Despondency

The bullet split the earth; another missed shot that rounded the practice dummy. A ‘tsk’ followed the crack of the bolt handle and the ping of an empty shell bursting from the chamber and burrowing into the dirt. The handle snapped back into place; another slug auto-loaded inside the base of the barrel. Crimson eyes glanced through the lens; fitted scope giving a clear view of the target. Sweat beaded down the sharpshooter’s temple, heart catching in her throat. The harsh beat of the desert sun cascaded over sand dunes; the lens flared with sunlight. Oh, so blinding.

She adjusted her sights, there was a breeze. In this dry heat of Gyr Abania? The breeze felt wonderful against her cheek, bringing noise to deafening silence. The green poncho draped over her helped protect her skin from the harsh light. None of this was her primary focus, she needed to make this shot. The barrel was tipped, she followed the wind. She raised the elevation turret, adjusting the distance. An exposed finger touched the air, curiously assessing the enigmatic breath of wind.

She removed her trigger finger from the guard, readying to fire. She was confidant, she could make this shot. She did it before, recalling home, she was top of her class. She was the best, she would not miss. She could not miss. What if this was a real engagement? Such a failure is beneath her, lest she be unworthy of her name.

She was confidant. She could do it.

She pulled the trigger.

The bullet split the earth; another missed shot on the target. Her voice croaked a sob, desperation filling her screams. Her fingers fumbled for the bolt handle, pulling too hard, she did not hear the ping go off, did it even? She would have seen the shell. She gasped a loud. She needed to calm down, but she could see them…

She could see in the distance her targets ducking down low after hearing the bullet snap near them. A giant axe head raised in the air, a monstrous behemoth wielding the enormous iron slab as if it were a feather. He was chasing her companions, across the devastated, crumbling plateau. She could do nothing but watch as one was torn in half by a swing of that axe; a simple swing cleaving a person in two. These Eorzean’s were monsters. She needed to help her comrades, if she could at least put that warrior down — a slug round would be enough to blow his head from his neck. It was a straight shot, though she was not elevated, but she had a clear view. It was easy, she did it before, she was top of her class; she was better than all of her peers.

She could make this shot.

She took that necessary breath, it stung, her throat raw. Her forearm pressed against the sand, acting as support for her rifle. Earlier, the sands felt scorching, now they burned cold. There was no humidity in this desert at night — just a piercing frost — but that did not stop the sweating. The green poncho did contain warmth, protecting against the frosted drafts gnawing maw, feeling it push against her cheeks.

Ah. A breeze. Strange, even at the coldest part of the night, that airflow was even possible in this parched, awful dust bowl.

She needed to adjust for that breath of wind, tipping the barrel, peeking through her scope where the reticle displaced from the figure, but not too far. She anticipated the crosswind, her naked finger testing the wind; 3 o’clock. She dialed the elevation turret, and she took in one, final, painful breath.

Was she confident? Could she do it?

She pulled the trigger.

She snapped awake, eyes drifting from underneath her visor. She scanned the makeshift trench she burrowed herself in. How long had she been here? It felt like a week had passed but only an hour had swept on by.

Her face felt wet, but she knew it was not just the soft patter of rain, that soaked her beret. Her visor was fogged, making it difficult to see; she did not remove it, it was comforting to keep it on.

She clutched her rifle close to her chest; she wished it was Lumus. It was not a grand comfort, thinking that, but it reminded her of the many things she missed and took for granted. She recalled many memories, sitting in that muddy sandy soil.

She missed Lumus' odd speech patterns and his emulation of a real rabbit. She missed tripping over him after returning from the academy. She wished she could wake up to the cold touch of steel, to see him curled up at the foot of the bed.

She missed the smile her mother gave her when she walked into the room. Readying rolanberries to snack on when they talked or she read fables and stories. Her masterful retelling of events of the past. And… and… when they would try to spit out the rolanberry seeds into a vase — it brought a brief smile to her.

She remembered a woman, down-trodden, providing her with whatever modicum of affection she had left.

Such a wise, strong woman dismantled; broken down to a husk. These vultures surrounded her, plucking life from her flesh with every passing day. Vultures like her father.

Vultures like she was. Oh, how she would dial the clock in reverse to even say one thing different. How she could have treated them better; Mother and Lumus. Be the daughter; be the creator, they both deserved, not this awful wretch cowering; hidden from the scuffling of those Eorzean freaks.

This wretch, surrounded by the festering, still bodies of her comrades could never get that time back. Would she be buried here?

These thoughts weren’t helping. Remembering, wasn’t helping.

The wet smack of boots hitting mud, forcing her attention. They were here, above and around the trench. Her back instinctively pressed against the wet, makeshift cover.

Someone, please help.

She could hear that warrior’s chained greaves rattle, metal scraping and screaming. Every step was one that inched closer — closer to her. Each step drew a breath from her, each slosh of mud flung with each step increased the best of her heart. Her metal hands tightened on her rifle, the wood whining. He’s right there, he’s going to kill me — I deserve it, I couldn’t save them. If only I was better, I should have been better, I —

She did not have to see it, but the glove was over her head, the silhouette seemed mountainous. Her voice left her, every scent was gone; piss, shit and death.

She needed help, someone help — anyone, please! Mother! Lumus!

She snapped awake, eyes drifting from underneath her bent glasses. Had she fallen asleep? With a grumble, she stirred, rising from the wooden desk her face was planted — she could feel a stain on her face, which made a mess of ink on the parchments she seemed to have utilized as a makeshift pillow. In her fugue state of weariness, she came to notice how unorganized she truly was, papers sprawled over mahogany, smoke ash cluttering the desk top. It did not cease there, mountains of paper rose from the ground, surrounding her desk — all medical related documentation of patients she has seen over the many years. She has seen many, but this was inexcusable, she was surprised Lumus had not said anything.

Oh wait, he has.

“Lumus.” Her tired, raspy voice rose an octave as a yawn coerced its way from her throat, but before she could seek him, she heard a small thud on her desk. There he was, the small metallic robot shaped as a dwarf rabbit, with long life-like ears that flopped over. His beady azure eyes stared up at her, small muzzle nuzzling the plate he had placed on her desk.

Placed? No. She had not installed appendages of the sort — Ah, he was putting the TLK device she had installed to work, she had wondered if he could control the mass-lowering generation to effectively levitate objects and it appeared he could. She had wondered what more he could do with it, they would have to commit to test-

She stopped herself, rubbing her eyes before examining her glasses — she had bent them awkwardly during her rest, “What is it, Lumus?” He had made her breakfast, she shouldn’t think about tests, now.

“Avian organic vessels. Albumen and vitellus extracted from thin membranes that are fried with an edible subterranean fungus.” He replied, monotonously.

“Lumus…” She replied, rubbing her temple, “… what?”

“I prepared Lady Marcs scrambled eggs, fried with white truffle. Salt for flavor.”

She huffed a sigh, reaching for the plate, pulling it close to her, “Simpler might always be preferred.”

“I will log this for future interactions, Lady Marcs.”

She gave her a smile, eyes drifting toward the meal he had crafted for her — on his own? Perhaps he truly was putting the TLK through tests without her, she’ll need to follow up on this — that independent nature was dangerous.

Yet, when she stared at the food, something plucked at her heart. When had she actually enjoyed a breakfast made specifically for her? She could not even recall a memory in which she shared a table with anyone, or something that was not swift and easy. Even partaking meals with her father were one-note occasions. A vile man, truly. She always thought the world of him; now it was just pure disdain. However vile his machinations, his desires and wants, he was there. Perhaps that made her despise him more. She could count herself lucky to have had a parent around — wherever her dearest mother vanished off to.

She lifted the fork, pressing it into the fluffy puk eggs, lifting to her lips. Simple was preferred, but Lumus never does simple — that was good, she thought, this tasted divine.

“Thank you, Lumus.” She finally said, genuinely with a painted smile. A hand patting his small head.

“You are welcome, Lady Marcs.”