Spring Upon the Solstice

Epilogue

-1/9-

A figure dressed in a poignant snow-white suit stands before the mahogany ambiance of a briefing room, the shadows of the overhead lights casting sharp angles across the television screen behind her.

"You look like shit, if you don't mind me saying," a male voice barks through the gulf of silence. "What a fascinating twist of fate for our beloved leader to be scared so pale."

"Shut the hell up," another female interjects, slamming her fist against the face of the mahogany table. "Nobody asked for your opinion, seventh-rate."

"Seventh-rate? From what I hear, you're not in a position to be calling names, virgin-girl. You don't rank much higher than me either."

She spits back, "So? I still rank higher regardless. And your House is a worthless heap of shit anyways, so get over it."

"I'll rip your fucking tongue out, you bitch."

The woman in white clears her throat, though the usual timbre of her voice that carries authority and dominance has, for the moment, faded into the backdrop. Still, the mere flicker of annoyance affixed in her emerald eyes causes both of the arguing Princes to fall silent.

"Thank you," the Leviathan says, smoothing out the wrinkles in her sleeves. "Now, I must apologize for pulling you all away from your stations. It is quite rare that all of us are required to be in attendance during such a crisis."

"All of us?" The man laughs with misplaced enthusiasm, "There's only four of us here. Sure your math's not a bit off?"

Behind the Leviathan hides a tiny woman with blue-shaded glasses, holding a clipboard to her chest like a shield against the world. Her discomfort shines clearly in this meeting room, far from her mountains of computers and their protective embrace. All in all, the total number of Princes present stands at four.

"That reminds me," Shikijo mutters. "Where the hell is Yokubari?"

The man waves his hand aimlessly, "Out for a drink. You know, I never took him to be an alcoholic."

"That's because he isn't one, you goddamn sadist."

"Well, maybe years and years of putting up with your incompetence led him down this path. Ever think about that?"

"Do you want me to actually kill you?"

"Enough!" the Leviathan roars, her fury kept in check only by the severity of the situation at hand. "I gathered you here for a reason, and I expect you to swallow your petty pride for the duration of this meeting."

"Go on," Shikijo sulks, the snarl on her face still aimed at the man.

"The Third Harbinger has been driven away for now. We think that Akuma-1's destruction was enough to at least temporarily deter it from its attack. Namakemono has the numbers."

Finally given a purpose, the stout woman steps forwards, her clipboard poised with a handful of statistics scribbled across them haphazardly. "Civilian casualties have peaked twenty-thousand. I estimate another ten-thousand unless we deploy now."

The man protests, "Deploy what? Those kids? They're fucking untrained."

"The pilots will have to go in, whether or not they are ready. We don't have the resources to send anybody else," the Leviathan decides. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Well, that's a lie," he spits, somewhat offended. "We do have more people available. There's that girl—"

"—We are not going to send her in, and that is final."

"What about Ikari? Isn't he the one who ran the prototype in the first place? You were always praising him for his hundred percent sync rate."

"Ikari has more pressing issues on Hokkaido to deal with. He's responsible for defending the coastline right now."

"Well, you'd better figure out who to send in, because those two aren't gonna stand a chance against something that killed our best pilot. And I must wonder, under whose supervision did that happen again?"

The woman with the purple hair bun growls in response, but the Leviathan reels her in before she can deal any further damage. "The purpose of this meeting is not to discuss past failures and pass blame around. We have been waiting years for this day to happen, and I expect each and every one of you to play your part."

"So this is it, then," the man simmers his malice into calm composure. "Stage two."

Shikijo asks, "Are we voting?"

"The preconditions have already been cleared. 001, otherwise formerly known as Katsune Iharu, has been killed in combat against the Third Harbinger Ouroboros," the Leviathan continues. "From what we've seen so far, the world has taken up its arms and prepared a preemptive strike on the location in Hokkaido where the Harbinger was last seen. The JSDF will respond in full force, perceiving this and Ouroboros as an external threat. We must prevent the two sides from clashing by any means possible."

"Then I yield my vote," Shikijo says, as the stray curls of her hair tumble out of her bun. She fields no resistance, only an undying loyalty that she's lacked for so long.

"I yield," Namakemono agrees, unwilling to be a disobedient third-in-command.

The man calls out with casual swagger, "Same here."

"Very well," the Leviathan speaks aloud, victorious in her tone and for once, proud of something. "Notify the rest of the Princes that phase two has begun, and prepare Akuma-2 and Akuma-3 to be launched immediately. Recover 003 from Soya Bay, and make preparations for the incoming bombers. World War IV may begin if we do not hurry."

She pauses for a thought, and makes one final announcement.

"But first, let us put our prayers together for our first pilot," she clasps her hands together. "May God find her justice upon this imbalanced road."

The three Princes sitting around the table nod in silent agreement, and as the group exits the briefing room, the logo painted over its ominous double doors burns ever hotter. HERALD's emblem, with slanted crosshairs affixed to a set of tipped scales, is perfectly unjust, and perfectly disillusioned. How perfectly ironic.

-+-

Perhaps the truth we claim to see is not always as it seems—or that truth is perpetually and indefinitely a lie. Perhaps it isn't. What of the truth of Sojirou Fukiyama, who took his leap of faith? Is he doomed to be forever falling, cornered by his choices with no path forward? What of the truth of Anamire Kirisaki, a flower in the battlefield, who wished for power and prepared to gamble away her life on a single fleeting dream? Does it mean anything?

Perhaps truth is worth nothing, and in which case, all of us are equally just as foolish for worshipping an illusory world. But a certain person charged with the fate of humanity, the most inhuman among them, chose her path. To her, it made no difference. Belief gave the truth life. It breathed purpose into this lonely, distant creature, and that purpose could move mountains if it needed to. It could fight and bleed and sink into obscurity, but so long as one person preserved its legacy, it would survive.

And that one person, for better or for worse, could change the world.

For the girl who was named for a single spring, who christened her vessel after the cherry blossoms that bloom in the fourth month, who met her end upon the dawn of the winter solstice, that much may be true.