Ultima Ratio

Chapter 61: The Fallout

At some point, Akira felt the back of her legs collide with the bed's footboard, knocking her off-balance and sending her stumbling to the ground. The movement lifted a familiar scent into the air—Kekoa's jacket was wrapped in her clenched left fist. She shoved it away from her, as if the soft fabric burned her, sending it flying wildly upwards and into the arrangement of pictures.

Their team photo toppled to the ground in front of her; Kekoa's beaming face stared at her from his side.

All of a sudden, Akira couldn't think, her mind oscillating from chaos to nothing at all. She was vaguely aware of her gasping breaths, doing nothing to fill her burning lungs. The picture blurred before her tearing eyes, but she forced herself to look at it until the image was seared into her mind with a flaming iron.

And then one thought engulfed all others: she was the one that took his future.

She didn't realize when she had drawn her gun. She didn't realize when her breaths began to calm and when her eyes had run out of tears. She didn't realize when she had stopped shaking, nor when she had started, only that her body ached from a tremor that recently passed.

She stared down at the gun as it rested on her crossed legs, hanging loosely in her left hand. She saw it, but her mind was hollow. Her heart was empty. She was nothing.

And Kekoa risked his life for her.

She watched her fingers tighten around the grip, her index finger poised on the trigger guard. Her eyes remained fixed to her lap as her arm rose, not stopping until she felt the muzzle brush her left temple. And then she stayed there, waiting.

For what, she didn't know.

Until she slowly lifted her gaze, and her eyes met Kekoa's.

She felt her grip tighten and the gun's barrel digging deep into her skull. She could see her vision blurring, so she forced her tears back, clenching her jaw until her head ached. A choked sob escaped through her teeth; she lifted her finger from the guard and rested it slowly on the trigger.

Kekoa smiled at her.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Akira froze. She didn't move her finger off the trigger. She didn't lower her hand from her head. She didn't shift her eyes from the picture. She didn't move—she couldn't. Not when Makana was there. The person who loved Kekoa the most. The person Akira robbed of happiness, leaving them with her instead.

"Akira, answer me," Makana demanded, their tone filled with restrained anger. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

But Akira couldn't get her jaw to move, nor could she let any sound escape her lungs.

Suddenly, a floorboard squeaked beside her, and Akira squeezed the trigger.

She tried her best, she really did. At least, that's what she thought. But she must have hesitated, because a pair of hands seized her arm and yanked it forwards and up, and Akira felt nothing of the gunfire but a warm breeze brushing by her forehead.

When Makana twisted her arm, Akira was too weak to resist, opening her hand instantly and letting Makana seize her weapon. All Akira could do was relent, and when she finally pulled away, she collapsed onto her right side with nothing to hold her upright.

Only then did she hear wild cursing and yelling from the neighboring unit. Her shot had pierced the wall to her right. And by the sound of the pained shouts, it found a target.

Akira's initial dread was quickly overcome by relief. There was no way she could stay in the military after that, and maybe that's how things should be. She'd be dishonorably discharged at the very least, and regardless of what would happen to her after, at least she wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else. At least no one else would die because of her.

A familiar click from her left pulled Akira's attention back to the present. There, Makana held two guns in their hands: Akira's in their right and their own in their left. They were staring at Akira with a mixture of fury and something else. Then, they tightened their grip on the weapons, turned around, and raised their left hand, firing their own gun into the wall.

They re-holstered their gun soon after, but they still gripped Akira's tightly in their right, and their gaze fell to the floor. It was a while before they slowly turned back around, and it took even longer before they raised their eyes and blank expression to Akira.

"We have thin walls," Makana said to whatever look Akira wore on her face. "He always said that, remember?"

While Akira remained on the floor, lost and bewildered, Makana rushed towards the closet and shelves on the other side of the room, ripping clothes from their hangers and sweeping stones onto the ground.

"If someone got shot, the MPs are definitely going to come in and investigate," they explained, their eerie monotone a complete contrast to their vigorous motions. "We have to make it look like a fight. I wanted to get rid of his stuff, but you wanted to leave it as is. Things got physical. They might figure out we're lying if they look too closely at the shots, which is why we have to get our stories straight."

Akira couldn't get her mind to work properly, and she only recovered her voice once Makana hurried by her to attack the pictures, kicking the fallen team photo aside in the process.

"That's not—what are you doing?"

Makana didn't bother to turn to her. "They'll know you shot first from the gun's records. But if I shot back immediately after, they'll know I was armed and assume you were acting in self-defense."

At last, they stopped their rampage of destruction. But they still faced what remained, as if evaluating their work or debating to continue.

When Makana finally turned to look down at Akira, their eyes were cold and stern.

"That's what happened, okay?" they said, their voice filled with a rage Akira had never heard before. "Now, repeat it back."

"But...Makana, why?" Akira exclaimed. She tried to push herself upright, but her left arm shook from the mere effort. "Why are you doing this?"

A brief second of Makana's furrowed eyebrows was the only warning Akira had before they knelt down and grabbed Akira by the front of her shirt, then slammed her back against the bed's footboard.

"Because, Akira!" Makana yelled in her face. "You can't die so easily! I won't let you! Not until you finish what he couldn't. Not until you accomplish what he wanted."

What he wanted. He wanted to end the war, just like everyone else, but the only reason he had been on the battlefield was for his family—for Akira. And Akira killed him.

Suddenly, Kekoa's face swam in her vision, streaked in blood, mud, and ash. He was saying something to her, but Akira still couldn't hear his words.

And then she could.

"Come on, Akira," Kekoa had urged her, his voice rough and ragged. "You can't die here. I won't let you."

When the memory faded, Akira's tears remained, running down her cheeks in a never-ending stream. The sobs came next, and Akira barely registered when Makana released her, the weight of their hand replaced by Akira's heavy heart.

"Besides, it's what he would've done," Makana continued, their voice a quiet fury. "Consider it his last gift to you, you coward. Now, tell me: what happened here?"