The temperature down here is unpleasantly cold. The only time I’ve felt this nippy was when my old man would forget to turn on our house heater—or rolling blackouts in the neighborhood. It’s strange having those memories now. Huddling up with Friederika and telling ghost stories to each other… they’re nothing but fading nostalgia now. The last remnants of innocence I had, burning at an extraordinarily slow pace into ashes and nothingness.

Cripes, it’s unprecedentedly cold. My hands and cheeks are getting numb by the second, this suit barely helping me to keep it together. I have no idea it could even drop to these temperatures down here. I’ve never been in this part of the Yilan—never had to, given my usual postings doing busy man work and cadet studying. Even when given the chance, I usually stayed clear of this section of the ship.

For all my time here—at least before the Toscana campaign—the older technicians and engineers would gossip about all the horror stories of the “accidents” and shady business going on the lower decks. In the “glory days” of the Yilan, its rank-and-file personnel—that is, the sailors and technicians assigned to the “deep depths” of the bottom decks weren’t necessarily the chaps you would want to accidentally bump shoulders with on the sidewalk.

I stop briefly, the walls and floors of the corridor, much like every corridor in this section, are marble and gray. Piss yellow pipelines expand out and zig-zag forever. Yet, there is no grime, no signs of discarded items or cigarette butts, let alone booze and such. For such a remote area it’s surprisingly clean.

Ever since I descended from the elevator, the only interaction I had with another person was with the Old Man. Despite our brief interactions with loading missiles at the beginning of Lucky Alphonse, I never got his name and it was only then I discovered he is a seaman named Lucas Perat.

Lucas more or less told me the same story that all the other experienced sailors say: that this was not a very welcoming place for younger cadets and such. He mused that the only time any amount of people came down here was to deliver the caskets to the cargo holds. But why was the hold in such a… hard-to-reach area?

Lucas couldn’t answer that, or maybe he didn’t want to. The only other thing he said was that D-4 and D-5 were often where “gentlemen settled their differences” back then, given that officers rarely went down there without good reason. In other words, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for murders to occur.

I take a deep breath, my lips are freezing. I clasp my ears, rubbing them as I examine the pasty walls obstructed by the piss pipes, and faded papers hanging loosely from black bulletin boards.

Of course, those don’t happen anymore. But Lucas did warn me this: that the cargo levels were haunted. Even just bringing it up now, I want to crack a grin. Poltergeists in this day and age are prosperous. I knew Lucas is merely pulling my leg—getting his kicks out of giving a young woman a simple spook, but I acted dumb and played along for the senile old bean.

But still…

Lucas said it all with a straight face. No hint of a suppressed smirk or body language to suggest otherwise. He’s a wise man. I would say even as wise as my old man, but maybe that’s a stretch. Lucas is like a dying breed of a hard-working man with a dulled sense of humor. It’s a wonder why he’s still a seaman… he could’ve simply just been conscripted like most of the rank-and-file, but I doubt it. There’s a lot of history to the man that remains to me an enigma.

Even if he is merely jesting, I can’t help but shake the feeling that it’s true. The nightmares I had, the technospirtual encounter I had with Buttermilch… it’s too… surreal. There’s no making sense of it. It could merely be hallucination or trauma, I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I push on against the dreadful cold of the cargo hold.

Just as I’m about to, though, the corridor light flickers—and a distant thump from behind me. I reel around. Expecting Lucas or someone else, but there’s nothing—

A small metal bar rolls into the hallway, eventually finding itself stopped by a piss-colored pipeline protruding from the floor. I stand there, frozen, awaiting what would happen next. Expecting something—anything out of a sappy low-budget film to jump out and chase me. I’m just overthinking things, probably.

Nothing does. The small metal bar rolls a little before stopping fully. I sigh with a suspension of disbelief, and not wanting to wait around for impending developments, I high-tail out of the corridor.

Eventually, after a few twists and turns and following the signs indicating HOLD 3, the piss bars appear less, and the industrial corridors transition into more translucent blue features. It’s not as exceptionally chilly now, but it’s still nippy nonetheless. A bit of moisturized fog overhead, and some mechanical whines. It’s a bit eerily, but I don’t think much of it. The only thing I’m focused on right now is the double mechanical door before me, with the words HOLD 3 CHAMBER in fine print on it. No keypads, or let alone a sentry on sight. True to what Lucas and the others say, it’s a remote area. Maybe a little too remote?

I grasp the steel—its unusually cold—handle of the right door, prompting goosebumps all over. My stomach churns, and my feet suddenly cinder boxes. I caress my chest pocket where I hold the sunglasses. The last hesitation before crossing the Rubicon.

“Is this necessary?” I whisper, the only answer is the mechanical creaks of the Yilan, and my crystallized breath. “Aren’t I merely disturbing the dead by doing this?

“Would Buttermilch want me to do this?” It’s a question that lies in the back of my mind this whole time. Would he want me to hurt myself emotionally over this? Would he want me to go out of my way to apologize over what is seemingly nothing… over a catastrophe that was well beyond my reach?

I don’t know.

I turn the handle, pushing with all my strength. A bit of pressurized air brushes my face. And I open my eyes to dozens of caskets in the huge chamber. It’s almost pitch dark in here, except for the spherical lighting cast down on each downed serviceman and woman.

Strong emotions are the next to brush against me. My knees buckle, and I rely on the partially opened door for support. It’s heavy, and even with all my weight it doesn’t budge any further. My lips tremble, despite biting down for suppression. It doesn’t make a difference.

My presence here makes no difference—it has no purpose. It doesn’t make any difference for them, it won’t make any difference for me.

I clear my throat, again pulling myself up with the support of the door. I push with my shoulder and knee, grunting a little to open it further so I can enter. My breaths become shorter and more frequent. I walk past the door, my last opposition slipping away from the handle.

I clench my chest again, walking past several coffins whose persons I do not know. The lives I’ve abruptly ended. Whose name I never knew, whose families will never see again. Whose children stay up all night wondering why mom and pops will never come home again? People I let down. It’s almost humiliating being here, walking by without a word or batting an eye as if to dismiss that their sacrifices were for nothing, and it was all for nothing. They all literally had no reason to die.

When I die, I’ll apologize to you all myself.

It’s getting harder to keep my throat clear. I haven’t inspected which one is Buttermilch’s… but simultaneously, I know—perhaps subconsciously—which one is his. Like by instinct I’m simply drawn to it—like I hear his voice calling out to me through the silence—I’m here, come to me.

There’s just so many, as many as forty or fifty at a brief count. And that’s just in this cargo chamber. It’s pathetic to think I don’t remember the exact amount of casualties we sustained; pitiful even. And all the same, I should be among them.

And they’re all identical down to the red palls placed over each one, right down to their ultimate demises. The actions—or I suppose thereof—of one singular person caused the misery of so many. A tug at the back of my mind—don’t do this, let’s leave. But I keep it pushed down under. It’s the disgraced words of a true coward.

Before I know it, I’m near the back of the holding. It’s the second to last coffin, I stop just before the red pall laid out connecting all the coffins in a line. It’s sacred ground, like a parasite stepping foot inside a high priest’s temple. It’s sacrilegious.

With a deep breath, I step on the pall and take several more steps, kneeling as I get to the coffin—Buttermilch’s coffin. I caress my chest pocket, slipping out the sunglasses case and holding it tightly. My eyes wander at the plain red pall covering the humble white-and-gray casket. I rest a hand on the cloth, sliding my hand gently across it, being careful not to wrinkle it too much.

I have no idea what to say. My mind merely draws blanks.

“It’s…” I mutter, trying to force a smirk, “it’s been something like a hot minute, hasn’t it, Buttermilch?” Silence is the only answer. I can only imagine his scoffing, rubbing his temple as he scolds me to address him properly. “If things were different… if you were still…” I pause, rubbing the fine texture of the leather case. “I visited your office earlier, Buttermilch. I… I shouldn’t have pried. If I was caught… I knew I would be in a heap of whopping trouble. But I did it anyway. I pried into your past, into your recordings because…

“Because…” I trail off, setting the case down on his casket. My knees are shaky. I do my best to remain calm. I can’t afford to break down now. What would Buttermilch think?

What would Buttermilch think? I scoff at the question again. We, the living, always believe we know what’s best for the dead. We always believe they would’ve wanted this or that, but it doesn’t matter. They’re dead. We merely hold this belief that they would want one thing or another to make us feel better about ourselves.

I continue again, clearing my throat. “It feels like ever since we retreated from Toscana… things have been…” I trail off again, clearing my throat. Wiping the few premature tears forming, I take deep breaths and continue, “we’re about to embark on a new operation, Buttermilch. And… I wanted to right what was wrong. I did what I couldn’t do back then at Malabo. I went to the meeting discussing the details and gave my thoughts, and…” I stammer for the words of my thoughts, but it’s getting increasingly hard to remain calm and composed befitting of the Toscana Heroine, of the Lucky Lady of Toscana, the one who bested the Madame Scarface.

“At the time…” I murmur, squeezing the sunglasses case, “I thought I was doing the wrong thing. I wanted to… live up to the expectations I have of myself, and that others had of me. You see, Buttermilch,” I force a smile, and it’s as if the tears, biding their time, make their move. “I… I wanted to be the Toscana Heroine. I wanted to make a difference and save lives. It’s all I wanted to do,” I look around at the comrades I’ve let down. “I wanted to prevent another Lucky Alphonse. But… I was too caught up in the moment, Buttermilch.

“I… the Admiral wanted to spread out his units. He wanted to assault several colonies at once. I panicked, Buttermilch. I was too unprepared for what I was doing. I suggested to the Admiral that we should focus our efforts on the main colony… in a way, I suggested that we risk throwing away all our assets in one location…

“But was it the right choice, Buttermilch?” I ask in vain. I scan the room, the silence deafening, disheartening. “Did I make the right call, Buttermilch? Did I help in avoiding another catastrophe? How can I live with myself if it all goes wrong? If I have to sit back and await news that we suffered yet another disaster?” I wipe away tears with my cuffs, breathing in slowly. My knees give out, and I struggle to keep myself upright.

“They call me a hero, Buttermilch. How can I be a hero when I let you all die? Why did it have to be me? I’m no Toscana Heroine. I’m no Lucky Lady of Toscana. What’s so lucky about living with guilt that I’ve… that I’ve simply let people die for my success? Success I never even desired.

“Even when we were retreating from Toscana. I remained a coward. I was spineless in watching any of it unfold. I hid and had a panic attack, with nothing but a puke bag to get me through it. I was too stunned. I was too scared out of my mind… that’s no way to live, Buttermilch. If you saw me then, I’m sure you would’ve been gravely disappointed… and yet, I did what no one else did at the time.

“I’m simply no better than that damn bloody Commodore. I’m just a young girl, Buttermilch. It should’ve been me that died… even though you had all those nightmares about saving me, maybe… your visions were wrong. You should’ve let me die, and I wouldn’t be suffering.

“I wouldn’t have to live the rest of my life living in shame for what I’ve done. So many of you could be alive and well, too, but I robbed each one of you of that privilege of being alive.

“Do you think each person here was sure they’d die? Do you think if they knew, they’d use every last drop of strength to die without shame? We were all so naive, Buttermilch. I wish you had let me come with you… that way, there would be no suffering. This cargo hold would be empty.

The pain in my stomach grows. “I’m… afraid of how pathetic I’ve become, Buttermilch. How afraid I’ve become since then. I had a strong resolve ever since joining the military. I was just as naive as you were at some point. It’s like… since that day, the basis for my resolve, for making the world a better place, was extinguished overnight. We both burned with ideals, that we could do anything to change the world, just like our idols, and now…

“We both faced our realities. We both discovered that making a difference is no easy task, that some things can’t be done without paving blood, and that the powers that be function on a different level than we perceive.

“Why was I allowed to survive, Buttermilch?” I ask. Rubbing my eyes again. Moving my cramped legs a little, but still feeling slouchy.

“Is it to use my experience as a failure to teach and lead others, I wonder…? I wish you were still here, Buttermilch. I wish I had your wisdom in these foreboding times. I wish I had the foresight to know if I made the right choice or not. If my decision can lead to the survival of others—the minimal amount of carnage and deaths, I… that’s the only way I can make it up to you, I think.

“I suppose… things can be a lot worse, Buttermilch,” I crack a weary smile. “I can imagine you shaking your head and saying something like; ‘The Yilan might’ve been wiped out, and you’d be no better than the lot of us right now. There wouldn’t be a false Lucky Lady of Toscana or a Toscana Heroine, anyway.’”

I can’t help but laugh at my bloody lame impersonation of my dead superior. And upon realizing the revelation, I laugh at my lameness, at my weakness, I can’t help but laugh some more. The tears won’t stop either way, and I wipe away fresh ones with a now soggy sleeve. “I suppose… I reached the point where I can ridicule myself over mistakes. In a way, I’ll find new things to replace what I’ve lost—I can’t just keep getting depressed over and over, right?

“I can only imagine you would lecture me on something like that… to make new memories and do what I can to right what was wrong… to learn from mistakes and apply them to new ones, basically… right? Mac mentioned that to you at some point… I wonder how much of it you took to heart, Buttermilch?” I can only wonder if she’s there with you now…

“I might not be able to fix my sorry blimey ass this minute…” I take a long breath, cradling the eyeglasses case in my hands, “but I’ll do it… eventually, I’ll live my life as best as I can. It might take a long time, but… I have no idea what that may entail, but… for now, I’ll do my best.” I scan the room, the scars on my heartache as I address them all while getting to my feet. “You’re all the real heroes of Toscana, something the public may never know—but I will. I hope that one day, I can become like you all, like you, Buttermilch. I respect all of you.

“But even so… what will happen in the upcoming campaign, I have no idea. It makes me sick to my stomach knowing I may be responsible for sending hundreds of thousands of soldiers to their deaths. All the while I’ll be sitting back in the Yilan twiddling my thumbs… it doesn’t have to be this way.” I look down at Buttermilch, kneeling to rub the casket garment.

“I can’t afford to be a spineless coward now of all times, can I?” I ask softly, gripping the sunglasses case tightly. “If I have to live the rest of my life as pathetic as the Coward Heroine or Butcher Princess, I’d rather just drop dead and die. Would it be better for me to at least participate in the battle and die where I stand than sit in the back where it’s safe and sound?”

It’s a question that goes unanswered. And truthfully, I have no idea.

No.

I do have an idea of what must be done. There’s no hesitation to be had about it. It’s the least I can do Buttermilch… the least I can do for our fallen comrades.

I didn’t survive when Buttermilch saved me. In a way, I died on that fateful day when I passed out from oxygen deprivation. After that surreal near-death experience, I’ve been granted new life—a life that I simply can’t let rot and be miserable forever. I can’t be purposeless forever—how horrible it would be to see the disappointment on Buttermilch and everyone else’s faces when my time comes?

A life full of regret? That’s no way to live. Today, now, marks the end of regret.

“That’s right,” I answer on behalf of the true heroes of Toscana. “I’ll use this second life you’ve granted me to be a better person… to live a life that you won’t be ashamed of so that your worries can be calmed and you all could rest in peace. If I die, it won’t be a squandered, pitiful one. I’ll see to it that my actions of Lucky Alphonse won’t be repeated. That people won’t die in vain.”

A cold touch on my shoulder. Instinctively I rest my hand there, but glancing back there’s nothing but the overhead cold mist. Just my imagination, perhaps, or maybe a certain Commander letting his presence known. Whatever the case, I get up, dusting myself and slipping the case back into my breast pocket.

“I have no idea what the future entails, Buttermilch,” I say wryly “but I’ll charge head-first into it. So long, commander.”

With a final salute, I about-face and head off through the misty chamber of heroes.