I can't believe it. I don’t want to believe it. Even as I wait impatiently for the shuttle doors to lower, I have to take a few steps back in light of the incoming barrage of panicking subordinates flooding into the shuttle’s cramped space. They all utter and cry the same thing: “The Federation is advancing!? What do we do?!” But I remain silent, subjecting myself to their piggish whines and immaturity. Brutus, though slow to react, does what he can to pave a way through the horde. Olga, on the other hand, hugs me from behind as the three of us force our way out of the shuttle. From behind, I hear Carla complain about the state of affairs, and I can’t help but scoff at her newfound misfortune.

But even so, this is dire indeed. Perhaps I was too naive to believe that the Metropolitans wouldn't do a round-about and advance. But it all feels so soon. It should’ve taken them at least another part of the week to reorganize and reconsider a renewed offense. Even so… the asteroid shower, though it has been a slower stream, has seen a revitalization since the late hours of the nineteenth. On top of that, our fleet remains divided, with most of my contingent still on the Rouen-side. The asteroid shower has unexpectedly been picking up momentum, even more so during the battle itself. As our group fast-walks toward the bridge while the useless lackeys try to keep up with the pace, I am left to wonder if the Metropolitans are taking advantage of this window of opportunity.

“But even so…” I whisper wryly, rubbing my disfigured nose ridge “even if they were advancing towards us… why attack now? Who knows for sure just how long this ferocious asteroid stream could last. It would be too difficult for either of my fleets to slip through. For a force as huge as the Metropol, there’s simply no way they could do it through brute force alone… not for a second time,” not affording the moment to stop and pause, I merely pinch my rose ridge and grimace. These stupid subordinates and their constant whines make it impossible to think to myself!

The bridge is in no better shape. As we enter, more groups of panicking chickens gawk at me, each vying for my guidance for the next course of action. But all it does is merely wear down what little composure I have. My headache intensifies, and my facial blemish aches with each passing second. No amount of rubbing could ever stem the pain. This whole situation I could otherwise handle, but the obnoxious rabble is just too overwhelming —too exhausting putting up with their continued whining. Olga must have taken notice because she wraps her only arm around me and does what she can to embrace me. “Relax, Madame … I ’d hate for you to pop a brain vessel,” she says soothingly. I let out a frustrated sigh and nod apologetically. “As frustrating as it is, Madame, please endure the confusion for a little longer. I’ll do what I can to stop the commotion, and I’ll speak to the communication fellow to ensure that the rest of the fleet doesn’t fall into a panic,” Olga says, running her hands through my silky raven hair.

“Much appreciated, Olga,” I grumble, rubbing my temples “perhaps it’s a simple miracle that Brutus made him useful by not contacting the Mathilda directly with this news. Frans has a lot on his hands already: if a panic-induced plague broke out there …” I pause and turn to the enormous oaf, who looks a little uncomfortable with the stare. “Brutus, you did make sure to put a gag on the radio operator not to trouble me with needless chaos, correct?” Brutus, like a poor helpless animal in the headlights, gives a nod of approval.

“Yes… yes, Madame, of course,” Brutus quickly refutes “the radar technicians… erm, what were their names? Clyde and Bowen—they opened their big mouths first which is how it came to my attention in the first place. But with quick thinking, I silenced the radio operator from spreading anything needlessly… so at his suggestion, I went to you in person,” Brutus clears his throat.

“Although I compliment you on making a good call…,” I trail off as we make our way down the stairs to the bottom levels of the bridge. There are already a few lackeys hawkishly hovering near the holographic map of the battlefield. My eyes gravitate towards the whole oddly-shaped blocks representing the asteroid storm and the unfortunate division of our fleet. On our side, in particular, most ships are moving around erratically. Though I remain unsure if it’s just because of signal discrepancy or if ship captains are catching on that something isn’t right in the Rouen corridor. “Regardless of your decisiveness, Brutus, it’s only a matter of time before the other captains catch on,” I pause to bury my head in my hands and release an exhausting sigh.

“The other ships may be well aware of the Federation movements by now, correct?” Olga asks from behind as the three of us make our way to the holographic map. The lackeys who were previously hypothesized by the developments come to their senses and give me salutes before scurrying off to give us privacy.

“And if that’s the case, mounting a proper defense will be problematic if things continue to spiral out of control like this,” Brutus groans in response. It’s words I don’t want to hear, but Brutus is right for the most part. The longer we let this run rampant, the more difficulty I will face in keeping cohesion and morale up.

“Listen, you two,” I say, turning my attention to them briefly, both stiffen up and look straight. “Despite what you offered earlier, Olga, I want you to instead focus efforts on reinstating discipline in the Castelforte. At least something to let me have a clear conscience. If I can’t have even my men behaving appropriately, then it would leave a rather poor impression as far as flagships go.

“I can’t afford to devote any more energy after exerting myself on the Taiga earlier,” I pause to stroke my neck as Olga gives her acknowledgment. After which I shift my gaze to the giant oaf, “that said, Brutus, I would like for you to collaborate with the radio operator on reducing the fleet’s anxiousness to a manageable level, to say the least. If neither of you has any objections, then I beg of you to hurry before we let our opportunity come to pass, ” when I finish, both of them give brief Mafia salutes and excuse themselves. Now that I’ve found at least some semblance of solitude at the tactical map, I let out a grievous cough. I smoothly rub my scarred eyebrow in contempt as I turn around and pace around the blue-tinted holographic display.

I should have known it would come to this. I believe I did what I could as damage control, but I know deep down that there was no way I could prepare for this. But even so … despite Brutus’s efforts, I do not doubt panic will indeed spread like wildfire over these next crucial moments.

But even putting aside the psychological aspect of a renewed Metropol attack, the biggest obstacle I face is the unusually intense meteor storm. What was once a crutch of sorts for us in the prior battle is now my single most hurdle. I don ’t want to think much about it, but it’s a hard-truth reality that I am essentially pinned down. Or to be more exact, our back is to the wall. Trying to slip back into it would be nothing less than suicide. As I bite down on my thumb, I can’t help but believe that I may be at wit’s end.

Miss Victoria… Jung… if either of you were here, what would you do in this situation?

I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. If we sit here, we will be massacred based on range alone —and if I am to assume the Metropolitans are now capable of ample resupply, then I cannot even hope to wait until their ammunition stores are depleted. Perhaps even believing that I could hold out through logistical attrition is a fantasy in itself. Foolish as I am, I did not think to resupply most of our fleet when the chance arose. My eyes race from our feeble ships on either side of the asteroid shower to the holographic depiction of the corridor, and then to the tiny but burgeoning Metropol ships—slowly but surely—reaching partway to the middle of the corridor. None of the ships have fired—yet. Could it merely be a reconnaissance-in-force, perhaps?

The lunatic idea of considering a preemptive strike arises, but I massage my cool cheeks to perish the thoughts. It’s sheer foolishness that I can’t help but get a renewed migraine contemplating over it. Taking the fight to the Metropolitans, would, of course, would be akin to accelerating the Mafia’s death sentence. Any hope I have of achieving lasting peace would be obliterated if I crossed the point of no return and come off as invading Federation territory.

Even if I am to assume that these less-than-stellar augmented squadrons are, at best, executing a rear-guard action, I can't rule out the possibility that the Metropolitans are just as exhausted from the battle as we are. The tactical sinking of the allied supply division would under normal circumstances mean the armada’s general state of affairs is even worse off than ours. Or at least that is what I am inclined to believe. Reconnaissance-in-force or not, the fact they have sent out only a considerable-sized force so soon makes me believe that this is a psychological attack rather than a practical one. And from the looks of things, it’s more than effective. Rather the Metropolitans will realize this in time —and rather this is indeed their intention—leaves me further suspended in disbelief.

But even so, all things considered, there’s no way the Metropolitans are intending to follow up with a general offense. Even if this ‘reconnaissance’ force is a precursor to something more formidable, the Metropolitans wouldn't be capable of forcing their way through the merciless torrent without more adequate provisions and firepower. Or at least, not without risking heavy attrition. Even if they did bravely—and stupidly—cross the unrelenting meteor shower, they would merely be more susceptible to missile fire. In which case, it would be as Simon may say: a grand turkey shoot. The Metropolitan armada would merely be repeating the blunder they committed falling into Jung’s perfect tactic, but perhaps they won’t be as lucky this time.

I graciously rub my temples, cutting a sigh in frustration. I should know better, of course. Time and again, incompetence has shown no bounds. Regardless of the Federation’s intentions, the only logical choice I have —if I were to call it that—is swiftly crossing the asteroid torrent ourselves. There will be ships lost, but compared to standing our ground and enduring this reconnaissance assault it will be minimal. On the other hand…

If I give up this side of the asteroid stream uncontested, it would, in a sense, give the Metropolitans breathing room. I would be powerless in preventing them from making gaps through the asteroid shower, would I not? As I examine the rapidness of the blocky and oddly shaped polygonal blocks zip down the middle of the map, I realize that it would be nearly impossible to maintain a skirmish line within the asteroid torrent. Even though most of our ships are nimble, simultaneously dodging the destructive firepower of Metropolitan missiles and the equally deadly bodies of rocks are simply out of the question. We either stand and fight divided, or we unite on one side of the stream but give up our only opportunity at denying the Metropol armada a bridgehead.

As the polygonal Metropolitan force—likely representing four to six hundred ships—slowly glides across the holographic map, I stop to reexamine our precarious situation. “Even if I were to withdrawal to the other side,” I whisper offhandedly, slipping out the crimson bandanna to dab my forehead with. “The Metropolitan fleet would still be forced to funnel themselves through tight choke-points… it wouldn’t be anything less than a stalemate. It would not be too far-fetched to assume that the Metropol fleet’s size would work against them.” I step closer to the holographic display and brush my hand through the blue-tinted asteroid field. At that moment, tiny dots zip through the map, and I jerk my head to the windows. Orbs of light can be seen in the distance—in some cases, these brief lights turn into fiery shades of orange.

My eyes dart back to the holographic display. A good number of the Federation force is midway into the corridor with some stragglers beyond. Most do not seem to be in any combat formation, much less their typical firing lines. Is this the beginning of the skirmish, or was it perhaps trigger-happy gunners?

Most of the Mafia contingent do what they can to maneuver into safety. Some of our ships fire in retaliation: but at this range, considering they are mostly half a light-year second away, it is futile. If this escalates into a skirmish, it would be no more than slight annoyances for either party. Both my and the approaching Metropol fleets have more than enough time predicting flight paths and maneuvering out of the way. At best, it would be a waste of precious munitions.

For a brief moment, I break away from the tactical screen and hurry over to the communications console. As I approach Brutus from behind, he nearly turns around abruptly and flinches back in surprise. “Good timing, Madame. I was just about to come to you to seek out our next course of action,” Brutus says, his eyes darting between me and the radio operator, “it seems most ships lost contact with the Ngari—we can only assume it has been sunk with all hands. I did what I could to calm the fleet’s nerves, but…” Brutus’s eyes lower to the floor before looking past us at the windows.

Following his gaze, several ships adjacent to us are at first cautiously advancing. Then, before long, almost all of them proceed to come to emergency stops before gradually reversing in momentum, or fanning out vertically in most directions. Occasionally some Mafia ships sporadically fire back at the aggressors, but none of it is concentrated. Turning my attention back to Brutus and the operator I begin to speak, “the transponders… have we been able to integrate them back onto most ships?” After the fighting ended, I had asked Darcy and Richter to oversee the task, but I have been busy keeping Olga company in the meantime and failed to keep it in mind. How shortsighted of me!

The operator ponders the question for a moment as he glances nervously at Brutus, “I… I believe a portion of the decoy fleet were stripped of their transmitters…” he trails off, his eyes averting me. Once the realization sinks in, I sigh heavily and turn my back to the duo, stroking my agitated scar in the process. “M-most of the fleet on the other side received priority… but contacting them through this outpour is impossible!” I sigh with graveness. Of course it would, why would fate ever let me off so easily?!

“Darcy… Richter, are either of them present on this side?” I ask, turning to shoot the man a glare. He stiffens up before loosening his collar.

“Captain Darcy is on this side… the last time I sent any message to Richter, his ship was still anchored on the other side,” the operator replies earnestly. There is no helping it, had I had Richter instead—or even both of them then I would have an easier time on the outcome.

“Very well…” I utter wryly before trailing off. My eyes wander to the large projector on screen at the moderately-sized force passing the center of the corridor, their artillery intensifying.

“Perhaps you can attempt to brute-force a signal through to Richter—or even the Don and send reinforcements that way? ” Brutus asks openly, eyeing the two of us. “You do intend to make a stand here, Madame?” I give a shake of my head.

“If all had gone better, I could easily commit more ships and saturate the enemy positions with concentrated fire. But the same could be said for the Feds, as well,” I remark stroking my blemished nose ridge “but asking the captains across us to traverse through the deadly field would only produce needless attrition, it’s far too suicidal. It’s not practical. As for making a stand?” I exhale aggrievedly, “I want any ships without transponders installed to turn around slip through the shower to rejoin friendly forces. That way, I can at least buy them time to get equipped with transponders…” the horrific look on Brutus’s face is enough to make me pause.

“M-Madame… that’s more than half of what we have here!” Brutus stammers “are you intending to withdrawal the Castelforte as well?” I shake my head no, “Madame…!”

“The Castelforte is too big and fragile to navigate the velocity of the asteroid field,” I remark warmly, gripping my elbows, “I intend to bide time for Richter to organize cone-shaped killing zones… with that said. I’ll permit some ships like the Mathilda to retreat… perhaps even the Wulfhere as well. As for the men here, I’ll have you and Olga evacuate anyone who doesn’t wish to stay on the Castelforte onto another ship. There might be no telling if this is merely a probing attack or a precursor to a large-scale assault. But it is better safe than sorry.”

“While that might be true,” Brutus retorts, “if we expose ourselves as too vulnerable, it might give them more reason to escalate the situation by committing more troops!” Brutus angrily takes another step forward, “it’s pointless to withdrawal firepower that we can utilize to cut down the Metropolitans as they enter our range! The corridor is cramped… they would have very little in the way of maneuvering to avoid the slaughter!”

I exhale softly and look Brutus in the eyes, “communication is key, Brutus. If I have half a contingent under my control who’s blind and deaf, even facing an enemy half our size would be difficult. If I faced overwhelming superiority, having even a fraction that has eyes and ears would still mean greater flexibility in communications and execution,” I slip out the crimson bandanna and gently wrap it around my hands, “utilizing shuttles and wired communication is too risky… I do not want to lose couriers like Carla, or Feliks, and Lena. If it comes to it,” I remark as my gaze drifts to the larger tactical screen, “I will take as many down with me if the Metropolitans commit more ships. I will not give up the asteroid field without a fight, and Richter can finish what Emmanuel and Jung started, and force them to pay with their blood,” I turn my attention back to the radio operator and Brutus, who both look past me with perplex.

“That won’t be necessary, Madame!” The voice of Olga reels me around, behind her is Clyde—but interestingly, Bowen is not with them. Squinting, I look past the duo to see Bowen standing over his console in deep contemplation.

“The Feddies are in all likelihood, not pursuing to commit anymore to the battle,” Clyde remarks, passing by Olga Bowen and I haven’t determined the presence of any more signals approaching the Rouen corridor. Although it is just barely outside of our range, Bowen is inclined to believe that the rest of the Feddie armada is not joining the fray: from his hypothesis, he believes they are retreating in earnest.”

Speechless, I take a step forward with sharp glances at the pondering Bowen, then at the map projector. Although there is now a thorough slugfest of sorts with the meager Federation vanguard, there is a distinct lack of reinforcements. I would imagine by now the main force would begin a concerted effort to join the fray. But there is no movement, not so much as a small stream of reinforcements. Though the Metropolitan force was up until now moving at a disjointed but quick pace, their haphazard assault has slowed to a crawl, if I had to estimate, most of the contingent is likely at a given distance of at least one-hundred kilometers.

It may even seem they are holding their ground. At a closer glance, some of the polygonal Metropol squadrons are already reversing course. If the Metropolitans wanted to capitalize on this beachhead, I believe now would be the time, so then… why? “You are sure?” I ask after catching my breath, “you waited all this time to tell me this now?!” I ask, rubbing my disfigured cheek intensely. I approach the radar technician, but Olga is quick to hold me by the shoulder with a concerning look.

“Bowen… deliberated long and hard about the situation. He wanted to be confident in his calculations before he decided on relaying any information,” Clyde blinks as he puffs through his nose “Bowen wants to believe that the ships pushing in are merely to serve as a diversion…”

“All the pretext for a rear-guard action, then?” Brutus muses, “they want to deceive us into believing they are preparing for a large-scale assault… but are in fact preparing for a complete withdrawal from even the Rouen region?” Brutus scoffs as Clyde gives a reluctant nod.

“I think Bowen’s assumption is right,” Olga chimes in, she rubs my shoulder in assurance, “it all comes together… the destruction of the logistics fleet, the intensifying of the meteor shower, and an already costly battle where they conceded defeat… don’t you agree, Madame?” Olga asks with a sincere smile. I look up at the tactical map on the main bridge display and swallow my contemplations. By now, the firefight has subsided. The so-called reconnaissance-in-force has all but ceased firing and collectively reverses course in an orderly fashion. When I glance over at Bowen, he returns the gaze and gives me a silent but very enthusiastic two thumbs up.

Before I realize it, my knees grow weak and I collapse to the floor. Olga, off-guard, worriedly kneels next to me and wraps her arm around me in an attempt to cradle me. I look into her marble-blue eyes and wonder to myself: could this finally be the end of our troubles? Before either of us can say anything, however, the operator grunts in surprise.

“Incoming visual feed from the Bratsk! ” The radio operator abruptly utters. Brutus glances over at me, expecting me to say something. But still reeling in from the revelation, Brutus sighs and instructs the operator to patch it through to the main screen. Reluctantly, and with a firm squeeze by Olga, I raise my eyes to the bridge monitor. A flow of strong feelings rushes through me.

Though the visual feed suffers from low resolution given the distance and has apparent image artifacts, the evidence remains abundantly clear—if there was any doubt before, such concern could finally be laid to rest. Beyond the planet of Dissenland, dozens—hundreds—of warp entry-points dot the cosmic seas. More open up as subsequent Federation ships prepare to jump. A marginal amount still assumes some form of defensive formations, however, but I pay them no serious attention.

The fact of the matter is—the Federation armada has, at long last, kept its unspoken word and is leaving Toscana behind. As much as I wish for this fleeting moment to last a little longer, there is another subject matter on the visual display that I find increasingly concerning. Namely, vessels are emerging from warp exit-points that catch my eye. And the designs of them are peculiar —they are not unlike the mammoth-sized supply ships that I’ve come to know. At a glimpse, they seem unfamiliar. But there remains a nagging feeling that I have indeed seen it somewhere before.

“…Orbital constructors?!” The alarming voice of Brutus attests to my suspicion, “I haven’t seen those since—“

“The Metropolitans laid the foundations of a space fortress in the lower Ruthenian region,” I add warmly “to think they would be doing the same here… I have long heard rumors of that fortress, Hsing-T'ien, causing some form of discord over its intensive development. But to think they are boldly constructing another one so soon…”

“The Federation is in no short supply of shortsightedness, Madame?” Olga adds, helping me back up. I can't help but only respond with a chuckle. “Not to mention they are leaving the constructors in a vulnerable situation while the majority of the armada departs the system. It’s as if they learned nothing from my sortie!”

“I imagine they are inclined to believe I would not do something so suicidal,” I remark. Olga’s expression changes to puzzlement. “It would accomplish nothing other than to serve as an inconvenience to them. All it would accomplish is undo everything that we’ve worked hard to achieve —it would mark Jung’s death and those that perished meaninglessly. I would hardly call it even a short-term tactical feat. It would serve nothing less than to facilitate our downfall and obliterate any attempts at future negotiations.”

“Right,” Olga mutters, her gaze drops to the floor “I’m no less a hypocrite, aren’t I?” I let out a heartfelt scoff and head-pat Olga, who moments before looked bothered but peeks a smirk.

“Do not be so hard on yourself, Olga,” I say warmly, “it’s a genuine decision that any ambitious-minded lieutenant would make. After all, the Federation is still the bigger fools here. I’m baffled they would leave behind such a small garrison fleet to defend the construction of a potential orbital fortress. They are erroneous fools for hinging on a flimsy possibility that I won’t launch a pre-emptive strike.”

“But the construction of a space fortress at Rouen means that the Feddies will have a permanent military presence… and a permanent threat of a punitive expedition, will it not? Would it not be best to snip it in the bud, and strike when the armada leaves?” Brutus pauses after glancing at all of us “we can use the foundations of the fortress as a bargaining chip as our chance at survival, Madame!” I believe it has some merit, but the risk far outweighs the strategic benefits. It’s simply far too out of my expertise to consider. With a heavy sigh, I brush my disfiguring sigh with great contemplation.

If only Jung Lee was still alive … if only Simon or even that miss Victoria were here, what would they do? Even if I operate on the assumption that the reconnaissance-in-force contingent and the other, smaller detachment will remain behind as the fortress’s permanent garrison, there’s no telling what the Metropol or even the colonials will do in retaliation if such an event were to take place. The taking of this potential fortress could very well cement our defenses against Merican and even Ruthenian prospects. At worse, it might plant future ambitions in the Don’s—or even Che’s head if he is to succeed him one day. I shudder at the thought of a renewed interest in reclaiming our criminal empire in the southern portion of the galaxy.

And even if we were to lose the fortress, the strategic corridor would be more than enough to make any colonial or Metropol venture extremely costly. But if the Metropolitans were to venture from the Frankish Domains—or god forbid authorize the dormant Realm to have a naval militia of their own—then the Mafia is doomed no matter what.

Before I can turn to address Brutus, the radio operator jumps at his console and hurriedly turns to speak to us. “I’m… receiving an encrypted relayed message from a Federation source!” He exclaims with bulging eyes “it was sent to a Federation ship in the contingent we engaged…” he turns to his console briefly as if to confirm something, “…it’s apparently a personal message from the Trinidad—from the admiral himself… to you, Madame, ”he says, rather full of uncertainty. Indeed, there is a silence among the group, as all attention falls on me.

“A message?” Olga inquires, “not a video transmission… er, not verbally, a mere message?” The radio operator is silent for a moment before he nods.

“If you have a way of printing it out, I will read it for myself,” I respond. Without further ado, the operator proceeds with printing out a slip of paper from the console and then hands it over to me. With a deep breath, I try to brush on my Anglish and read the fine slip of paper.

TO THE ONE THEY CALL THE MADAME SCARFACE—THE LI CHOU OF THE YEAR 217 MAFIA

How I wish I could have the pleasantries of meeting face-to-face with the one who has bested me at the battlefields of Abassi all these years ago. I have yearned for the day I could confront you in the hopes of redeeming my honor of losing to a woman more than double my junior. I imagine you are as beautiful as they say, and your voice alone is charming as you are a fiercely tactful officer.

I cannot help but force a scoff. The others look at me intrigued, but none dare try to peek over my shoulder and instead give me privacy. I almost want to toss the message aside, but I force myself to continue with the reading.

Perhaps it was destiny that allowed us to confront each other once again. The odds were in my favor, and I was confident of defeating not only the fearsome Wulf der Ruthenia but the Madame Scarface as well—in one fell swift swoop. Alas, I am forced to concede that I have been bested in combat once again. Against strong opposition of my general staff, I have decided against a renewed offense despite the overwhelming superiority that I still weld. Moreover, your annihilation of my provisional auxiliaries on top of your unyielding conviction would make any further conflict pointless and would serve no further benefit to either of us. As such, I will yield if only because of honor and respect for you and the Wulf der Ruthenia.

For that matter, I wish to wholeheartedly congratulate you on your victory. In recognition of your feats, and of your merciful attitude during the ending phase of the battle, I will, as a sign of equal goodwill, suspend the operation to seduce Toscana indefinitely. But heed my warning: there will come a day when the Mafia will be brought to its knees, and its leaders tried and executed for crimes against humanity—against the Federation. I pray for your continued good health until that day comes to fruition.

Admiral of the Metropolitan Navy, RAMSAY deRYCK

I look up from the letter to the twinkling lights in the vast cosmic seas. Rolling up the piece of paper, I slip it into a pocket and stroke my disfigured cheek. “Madame?” Olga asks “what did the Trinidad admiral have to say?”

“For what it’s worth, to my continued good health and a warning of the day the Federation will invade one day… someday,” I remark, reaching inside my poncho to stroke Julius’s bandanna, “I’m sure now that making any moves on the fortress would disrupt this fragile peace we’ve established. I have trust in the admiral—just as he has trust in me.” At those words, Brutus bows with a nod, muttering that he understands.

“Just a second, Madame,” the radio operator says suddenly “I’ve managed to intercept a transmission from the Trinidad to the ships returning to Dissenland: ‘prepare to form a defensive line around the Hatillo’s fabricator ships. Squadrons four to seven will retire to Cluster Island Two until further orders…’”

“The Hatillo, huh?” I muse “that must be the name they assigned to the new fortress… I see.”

“What are we to do now, Madame? If not preemptively attacking this so-called Hatillo,” Brutus asks. I let out an unprovoked yawn, quickly cupping my mouth in embarrassment. I also realize my neck and shoulders have been aching this entire time.

“I believe that until the meteor shower slows down, I will permit the fleet some much-deserved rest. Then we will join Richter’s fleet and I will, with the Don’s permission, permit the fleet to disperse,” the group looks at me dumbfounded: baffled, even. “Rest assured, the Federation has no intention of attacking anytime soon. As far as I’m concerned, this battle is over.”

“And where shall we go from here, then?” Brutus asks. I roll my eyes, wondering why he asks such banal questions at times like this. Olga picks up on it and smirks at the puzzled oaf.

“Where else? To Brunsbüttel, of course,” I remark wryly with a pained grin. Olga chuckles softly, prompting Brutus to sag his shoulders in defeat before joining in on the chuckling.

With the external threat now eliminated, I can at least enjoy a moment of much-deserved peace. But I know it can't last forever. Unbeknown to the others, I still have one outlying fear that awaits me on the home Side: that of Kamon Hwang. Time will tell, I suppose, of what awaits my fate there.