- Oliver -
Oliver was at his limit. The sheer amount of blood he had lost left him teetering on the edge of consciousness. But as his vision blurred, the face of the dic swam into focus, offering a semblance of reassurance. It was hard to believe she was right there.
Her red hair was pulled back into a long ponytail, a deep scar etched across her otherwise pale face. Her eyes reflected her concern as she assessed his condition.
"Damn it. He's losing blood fast. Begin an ergency transfusion," she barked, her tone leaving no room for hesitation. "You, with —let's get him onto the ship!"
The crisp authority in her voice contrasted sharply with her youthful appearance, making her seem far tougher than her delicate features suggested.
'Well, the pink armor suits her,' was Oliver's last fleeting thought as he watched Astrid take command of the situation.
An instant of fractured awareness flickered before everything slipped away. His mind grappled to hold onto sothing—anything—as if trying to catch sand slipping through his fingers. It was futile. Darkness engulfed him, heavy and endless.
The first sound that pierced the void was the rhythmic beeping of machines. The air was sterile, tinged with the scent of disinfectant, and each breath felt foreign, as though he inhabited a body that wasn't his own. His head throbbed, thoughts muddled, like trying to assemble puzzle pieces that refused to fit.
Shapes moved around him, blurred faces and muffled voices. Snippets of conversation floated past—expressions of relief, murmurs of astonishnt at his recovery. The world had beco a disjointed tapestry, reality feeling anything but natural. The ti he had lost was a gaping hole in his mory, impossible to fill.
Among the stream of people entering and leaving the room, one figure stood out—Astrid. Unlike the others clad in dical uniforms, she remained in her Ranger armor, its pink hue a stark contrast to the sterile whites and grays of the infirmary.
"They're all wondering how you recovered so quickly," she said softly as he blinked his eyes open. Her voice was calr now, infused with a gentleness he hadn't noticed before. "You lost a lot of blood. Your body seed to also not be regenerating your Energy. Not to ntion the fight with a Red Ork. They expected you'd be unconscious for at least two months."
"Two months?" Oliver croaked, his throat dry, voice barely more than a whisper. "How long... was I out?"
"Five weeks," Astrid replied.
He tried to sit up, a jolt of pain stopping him halfway. "How did it end?" he managed to ask, piecing together fragnts of his fading mories.
"As soon as the chs arrived, we managed to halt their advance," she explained. "But we had to call in chs from York, ridius, and Selene. Even then, the Half Wall was nearly destroyed. The tal Titan tore through a large part of the structure."
"Shit," Oliver muttered, frustration seeping into his voice. ‘Even with the Green Armor, we still couldn't defend,’ he thought bitterly.
Astrid seed to sense his turmoil. "You did more than anyone could have asked," she said quietly. "Many lives were saved because of you."
He looked away, staring at the sterile ceiling. "Doesn't feel like enough," he murmured.
"Even so, the Emperor is broadcasting it as a victory," Astrid said, her gaze drifting toward the panoramic window that overlooked the horizon. "Perhaps it is. Holding back fifty Titans without Half Wall being reduced to dust—maybe we can consider that a win."
Oliver sat up slightly in his hospital bed, the crisp sheets rustling with his movent. An uncomfortable silence settled between them, both unsure of what to say.
"How did you end up there?" Oliver asked, breaking the quiet. It was surreal to see his forr Academy classmate amidst all that chaos.
"During the attack, they needed everyone to help contain the advance, especially for the evacuation and rescue operations," Astrid explained. "I haven't completed my dical training yet, but they just needed extra hands for first aid and support."
"You've mastered your armor well," Oliver remarked, noting the sleek pink Ranger Armor she wore.
"Not as much as you have," she replied with a faint smile. "Isn't this the third ti I've saved you now?" Her eyes sparkled with a teasing glint. "How do you manage to turn simple missions into world-changing events?"
Oliver chuckled softly, though the motion sent a twinge of pain through his ribs. "I keep asking myself the sa thing."
"Regardless," Astrid continued, "you will receive a dal for the intel you provided."
"Really?" He raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.
"Yes, although not in person since the ceremony is tomorrow, and you're in no shape to attend," she said, pushing a stray lock of hair back into her ponytail. "But they'll surely ntion you and send along the award."
She stood up from the chair beside his bed. "I should get back to my duties. By the way, so friends sent you a few things." She gestured to a small table cluttered with packages. "They're right over there."
"Thanks, Astrid. For everything," Oliver said earnestly.
She gave him a warm smile. "You're welco. But you owe a launch; I’ll hold you to that next ti." She gave a playful wink before heading toward the door. "Take care of yourself."
"I'll do my best," he called after her.
Once she was gone, the room seed quieter. Oliver leaned over carefully, mindful of his healing wounds, and reached for the packages. There were three in total.
The first was a box of chocolates from Isabella, a note attached in her neat handwriting: "Thought you might need these when you woke up. Get well soon!"
He smiled, unwrapping one of the chocolates. The second package contained photos of Katherine and Isabella, both grinning widely and giving thumbs-up signs. For the first ti, he saw them in their Ranger armors—Katherine's in red and Isabella's in yellow. On the back of the photo, they had written: "Hurry up and get back on your feet! We need you out here!"
Oliver smiled affectionately.
The third package was lightweight, almost as if nothing was inside. Curious, he opened it to find an unmarked envelope. "Who sends letters these days?" he wondered aloud.
Sliding a single piece of paper from the envelope, he found a simple image of an hourglass drawn at the top. Beneath it were the words: "Do not accept your award."
Oliver's brow furrowed. There was no signature, no indication of who might have sent it. ‘What on earth does that an?’ he thought, turning the paper over to check for more, but it was blank.
Unease settled in his stomach. Was this so kind of prank? A threat? Or a warning? He couldn't tell.
Deciding it wasn't worth the headache, he crumpled the note and tossed it into the waste bin beside his bed. "Strange," he muttered. But with everything else going on—the battle, his recovery—the last thing he needed was another mystery to solve.
Oliver lay back down on the infirmary bed, intent on exploring his gauntlet to see what new information or abilities he might have gained. However, the sedatives still coursing through his system were potent, and gradually, sleep overtook him once more. When he awoke, the soft light of morning filtered through the blinds—a new day had dawned.
‘Damn, I fell asleep,’ Oliver thought to himself.
He glanced at the ti displayed on his gauntlet; it was already 10:31 AM.
"The award ceremony!" he suddenly rembered. It must have already started.
Quickly, he activated his gauntlet, navigating through the NET to find a channel broadcasting the ceremony. With a tap, he engaged in projection mode.
The broadcast was projected on the wall in front of him. Oliver instantly recognized the setting—the vast, sprawling lawn of the White House. No longer ho to a president, it now served as the residence of the governor of Area 01. Yet, it remained a symbol of tradition and was frequently used for commorative events.
A modest stage had been erected on the erald grass, with hundreds of chairs arranged before it. Attendance at the ceremony was limited to a select few from the Great Houses and the honorees themselves. The general public would witness the event through broadcasts like the one Oliver was tuning into.
What surprised him most was the figure standing at the center of the stage—the Emperor himself. Lucius ridius rarely appeared in public, and his presence at events was nearly unheard of. He cut an imposing yet unsettling figure. Despite the grandeur of his shimring silver armor, which signified the imnse power he wielded, his physical appearance told a different story. His eyes were sunken, shadows casting dark circles beneath them, and his cheeks were hollow, giving him a gaunt, almost spectral visage that did not speak of a man in good health.
On either side of the stage, the flags of the Great Houses fluttered gently in the breeze. But sothing caught Oliver's eye—there were fewer banners than there should have been. He counted quickly. Not twelve, not even eleven. Only nine flags stood proudly.
"Three families' flags are missing. The Lot, and who else?" Oliver wondered aloud.
A sense of unease settled over him. The absence of the flags hinted at deeper turmoil within the Empire's hierarchy. The Lot family had recently declared independence, dubbing their territory the Republic of Enceladus, but who were the others? The shifting allegiances of the Great Houses could have significant implications for the ongoing war and the stability of the Empire itself.
Above the gathered crowd, the sky was alive with drones. Their diminutive forms hovered unobtrusively as they captured every possible angle of the ceremony. They ensured that the Emperor's image was projected to every corner of human-inhabited space, leaving no one untouched by his words.
"Sons and daughters of the Empire!" Emperor Lucius ridius proclaid. He raised his arms high, the gesture commanding attention more than offering a greeting. Clad in gleaming silver armor, he presented a striking contrast to his gaunt features and hollow cheeks. His eyes, deep-set and shadowed, nevertheless sparkled with a fierce determination that belied his frail appearance.
"Today, more than ever, we must rember what unites us: our humanity, our blood, our glory!" His gaze swept over the assembled crowd and the myriad of hovering caras transmitting his image across the Empire. It felt as though his piercing eyes t each individual, no matter how distant. "This Empire was not built by the weak or by traitors, but by those who understood that unity is our greatest strength!"
He took a deliberate step forward. "There are enemies out there," he continued, his voice rich with conviction. "Enemies who hate us simply for existing. The Orks—creatures who neither understand reason nor respect peace. They see our greatness and envy it; they witness our strength and fear it. Do not be deceived, my children: their hatred for us will never end, because our brilliance outshines the darkness of their savage hearts!"
As he spoke, the colossal holographic screens flanking the stage shifted to display vivid images from the recent battles at Half Wall. chs clashed with towering Titans, laser fire streaking across the battlefield. In one dramatic scene, a ch manipulated gravity itself to crush several Titans, demonstrating the formidable might of the Empire's technology.
The crowd erupted in a thunderous roar of approval, their fervor palpable. But the Emperor raised a silencing hand, and the cheers subsided instantly. His expression hardened, and his eyes narrowed with steely resolve.
"But there is another enemy," he declared, his tone dropping to a grave seriousness. "More insidious, more dangerous, because it does not co from outside—it is among us. Traitors, cowards, vermin who place their petty interests above the greater good of the Empire! They trade our glory for empty promises and undermine our unity with their doubts and lies. Show no rcy to these individuals. They are a blight; like any disease, they must be eradicated!"
The holographic images shifted again. Gone were the scenes of heroic battles against the Orks. Instead, footage played of conflicts erupting around Olympus—chs with distinctive purple markings engaging in fierce combat against Enceladus forces. The three Imperial chs moved with uncanny coordination, repelling attackers with almost choreographed precision.
The Emperor paused, allowing his words to sink deep into the minds of his subjects. He drew a asured breath before continuing. "The Empire cannot tolerate division! We must be an unbreakable wall, an eternal fla that no wind can extinguish. For humanity, for the survival of our people, for the greatness that runs in our blood!"
He concluded his speech with an imposing gesture, raising his clenched fist toward the heavens. The crowd responded in unison, their voices a resounding chorus pledging fidelity to the Emperor and the Empire. The chants echoed through Earth and across countless worlds via the broadcasts.
Suddenly, the images on the screens transford once more. In bold red letters, the words "Enemies of the Empire" blazed across the displays.
The first image appeared: Mordred, his face stoic and unyielding, along with the Enceladus flag. The second image showed an Ork seated upon a throne, exuding a nacing aura. But the third image left Oliver utterly stunned—it was a picture of himself in his Green Ranger armor.
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