Ultima Ratio

Chapter 61: The Fallout

When Akira awoke, she was in the base hospital with a laundry list of injuries and a weight off one of her shoulders; her right arm had been amputated. While it was a strange, imbalanced feeling, she knew it wasn't the cause for the vacant hole within her chest.

According to her hysterical dad and a withered Sam, she had been unconscious for over two weeks. No matter how much Akira argued with them, they insisted they didn't know anything except that Akira had been on a confidential mission. That, and that none of her many other visitors were familiar faces, but each wore heavily decorated uniforms and commended her for her sacrifice and quick thinking.

After another two days with no explanation and more underserved lauds of praise, Akira summoned her team. As unworthy as she was of such authority, her need for answers was greater, like a stifling blanket over her face that slowly suffocated her. When her team finally filed in, a quick count of the lowered heads hinted at her worst fear: they lost someone.

During their escape, Concordia attacked out of nowhere. The capital, the deadliest part of the country, had been waiting for Akira's team to fly into their range and fired exactly from the horizon. The transport plane's shields were no match for Concordia's primary offensive lasers, and the back end of their aircraft was disintegrated, along with a majority of their supplies.

They were forced to make an emergency landing, and while all of them survived the trip back to land, there was no telling how long that would be the case. Not only were they stranded and nearly defenseless with no supplies, but Akira was down, her right arm mangled and unsalvageable, and the rest of her half dead. Their medic gave her a survival rate of 42 percent, assuming the unlikely scenario that she would receive immediate medical attention.

Everyone knew what the potential options were. They all thought it, but no one was willing to say it. But Kekoa could. And he, while barely functional himself, was still Akira's second-in-command.

He had pulled rank on them. With Akira incapacitated, Kekoa assumed leadership as the next in line of their hierarchy. He ordered them to focus their remaining resources on saving her instead of him, and in the heat of the moment, they did what good soldiers did best: followed orders.

Kekoa died eleven minutes later, four minutes before backup arrived.

Akira couldn't blame her team, no matter how much they begged her to amidst their tearful and choked apologies. She couldn't do anything like that, not when she knew exactly where the fault lay.

There was a single point of failure, and it was her.

***

Akira was discharged a week later, but she didn't tell anyone. Instead, there was something she had to do first.

She went home.

She knew it was a bad idea. Before that mission, their three-bedroom apartment was one of the only places she could return to and forget about the hell outside. Now, she felt like the world was just barely held together, one tap away from shattering into pieces. She needed something to prove to her that everything would be alright. Realistically, she knew her home—their home—would no longer be the place she thought it was. But she wanted to hope; she needed to.

By the time she reached their apartment, she would have broken through the front door if she had the strength; it didn't help that she wasn't familiar with unlocking it with her left hand. But when she finally opened it, her urgency came to a standstill.

It was like nothing had changed. The kitchen was tidied, just how Makana liked it. It was there that they would spend hours perfecting a tedious, intricate recipe. These occasions would infuriate Kekoa, especially whenever he wanted to whip up a quick batch of cookies. Their resulting "Kitchen Reservations" list was still displayed on the refrigerator; Kekoa had a spot saved for the Tuesday prior.