Info
Made by Red-eyes Dragoon and here's my author page ig dragoon
Thank you for reading!
Originally based on smile-dog, I decided to make it more. Now it's an allegory for a very hard subject. Wanted to make sure this was treated with its proper respect.
Greenlighted by the amazing: Liurnia
{$title-component}PTS:
4I
{$title-class}Class:
4 Ailment
{$title-sub}Area of Effect: Entities
Infrequent
{$title-one}Frequency
7-14 Days
{$title-two}Duration
Lethal
{$title-three}Intensity
Inevitable
Don't open it.
SLAM
You bash the beer bottle down onto the table—causing the table to shake under the force of your bitterness and the stress of all the papers piled up on top of it. A couple of loose sheets scatter from their stacks as you do this, and your U.E.C. personnel dossier slides softly in front of you. A younger you stares into your eyes, a hardened expression characterizing its face; next to it is your bottle, intact despite your actions, and it has that same type of expression reflecting off its brown glass. Except one has the determination to kill whatever is in its way, and the other is so tired that it would forfeit its gun just for a chance to let Modelo wet its lips again.
Long training hours, raiding entities, and patrolling the day away, leaving you with little time to yourself. For a moment, you ponder the reason you even joined in the first place. Did you want to fight entities? Or look badass? Maybe you hated the M.E.G. for whatever reason. That beat of forgetfulness was washed away when she came to your mind.
You reach for a letter on your nightstand, its edges curled—the paper worn as if it’s been handled far too many times. You hesitate, your fingers brushing against the envelope. There’s a faint, almost imperceptible chill that seems to seep from the paper. You gently smile down at the gaunt letter, indulging in the memories.
You'd met her a while ago at a recruitment stand, Ms. Coraline Hawkins—though most others at the U.E.C. knew her as the ever-confident Sergeant Hawkins. It's no wonder why they put their fragile lives in her hands so easily; she could convince an entity to help the cause if she wanted.
Every word had substance to it. It was a call to every person, though you felt targeted by the words. You could even recall the first words you heard from her like it was yesterday:
"I know it may seem morally difficult—coming into the heart of the entities’ land and taking from it what we need. It may even sound like an act of destruction, but this is a battle for our survival. We’ve sought peace with the natives, yet only met pain and suffering in return. In the end, survival is not just a choice; it is a necessity, and we must be the ones to shape our destiny. This is why the U.E.C. stands firm in its resolve. We are ready to do what is required to ensure that no wanderer ever has to live in fear again. Our mission is clear: we fight not out of malice, but out of the unwavering belief that the future belongs to those who dare to stand strong. So, I call upon you today—join our cause. Be the force that ensures safety and freedom for all. There is no limit to what we can achieve when survival is on the line. Together, we will rise above the challenges and prove that no wanderer will ever fear again."
Most passersby neglected the speech entirely, their minds too preoccupied to heed the call. They moved on, blissfully unaware of the gravity of her words. You, however, couldn’t shake the pull of her voice. The fractured, chaotic worlds you wandered—strewn together in wild, untamed formations—demanded survival of the fittest. And even now, despite all the sacrifices made, it felt like an endless battle. But one you had to fight, no matter the cost.
Your fingers linger over the envelope, tracing its edges absentmindedly. There’s a strange, undeniable weight in your touch—a heaviness, like the paper itself carries the weight of her last wishes.
It all happened so fast. Hawkins introduced you to the U.E.C., and in her presence, everything seemed so certain, so clear. At the boot camp, she was every inch the drill sergeant, pushing you to your limits, demanding more than you ever thought you had. But there was something about her—her sharp gaze, her words that cut through the exhaustion—that made it all bearable. Even when the world around you felt like it was slipping away, there was a comfort in knowing she was there, guiding you.
It was ironic, really. For the first time in as long as you could remember, you felt seen. You’d always been told that your mother died the moment you were born. That it was your fault. There was an unfamiliar warmth—a strange, comforting presence that made you feel like, for once, you weren’t so alone. In a way, she had become the mother you never had.
As history does, it happens again. IT SHATTERS.
A puddle of alcohol and tears forms as you drop the glass bottle. “Your fault.” The words drill into your skull, looping endlessly like a broken tape recorder—stuck, relentless, inescapable. Was it your fault she started pulling away? Was it your fault her laughter faded, day by day? Was it your fault you were the last person she saw—the last face before she was gone?
To everyone else, yes. To everyone, you are the problem. You were the cause. Maybe that's why they overworked you; why they used you when you were at your weakest. You hear your therapist’s voice in your head, reminding yourself of control. Your shaking hands shake against the table as you inhale, hold, and exhale. Again. And again. Until the room stops spinning.
Your fingers trail the envelope. You need to know. You need to know what happened and recognize that opening it is the best thing to do. Maybe then you may finally move on. Tearing a small opening in the packaging.
The paper is fine, soft almost; it reminds you of her warm presence. You unfold the letter, revealing a short, yet consequential letter:
"I'm so sorry. To everyone at the U.E.C. All of you meant so much to me, and if I could live like this once again, I'd be with all of you. You were all so kind to me. So precious to me; in some ways you were my secondary children. But my real child is calling. So I must leave you with this: if I don't see you, know you were the best thing I've ever had an-"
Knock…knock…knock
It comes from your door—likely a U.E.C. officer coming to take you for a patrol. You try and hide the letter as it crumbles to dust—are the effects of the alcohol kicking in; doesn't matter. You pick yourself up, stumbling to the doorway.
As you open the door, your eyes meet a woman's. Her eyes exuded a confidence you've only ever seen once. You blink for a moment, letting your eyes acclimate to the blurry eyesight.
The woman places a hand on your shoulder—a reassuring hand you'd only really ever felt once before, from her. You blink faster; tear puddles form on the ground beneath you as you recognize her.
It's her.
She reaches for a hug, speaking in a tone of voice you hadn't quite heard from her before, "I can see someone around here missed me. I can tell you are unwell. Just know it was never your fault. Nothing was ever your fault—you can't control others, after all. I never should have left you like that; I'm so, so sorry."
Your voice barely makes it past your lips, but you nod. It was always her choice to leave, just as it is yours now.
Her smile dims before speaking again, "Well, you don't have to worry. You can come with me, in search of my child if you'd like. Though the journey is arduous, I know we can do it together. Just, spread the word you're leaving."
Without even a second thought, you nod. Rushing through your house to find the nearest paper, envelope, and pen. The sloppy, messy handwriting doesn't matter—nothing does as long as you have that slice of happiness once taken from you. You look at the letter, satisfied:
"I'm so sorry. To everyone at the U.E.C. All of you meant so much to me, and if I could live like this once again, I'd be with all of you. You were all so encouraging to me. So precious to me; in some ways you were my secondary family. But now, my mother is calling. I can only leave you with this: know that for a portion of my life, you were the best thing I've had. Despite the missions, despite everything, you were my family. And I hope, in some way, you'll understand why I have to go. Goodbye, all."
As you finish the letter, a light smile crosses your face. Things are better this way—you're sure of it. Maybe they'll even be happier in some ways. Maybe, now, you can finally rest. The letter flutters in the dim light, the last trace of who you were, calling to someone who will never see you again. You take a breath—a final, steadying breath—before stepping forward.
The world tilts. The cold rushes in. And then—nothing.
