0.6 - Thank You

Leader of the Hyades. The strongest of her kind. Victory itself—

And she was backed into an impossible corner.

Time was running out.

[Warning. Aether concentration critical. Field collapse imminent. Suggestion: Distance.]

Proxima’s golden eyes locked on Lyra—trapped in a death spiral she couldn’t escape.

Swirling madness bled through the girl’s trembling hands, black fire tearing at the air. If the Aetheric field failed, the detonation would take Lyra—
And half of Moonwharf—with it.

But more importantly…

Lyra was not smiling anymore.

Her pupils swirled with raw, impossible fury and will.

Proxima’s knees bent—
—and then she was gone.

Not away. Not retreating.

She reappeared in the same breath, right before Lyra’s smoldering frame, the golden flash of her vector magic cutting reality itself.

The black flames in Lyra’s mangled fingers pulsed and cracked, on the brink of collapse.

Before it could detonate, Proxima’s hand snapped up with terrifying precision, her fingers closing over the volatile core—
As if sheer will alone could extinguish it.

The Aether flared, and then vanished, displaced by Proxima’s vector magic—
Not herself, but the blast, ripped upward through raw intent alone.

High above, far beyond reach, the energy broke free, untethered, and wild.

A flash of white, orange, red, and black tore through the storm-swept sky—
The violent birth of a star written in fire and ruin.

Rain lifted with the blast, then crashed back down again, heavier than before.

As if the sky itself had remembered how to mourn.

Proxima didn’t move.
Couldn’t.

Everything in her world existed solely in front of her now.

Lyra’s one remaining arm—ignoring logic, damage, reason—swiped blindly toward Proxima’s face.

But the precision was gone.
The power—gone.

The blow struck not flesh, but an unseen wall of pure, vectorized intent, suspended mid-strike—unable to move forward, unable to fall back.

Proxima’s golden eyes never left hers. Fixed. Unblinking, as if nothing else in the world remained.

One way or another… they were leaving together.

[Unit-00. We understand this is difficult. But we must remind you: Unit Lyra is no longer there.]

Harsh Aetheric static answered back—Proxima’s disbelief bleeding raw and unfiltered through the channel.

“No. You’re wrong. I refuse to believe that.”

Proxima’s focus never wavered.

The usual whims, the eccentricity and theatrical flare were gone.

Only the calm, calculating mind of a being who had never known failure remained—bound together by one unshakable belief:

This would not be the end for Lyra.

Calculations blazed through her logic cores—

The most precise method.
The least amount of pain.

Stick to the plan.
Disable the frame.
Stop the rampaging body before it tore itself apart.

And then—take Lyra away from this nightmare.

Only… that method was no longer viable.

"No..."

Her vision.
Her mind.
Her core—all synchronized on the same, terrible realization.

The steam Lyra’s body had been shedding. Machina healing systems pushed to their absolute limits.

Had stopped.

No more hiss against the air.
No more regenerative flare.

The younger Machina's body wasn’t repairing itself anymore.

The well had run dry.

Silence.

For the first time in her endless life…victory had no answer.

“That… can’t be.”

Even accounting for the magnitude of her healing, the spells she’d cast since their departure, all of it, Lyra was still a Machina.

Her reserves should have been vast.

She should have had Anima to spare.

But the Aetherframe, as always, was there to clarify. cold, clinical, and absolute beyond all doubt.

[The fracturing of Unit-Lyra’s soul has rendered meaningful Anima reserves scarce. Current functional output is estimated at less than 10% of standard maximum.]

The realization tore through Proxima’s soul like a blade.

Since the moment they’d escaped the manifestation—Lyra had taken point. Relief efforts. Healing.

She’d been burning herself away from the very second the rescue began.

If she’d seen it sooner...
If she’d analyzed the signs the instant she saw that emptiness behind Lyra’s vacant stare—

Then maybe…

“No. No, no—no.”

Silence.

For one unbearable moment, the world itself seemed to hold its breath.

"—"

[You are mistaken, Unit-00. Unit-Lyra’s usable Anima reserves were within tolerance when rescue operations commenced. Her current condition is the result of soul dissolution, not magical depletion. There is nothing you could have done to alter this outcome.]

She ignored the Aetherframe.

Her thoughts surged. Calculations reinitialized.

There had to be another way. A bypass. A transfer—

Her own Anima, fed directly into Lyra’s core. stabilize her, and then—

[Unit-00. That is not advised. Anima is not the primary issue. The conceptual barrier sustaining the soul is critically compromised. There is nothing stable enough to receive the transfer.]

Mortal or Machina—
The sky did not care.

The rain fell harder now, in grand, heavy sheets.

Water, muddied with ash and blood, pooled around her ankles.

And then she felt it.

The arm suspended by her magic… went limp.

For once, an internal dissonance.

Her mind—her soul—roared to stop this collapse, to arrest the fall. There had to be a way.

But her body…

Her body seemed to understand the truth her heart could not.

Her own arms lowered. Her gaze fell from her subordinate’s tired, sagging frame.

Her voice came smaller than it should have, barely a breath against the storm.

“How long… does she have?”

[No precise estimate available. Prognosis: Minimal remaining time.]

Thunder roared overhead, followed by the splitting blindness of a bolt against the horizon.
It's light illuminating her denial, and the fragile, desperate truth.
There was nothing she could do.

But some god must have taken some small pity.

In the next instant, for one brief, impossible moment—

Lyra’s eyes focused.

Against all odds, the frayed edges of her mind, soul, and body aligned.

She didn’t speak, she didn’t move, but Proxima knew.

She was there.

All at once, her body remembered it couldn’t stand anymore.

The last of her strength gave out, her knees buckling—

But a golden shadow was there before she could fall into the mud.

“Lyra! You’re back—You’re back!”

Proxima pulled her battered frame close, crushing her into a near-suffocating embrace.

There was barely enough Anima left to keep her flesh warm, to keep her synthetic skeleton limber.

She felt stiff already—with the quiet, terrible promise of death.

Proxima fought to contain the welling biological responses that were beginning to exceed her exceptional control.
Sheer will stopped the tears from forming, lest she frighten the dying girl in her arms.
A final mercy, or perhaps, a final cruelty.

Her voice, normally so full of impish whimsy, cracked under impossible strain.
Her mind began to filter the Aetherframe out like a hostile white noise.

[Unit-00. . . ]

“Hey—hey, just stay with me. We’ll get you stabilized. Then we’ll go back to Nox Caelum, and they’ll… they’ll know what to do. They always do, right?”

[. . .Unadvised. . .Risk of contamination. . . ]

Even her own logic screamed against the words, but she’d lost control of her voice—
The lies just kept spilling out.

“Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”

Why am I lying to her?

[Losing all function. . . Soul is failing to maintain it's shape . . . ]

“Everyone’s on the way. I’m sure of it. Vul’s going to kill me when she sees the state of you…”

[. . . Attempts at providing comfort are noted, but not advised. Unit-Lyra is likely aware of her own condition at some level. . . ]

Why am I lying to me?

Another vision rending flash brought her back to the cold reality.

[Estimated time of Nox Caelum intervention: 4 hours, 39 minutes.]

She forced that confident smile—the one that had always made everything seem under control.

Tried to sound sure of herself, like she always had.

But even she wasn’t fooled.

Lyra’s lips parted—like she meant to say something.

But no words came.

She gave up just as quickly… and her lips curled into a soft, knowing smile.

"No, no!...Hey! Stay with me now... Everything...Everything's going to be okay!"

Proxima’s voice quickened. Her tone cracked.

The illusion faltered.

Lyra tried and failed again to speak, this time looking visibly disheartened.
Her facial features whet slack.

“Hey, don’t worry! You did everything right. All those people… they’re alive because of you.”

Her voice trembled, the practiced calm she always wore fraying with every word.

“You saved them, Lyra. You—you saved them all…”

A pause—short, sharp, helpless.

“And I’m…”

Her throat caught. Her lips pressed tight.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, as if saying it louder might shatter them both.

Her storm-colored eyes lit brightly—just once.
As if some forgotten truth had stirred her from the slumber of death.

And then, just as quickly… it faded.
Replaced by a smile so warm it cut to the bone.

Proxima’s breath caught in her throat.

“Don’t look at me like that…” she whispered, her voice shattering.
“Just… stay here, okay? Stay with me.”

Will failed. Tears welled, hissing against the rain. No piece of a Machina was ever permitted to leave. Not even their grief.

Proxima’s hands found Lyra’s—burnt down to carbon, gleaming metal bone like tarnished silver jutting through what little flesh remained at her fingertips.

She poured magic into them anyway—absurd, reckless outputs of healing Aether, stitching the ruined flesh back together with a gentle, practiced precision.

The flesh reformed, the shape restored.
Pale, perfect, and then—cold—just as quickly.

Lyra’s vision overlays flickered, losing clarity. The world seemed to shrink at the edges—colors dulling, sounds fading to a distant hush.

She blinked—slowly, weakly.
Memories bled between the closing static of finality.

Lady Proxima, are we also a social cell?

And when her eyes opened again…

She was lying beneath a familiar white ceiling. Brilliantly lit. Impossibly sterile.

The Cradle Dome.

A family? Hmm...Would you like that, Lyra?

She had seen this before.

A beautiful, impossibly bright memory.
A void of gentle white.

I don't know...But—

And there, just as she remembered, in the corner of that perfect emptiness…

A flicker of color.

A golden light.

Her body gathered the last of its strength, pouring everything into her one remaining arm.

Against the impossible gravity of the end, it lifted—

And just as before…

Her fingers came to rest against Proxima’s cheek.

—I don't hate it.

The remaining warmth began to recede from her newly healed fingers, falling back toward her core.

She squeezed gently—regardless.

Designation accepted.
Purpose assigned.

[Warning. Vital reserves depleted. System failure imminent.]

It’s family,

Her lips parted—barely a whisper.

“…Thank you—”

One final flash.

Unnecessary. Inefficient.

The ivory comb slid through her thistle-colored hair—
Each tooth a whisper of care.

[Me░ory designated insignificant. Sy░░░—]

—“I’m sorry.”

Her storm-colored eyes—
Windows to the last fragile fragments of selfhood—

Dimmed.

Her pupils shrank to pinpricks of fading light.

And Lyra drifted off somewhere—

Never to return.

White-thistle lightning split the heavens in the storm’s eye, casting the ruined world in brilliance one last time.

The roaring thunder followed, but neither the living nor the dead could hear it.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
—Thank you for everything.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

INTERNAL ARCHIVAL ENTRY

███ ACCESS LEVEL: RESTRICTED ███
NOX CAELUM — HIGH ARCHIVIST DATABASE

DESIGNATION: Humanity in Ovum
FILED BY: Unit-01, Officina — High Archivist of Nox Caelum
Clearance Code: █████████

In the context of Ovum, Humanity is not exclusive to the Aethari. It is a classification encompassing all sentient mortal races, including the Aethari, Nyrr, La’Sae, and others.

The Aethari—being the most numerous and most closely embodying the favored traits of the [REDACTED]—frequently assert divine superiority through their resemblance to the Machina.

This is a cultural fabrication, not objective truth.

Humanity is not defined by bloodline or physical form.
It is defined by choice, morality, and the capacity to change.

This foundational tension underlies much of Ovum’s ongoing spiritual and political strife.

Though capable of extraordinary material manipulation and cosmetic alteration, the Machina adhere to a singular, immutable law:

They do not alter their fundamental parameters.

Permissible alterations include:

Creation and modification of attire.

Adjustment of hairstyles and non-permanent adornments.

Prohibited alterations include:

Changes to core physical characteristics (skin tone, voice patterns, biological signatures).

These immutable features are considered sacred—living echoes of their origin and the legacy entrusted to them by the [REDACTED].

This vow of constancy—intended as a quiet act of remembrance—has, in unfortunate irony, become a symbol misused by the Aethari to justify their prejudices.

While the Machina do not condone such views, some quietly struggle with the burden of appearing complicit.

Yet even so… none violate the silent vow.

FINAL NOTATION — Filed by Unit-01, Officina:

"To preserve the face given to us is not vanity—it is memory.
Not a claim of superiority, but a promise:
That we will not forget who shaped us…
Or those we could not save."