"All humans on the surface will sooner or later face death.
So, for the sake of our ancestors' ashes, for the sake of the temples of the gods, is there a way to die beyond confronting a terrifyingly formidable enemy?
For the gentle mother who once cradled me, for the wife who holds our child and gives him milk, for the pure maidens who burn the eternal flame, and to protect everyone from the shameful villain Sextus. Is there a way to die beyond this?
Consul, please drop the bridge as soon as possible.
I will, along with two companions, hold back the enemy here.
A thousand enemies crowding the road can be halted by these three.
Now, who will stand by my side and defend the bridge?
From Thomas Babington Macaulay's "Horatius at the Bridge."
-----
"What are you reading?"
The second wave, the third wave—barely fending off the repeated enemy onslaught, the human-organized units faced destruction.
Despite the communication being at its worst, the last communication emitted just before each human-organized unit faced annihilation was clear and vivid. It seemed like the work of some gods who have bad tastes.
Within the fortress, the last bastion of humanity shrouded in the night, constructed to defend the Ark, generators buzzed busily supplying electricity.
In a room of a partially collapsed building where, fortunately, the electric lights still worked, the saintly woman with long golden hair among the members of the ad-hoc Goddess unit designated as temporary residents noticed the commander, who was now a rare sight, reading a book in the form of paper media and spoke up.
"—A book."
"...Yes, I understand that, but..."
She inquired about the content, not the object he held.
With a puzzled expression, Rapunzel furrowed her brow. The commander shrugged his shoulders, wearing a faint wry smile.
From that gesture, it could be inferred that it was a joke, and the golden-haired saint's cheeks swelled slightly.
"...It's nothing significant."
Closing the book he held, he placed it beside him into his backpack. Next, he took out a soft pack of cigarettes and lit it with an oil lighter.
The area covered by light control was thoroughly sealed to prevent light leakage, either through windows or by covering them with cloth in case of collapsed walls. Smoking a single cigarette indoors posed no problem.
"Commander, quit smoking. Didn't the military doctor tell you?"
"...Do you think I can quit smoking at this point? I've been smoking since I was 17."
"...Underage..."
"I was on the battlefield at that time. Well, back then, it wasn't the Scrap Bastards, but humans we were dealing with."
"...Not Scrap Bastards, but Rapture."
Snow White, who once had a charming and friendly smile with her silver hair, seemed to have become a bit peculiar in her thinking and mannerisms.
Her somewhat formal way of speaking was apparently reminiscent of Squad Leader Dick, according to some foul-mouthed members of the squadron. Continuing, Dorothy, with soft red-purple hair, criticized the commander. The common name used by the veteran soldiers, including the squadron, for the enemy, was unfortunately not well received.
"Commander being a bookworm is rare. Was it worth enduring today?"
"...I do read books, even if you don't know."
The one to reply to this somewhat disrespectful comment was Crimson, who sat on the floor with a long clothesline—or rather, a sword—while holding it. She had changed a bit, both in personality and speech, after a change in thinking.
She would probably know anyway, but she deliberately spoke to him, likely out of consideration.
The floor where he, the commander, was sitting, and the bag of bulging cloth placed right next to it.
The contents of that bag were all recognition tags and dog tags.
"...16 people... the most in recent times."
"...Is it alright if we don't pray?"
"...Not necessary. We are abandoned by the gods. As evidence, we can't leave anything behind."
With a metallic sound rubbing internally, he stuffed the bag into his backpack.
No one knew when the offensive would begin. After informing them to rest a little until then, he adjusted his helmet again and, holding a submachine gun, threw both legs casually and began to take a shallow sleep—much like the posture of an exhausted corpse.
A comrade—Corporal Third Class was dead. To prevent the onslaught of Rapture like a cloud, he detonated the high-performance explosives he had set up abundantly along with himself.
"...Died honorably. Just as those words he say."
.
.
.
.
----
The next day, and the day after that—day after day, the battle continued.
In the human-organized army, this seemed to be the best they could do.
The number of enemy machines that could be defeated at the cost of numerous sacrifices was minimal. It was a daily realization of this fact.
Perhaps out of reluctance to watch or due to disappointment in the state of affairs, additional reinforcements, including mass-produced Nikkes, were deployed, indicating that the situation was not favorable.
More than half of the already-established defensive lines had been breached, and the allied forces were reluctantly retreating.
This might be considered a relatively successful defense.
Reserve forces, direct support, and everything else were virtually nonexistent, yet they were fighting valiantly.
Well, the concept of fighting valiantly might be subjective and may appear as a bitter struggle to others.
Amidst the raining debris and soil from the Foxhole trench, hit directly by artillery fire, a figure ran through the midst of the falling objects. Following behind were several Goddesses of Victory.
"—Wait, Squad Leader!? And even the ladies!?"
"This war zone is our responsibility!"
What are they doing?
Taking refuge in the trench constructed by the remaining forces of the squadron, engaged in desperate combat, they cast gaze of dsiebelief at the several figures sliding into their territory.
"The offensive over there has calmed down! We've come to help!"
"Well, that's a relief—"
Explosion.
It happened extremely close to the trench that had become their position.
In an instant, he understood that it was enemy artillery fire, but for a brief moment, he couldn't comprehend the sight of the objects—once human—falling apart from the waist down, along with the scattered shell fragments.
A comrade, still holding his submachine gun, had his upper body and lower half separated like a magic show. However, with the exposure of blood and squishy white intestines to the open air.
In the moment of collapse, the soldier, with a bewildered expression or perhaps in a state of incomprehension, fell to the bottom of the trench.
"Ah...gah!!"
"Medic!!"
Knowing that it was already too late, he called for a medic while lifting the upper body of his comrade.
The only remaining medic in the squadron rushed over. After confirming the extent of the injuries, he shook his head slowly toward the fallen soldier.
It was more obvious than seeing fire.
"I'll administer morphine."
With only a little left—also scavenged from a discarded civilian hospital—the medic injected the substance into the skin of the comrade whose body had been bisected.
It was an act born out of the consciousness of providing a somewhat peaceful final moment.
"Are you okay?"
"...N-no, I'm not... cold..."
Not in pain, but cold, the comrade spoke, shivering and convulsing while clattering his teeth.
Consciousness seemed to be fading away along with profuse bleeding. The pupils gradually dilated, and it appeared that focus had been lost—vision seemed to be gone.
"O-Ojou-chan... Rapun... zel... Ojou-chan..."
"Yes, Corporal. I'm right here."
Struggling to move his tongue, the one granted the rank of corporal called out to the golden-haired saint. She knelt beside him and responded to his call.
"I-if I die... what will happen... I wonder..."
"Eh...?"
Facing imminent death, the one emitting an aura of a clergyman asked this unanswerable question.
Unable to provide an immediate response, Rapunzel, the corporal, smiled weakly while coughing.
"I... understand... we... are not... human..."
Unable to go to heaven or hell—asking such a question in this situation seemed out of place.
However, she gently shook her head, extended her hand, and placed a rosary into the hand of the corporal whose strength was draining away.
"I will save you. Definitely."
"...Do you think so? Because I... am not human—"
"No. Corporal, Commander, everyone is human. Therefore, you will be saved."
"...That's... nice... Squad Leader..."
As the frail breaths conveyed the unmistakable sense of impending death, the corporal, still holding his upper body, spoke to the one supporting him.
He asked what was wrong.
"...I'm sorry for becoming... discouraged... Please forgive me..."
"Don't worry about it."
He wasn't someone to reprimand those who had fought this far for such a reason. Having obtained forgiveness, the corporal mustered his last strength and tightly grasped the rosary held in his hand.
"Rejoice... the holy grace... fills..."
Knowing they did not adhere to any specific religion or faith, he and their comrades, including the girls, were surprised.
Without a doubt, the words uttered from the dying lips contained a prayer.
The breaths expelled weakly were feeble.
Yet, the uttered prayer continued.
"Blessed... are... thou... among women... and..."
Not much time was left.
Just before the strength drained from the hand holding the rosary, an arm was placed over the chest, and the dilated pupils gazed up at the sky.
Perhaps due to a temporary lull in the battle, the sounds of artillery and gunfire ceased as if it were a lie, and in the hushed surroundings, the words of prayer were softly woven.
"...I, who bear the sins... for us... now and even at the moment of death... pray...pray──"
Ah.
He, holding the upper body of the corporal, let out a faint sigh.
Perhaps he was not granted the opportunity to offer prayers until the end, after all. After all, he was not human.
Closing the eyelids of the corporal who had become just the upper body with wide-open eyes, he uttered just one word.
"──Amen."
The golden-haired saint, kneeling beside him, made the sign of the cross. While catching a glimpse of her in the corner of his field of vision, he firmly laid his fallen comrade, who had died in battle, at the bottom of the trench.
"──The Scrap Bastards are coming!! It's a new type!! And there are many of them!!" (Dorothy)
Day after day, they continued to fight. One by one, bidding farewell to their comrades.
-----
Author: Half-anniversary congratulations. And I express special gratitude to everyone who has been accompanying us.
...Dorothy... I haven't welcomed you yet.
"All humans on the surface will sooner or later face death.
So, for the sake of our ancestors' ashes, for the sake of the temples of the gods, is there a way to die beyond confronting a terrifyingly formidable enemy?
For the gentle mother who once cradled me, for the wife who holds our child and gives him milk, for the pure maidens who burn the eternal flame, and to protect everyone from the shameful villain Sextus. Is there a way to die beyond this?
Consul, please drop the bridge as soon as possible.
I will, along with two companions, hold back the enemy here.
A thousand enemies crowding the road can be halted by these three.
Now, who will stand by my side and defend the bridge?
From Thomas Babington Macaulay's "Horatius at the Bridge."
-----
"What are you reading?"
The second wave, the third wave—barely fending off the repeated enemy onslaught, the human-organized units faced destruction.
Despite the communication being at its worst, the last communication emitted just before each human-organized unit faced annihilation was clear and vivid. It seemed like the work of some gods who have bad tastes.
Within the fortress, the last bastion of humanity shrouded in the night, constructed to defend the Ark, generators buzzed busily supplying electricity.
In a room of a partially collapsed building where, fortunately, the electric lights still worked, the saintly woman with long golden hair among the members of the ad-hoc Goddess unit designated as temporary residents noticed the commander, who was now a rare sight, reading a book in the form of paper media and spoke up.
"—A book."
"...Yes, I understand that, but..."
She inquired about the content, not the object he held.
With a puzzled expression, Rapunzel furrowed her brow. The commander shrugged his shoulders, wearing a faint wry smile.
From that gesture, it could be inferred that it was a joke, and the golden-haired saint's cheeks swelled slightly.
"...It's nothing significant."
Closing the book he held, he placed it beside him into his backpack. Next, he took out a soft pack of cigarettes and lit it with an oil lighter.
The area covered by light control was thoroughly sealed to prevent light leakage, either through windows or by covering them with cloth in case of collapsed walls. Smoking a single cigarette indoors posed no problem.
"Commander, quit smoking. Didn't the military doctor tell you?"
"...Do you think I can quit smoking at this point? I've been smoking since I was 17."
"...Underage..."
"I was on the battlefield at that time. Well, back then, it wasn't the Scrap Bastards, but humans we were dealing with."
"...Not Scrap Bastards, but Rapture."
Snow White, who once had a charming and friendly smile with her silver hair, seemed to have become a bit peculiar in her thinking and mannerisms.
Her somewhat formal way of speaking was apparently reminiscent of Squad Leader Dick, according to some foul-mouthed members of the squadron. Continuing, Dorothy, with soft red-purple hair, criticized the commander. The common name used by the veteran soldiers, including the squadron, for the enemy, was unfortunately not well received.
"Commander being a bookworm is rare. Was it worth enduring today?"
"...I do read books, even if you don't know."
The one to reply to this somewhat disrespectful comment was Crimson, who sat on the floor with a long clothesline—or rather, a sword—while holding it. She had changed a bit, both in personality and speech, after a change in thinking.
She would probably know anyway, but she deliberately spoke to him, likely out of consideration.
The floor where he, the commander, was sitting, and the bag of bulging cloth placed right next to it.
The contents of that bag were all recognition tags and dog tags.
"...16 people... the most in recent times."
"...Is it alright if we don't pray?"
"...Not necessary. We are abandoned by the gods. As evidence, we can't leave anything behind."
With a metallic sound rubbing internally, he stuffed the bag into his backpack.
No one knew when the offensive would begin. After informing them to rest a little until then, he adjusted his helmet again and, holding a submachine gun, threw both legs casually and began to take a shallow sleep—much like the posture of an exhausted corpse.
A comrade—Corporal Third Class was dead. To prevent the onslaught of Rapture like a cloud, he detonated the high-performance explosives he had set up abundantly along with himself.
"...Died honorably. Just as those words he say."
.
.
.
.
----
The next day, and the day after that—day after day, the battle continued.
In the human-organized army, this seemed to be the best they could do.
The number of enemy machines that could be defeated at the cost of numerous sacrifices was minimal. It was a daily realization of this fact.
Perhaps out of reluctance to watch or due to disappointment in the state of affairs, additional reinforcements, including mass-produced Nikkes, were deployed, indicating that the situation was not favorable.
More than half of the already-established defensive lines had been breached, and the allied forces were reluctantly retreating.
This might be considered a relatively successful defense.
Reserve forces, direct support, and everything else were virtually nonexistent, yet they were fighting valiantly.
Well, the concept of fighting valiantly might be subjective and may appear as a bitter struggle to others.
Amidst the raining debris and soil from the Foxhole trench, hit directly by artillery fire, a figure ran through the midst of the falling objects. Following behind were several Goddesses of Victory.
"—Wait, Squad Leader!? And even the ladies!?"
"This war zone is our responsibility!"
What are they doing?
Taking refuge in the trench constructed by the remaining forces of the squadron, engaged in desperate combat, they cast gaze of dsiebelief at the several figures sliding into their territory.
"The offensive over there has calmed down! We've come to help!"
"Well, that's a relief—"
Explosion.
It happened extremely close to the trench that had become their position.
In an instant, he understood that it was enemy artillery fire, but for a brief moment, he couldn't comprehend the sight of the objects—once human—falling apart from the waist down, along with the scattered shell fragments.
A comrade, still holding his submachine gun, had his upper body and lower half separated like a magic show. However, with the exposure of blood and squishy white intestines to the open air.
In the moment of collapse, the soldier, with a bewildered expression or perhaps in a state of incomprehension, fell to the bottom of the trench.
"Ah...gah!!"
"Medic!!"
Knowing that it was already too late, he called for a medic while lifting the upper body of his comrade.
The only remaining medic in the squadron rushed over. After confirming the extent of the injuries, he shook his head slowly toward the fallen soldier.
It was more obvious than seeing fire.
"I'll administer morphine."
With only a little left—also scavenged from a discarded civilian hospital—the medic injected the substance into the skin of the comrade whose body had been bisected.
It was an act born out of the consciousness of providing a somewhat peaceful final moment.
"Are you okay?"
"...N-no, I'm not... cold..."
Not in pain, but cold, the comrade spoke, shivering and convulsing while clattering his teeth.
Consciousness seemed to be fading away along with profuse bleeding. The pupils gradually dilated, and it appeared that focus had been lost—vision seemed to be gone.
"O-Ojou-chan... Rapun... zel... Ojou-chan..."
"Yes, Corporal. I'm right here."
Struggling to move his tongue, the one granted the rank of corporal called out to the golden-haired saint. She knelt beside him and responded to his call.
"I-if I die... what will happen... I wonder..."
"Eh...?"
Facing imminent death, the one emitting an aura of a clergyman asked this unanswerable question.
Unable to provide an immediate response, Rapunzel, the corporal, smiled weakly while coughing.
"I... understand... we... are not... human..."
Unable to go to heaven or hell—asking such a question in this situation seemed out of place.
However, she gently shook her head, extended her hand, and placed a rosary into the hand of the corporal whose strength was draining away.
"I will save you. Definitely."
"...Do you think so? Because I... am not human—"
"No. Corporal, Commander, everyone is human. Therefore, you will be saved."
"...That's... nice... Squad Leader..."
As the frail breaths conveyed the unmistakable sense of impending death, the corporal, still holding his upper body, spoke to the one supporting him.
He asked what was wrong.
"...I'm sorry for becoming... discouraged... Please forgive me..."
"Don't worry about it."
He wasn't someone to reprimand those who had fought this far for such a reason. Having obtained forgiveness, the corporal mustered his last strength and tightly grasped the rosary held in his hand.
"Rejoice... the holy grace... fills..."
Knowing they did not adhere to any specific religion or faith, he and their comrades, including the girls, were surprised.
Without a doubt, the words uttered from the dying lips contained a prayer.
The breaths expelled weakly were feeble.
Yet, the uttered prayer continued.
"Blessed... are... thou... among women... and..."
Not much time was left.
Just before the strength drained from the hand holding the rosary, an arm was placed over the chest, and the dilated pupils gazed up at the sky.
Perhaps due to a temporary lull in the battle, the sounds of artillery and gunfire ceased as if it were a lie, and in the hushed surroundings, the words of prayer were softly woven.
"...I, who bear the sins... for us... now and even at the moment of death... pray...pray──"
Ah.
He, holding the upper body of the corporal, let out a faint sigh.
Perhaps he was not granted the opportunity to offer prayers until the end, after all. After all, he was not human.
Closing the eyelids of the corporal who had become just the upper body with wide-open eyes, he uttered just one word.
"──Amen."
The golden-haired saint, kneeling beside him, made the sign of the cross. While catching a glimpse of her in the corner of his field of vision, he firmly laid his fallen comrade, who had died in battle, at the bottom of the trench.
"──The Scrap Bastards are coming!! It's a new type!! And there are many of them!!" (Dorothy)
Day after day, they continued to fight. One by one, bidding farewell to their comrades.
-----
Author: Half-anniversary congratulations. And I express special gratitude to everyone who has been accompanying us.
...Dorothy... I haven't welcomed you yet.
