yet my soles remain clean. As I stand amidst a sea of corpses, the myriad bells around me ring for their last time, producing a melody of silence and coldness. Looking around, I notice a pair of eyes glaring at my own, painted red from exhaustion and injuries. These waters of flesh wish to communicate with me, so I entertain their request, carefully treading around the uneven surfaces and crouching down with both heels touching the ground.

What lays before me are the still living and beating remains of an enemy soldier, whose face have been dirtied by hopelessness. My ears pick up on the unspoken anger and desperation that their eyes whisper unto my being. I feel Thanatos himself standing behind me, holding onto my shoulder with gentleness and smiling to encourage me with his peace. I comply, setting down on their eyes a handful of coins produced from my pocket and administering a small amount of morphine on their neck utilising an auto-injector. Rising from the blighted and miry floor, I await their bell ring slower and slower until its last yet loudest chime ensues. Short moments later, it does so. The waters of flesh silence themselves again, satisfied with my tribute, and now play their melody of silent coldness once more.

— "I know exactly what's in your mind," says a familiar voice echoing around my back.

— I raise my eyebrow from suspicion while utilising a rather cynical tone of voice. "Do you, now?"

As I turn around, I see a solitary allied soldier, wearing a sleek eye patch and a meek yet grim smile. Whilst chewing on a pressed herb tablet, she tread forward with carelessness across the rugged terrain, limping one leg as she goes to approach me in unadulterated honesty.

— "Let's hear it, then."

— "Nah. Don't feel like rambling too much. This smoke would leave me breathless too quickly. But don't worry, because you're not the only one who feels that way."

— "I know," I nod my head softly, not moving my stare off her eye, "This has been going on long enough for me to realise that."

— The woman's gaze dances over my being, drawing in the image of the spent auto-injector on my breast pocket. "...You know, everyone fighting this war has their reason to do it, willingly or not. The best we can do is fight, and fight it quick."

— "And witnessing these things, this... fighting... daily, has eroded my ability to imagine what the future holds for us."

— "By 'us,' you mean...?" Before readying to throw, she bites a piece out of the flowery chunk.

The half snacked-on tablet lands without grace on my shoulder blade, falling like many of the bullet casings near the trenches, spread on the ground as though by a farmer's will in spring.

— "The civilians?" she continues her own sentence past the silence I held.

— "Those who are concerned with driving progress forward."

The soldier breathes in to continue speaking but changes her mind halfway. An absent sigh leaves her throat instead, as she continues to chew on dried herb. Behind her, an armada of armoured vehicles and trucks drive on in the horizon.

— "...Yeah," she nods without elaboration, "That's how it is. We're... wrestling bulldogs, I guess, getting our paws dirty so that our owners may strive for a better future."

Static in our radios ensues, later followed by chatter that I frankly cannot be bothered to give due attention. Then, silence.

— "Bulldogs don't choose who owns them," I weakly comment, lips pressed together, "They also don't choose the bull they bite."

— "They only know they're told to bite..."

She begins walking forward, stopping at a shoulder's away length from me.

— "...Did you take that thing?" she whispers into the air, spitting to the ground what's left of the contents in her mouth.

— "I don't know what you mean."

— The soldier shakes her head, gazing down on my body. And instead of elaborating with words, her head is shaken once more, as if reconsidering herself a second time. "I won't tell anyone."

Our eyes meet once more. She appears hopeful of something, or simply thoughtful.

— "You don't like kicking the dead horse. That's fair. Just don't let yourself become the horse because of that."

...Of course. Ultimately, that is all I can do. My lungs deflate as I now realise my chest held onto air that simmered with emotion I wished to expel, to heave it with my palms and shoot it at the wind. But it'd be futile. She had always had this effect on me, of balming my existential soreness. I have consequently always detested this fact, yet on all accounts, I still concluded allowing her presence in my world at every end.

— "Want a drink?" she asks, revealing in hands a worn down canteen she produced behind herself. "My treat," she adds, tapping the thing on my shoulder.

— "...That smells putrid."

— "They must've forgotten to wash it before refilling the damn thing," the soldier comments, tossing the vessel into the air like hail.

I catch it effortlessly. The sweetness of wine is faintly discernible, but it is overwhelmed by the toxic medley of odours and horrors this has contained. I drink nonetheless, driven by the absurdity and weariness of it all. The cold metal slides harshly against my skin, prickling it like countless tiny needles. This is... absurd. I feel as though my mind is fluctuating in and out of reality, as if the very molecules of the drink are puncturing the sides of my throat.

Yet, as I gaze into the flask in my hands, I snap back to reality, realising I have been merely staring at a lit-up control panel all this time, and I begin to question the veracity of the cold, sweet alcohol that had supposedly entered my body. Apparently, the ship's computers have detected damage, but the severity is too great, and electrical connections with various sections have been lost, leaving the displayed log almost empty. The life support systems are thoroughly compromised. "There are no survivors. There will be no survivors," I repeatedly tell myself. I hear Daliva calling my name over the radio, yet her voice seems distant, as though intimately whispered from another reality entirely—a sensation that fills my mind with overwhelming horror.

This emotion is not mine. My body floats in the vacuum of space, yet my feet feel securely grounded. My biomechanical heart shrinks once my consciousness recognizes the anxiety that now paints every fibre of my being, and my human instincts induce my body into a vomiting motion, though my synthetic nature renders me unable to actually do such thing. I see a hip flask floating in front of me, its rugged metal exterior reflecting the light of my light module back to my eyes, containing in itself the waging ring of a thousand bells, each one playing a melody of silence and coldness that lessens my grasp on reality at every second. I feel Thanatos himself standing behind me, his cold arms moving to envelop me in a tight and painful embrace that steals the warmth of my body. I find myself in a frantic struggle by instinct, desperate to free myself from his quiet grip, but try as I might, this serves only to tire me further.

Please let me go. I'm scared. I don't know who I am. I don't know where I am. I can no longer rely on equilibrioception. I forgot what is forward or backwards, I forgot what is now or later, please let me go. I'm scared. I can't feel my fingers, I can't feel my legs, my arms hurt. My eyes are burning and I can't bear it. His arms pull me to the ground, seeking to bury me in the miry and blighted floor. I try to wrestle free again, but my body is too injured. I feel exhausted, I feel injured, I feel hatred, hatred that I can't communicate, and hopelessness that paints my face. This shouldn't be happening, I didn't do anything wrong, I was just doing my job, why does everything hurt so much, why can't I keep going?

Help me. I hear footsteps, and they're approaching me. Help me. It's a soldier, and she's carrying something. Please don't kill me, this is unfair. Help me, please. She crouches down in front of me, depositing a bundle of coins ahead of my chest. What are they for? Please help me. From the corner of my eye, I watch her produce an object that she brings closer to my neck. Please let it end, I'm scared. I feel a gentle sting. I feel a gentle sting. I feel a gentle sting. I feel a gentle... sting... I feel a gentle... I feel gentle... please tell me this will stop, don't walk away, I feel calm...

I can't see. My chin is wet, my eyes drowning. Torrid water scorches my skin, tear streaks running down both my cheeks from my caruncles that sting and burn like a bath of steam. I hear Daliva's voice from somewhere, but I feel out of it, lost in my surroundings. I reach to grasp my radio, though my hands meet hers instead. She's... holding onto me. Her other hand moves to reconnect us through the umbilical cord. Flooding my pupils with light from her module, Daliva acts to take off my protective visor. The inside has been covered by spent BMC fluid my systems autonomously expelled, as it was dangerously hot and hence too degraded to remain.

— "Can you understand me, Dal?" Her voice is heard from both speakers near my ears. "You were under severe computational and cognitive stress just now. What happened?"

— I breathe faintly, just now noticing my blazing fever and strained chest. "...Are there any survivors?"

— "Unknown. The only ward left unchecked is the safe room. I was on my way to it when your readings begun reaching critical levels. What happened?"

— "I don't know. I'm scared," I let out a shaky sigh. "I don't know who I am anymore."

— "You're... Dal. My crewmate and companion."

She reaches to hold onto my shoulder to comfort me, yet by instinct I find myself dragging my shoulder away from being touched.

— "...I'm... not Dal," my face contorts into a painful grimace, "I'm not Dal, I was never Dal, I was-- I, I-- am..."

What was my name? I need my name. My name wasn't always Dal. I used to be... someone. I was someone else, I was in a war, I only knew war, I don't remember anything else besides war. My...

...

Daliva pulls me into a tight embrace, enclosing my neck in both her arms. She feels gentle. So gentle. I breathe no air, yet my lungs shiver in consolation. Her warmth is a lifeline in this madness.

— "I'm sorry, Dal," Daliva's face expresses palpable confusion and uncertainty, yet she persists and goes on. "I don't know who you think you are, but I know what you are to me. Regardless of your name," she whispers into my ear, bleeding emotion like morning dew, "I know we are comrades. I know we are friends, and tightly-knit sisters."

Silence. Brief, thoughtful. One that quiets down the mind. Even amidst this unrest, I appreciate her effort. It balms my existential soreness.

— I shudder quietly, not evading her grasp this time. "...I want to cry... but I can't," I wince, "Not with this body..."

— "Then... I will hold you until you recover."

...What is... this feeling... it is weirdly familiar.

I feel... gentle.

— I whisper into Daliva's shoulder, my voice escaping my soundbox like the gust of a fading dream. "...You remind me of her..."

— "Who do you refer to?" Daliva asks, adjusting her grip.

— A hiccup. Then, silence. "I don't know anymore..."