Disclaimer: I do not own any of the properties contained therein, this is a fan work. Please support the official releases. … what even is an “official release” now?!
Notice: This is going to be a dark fucking story. Why? Because I wanted to write it. It’s also going to be a ridiculous mess of crossovers and completely irrelevant takes on countless different properties and some historical events. Any resemblance to properties’ original canons or the like are purely accidental. It’s also probably going to EXTREMELY piss off fans of a bunch of these properties, because I don’t know the first thing about any of it- I just wanted to write it. Them’s the breaks.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Shit tons of references to suicide, self harm, maiming, substance abuse, and whatever dark thing I think fits at the time. I’ll try to warn per chapter when things come up, but it’s probably just better to assume you don’t want to read this story if you’re in a fragile mindset. I’m writing this while listening to SHIZUME SHIZUME [Counter Raid Another D] for fuck’s sakes.
IN THE DEPTHS
PROLOGUE
THE DARK DOWN BELOW
The white-haired woman smiles, and against her better judgment, she smiles back. She watches the way those long locks sway from under the wide-brimmed hat as her hand is held and she’s pulled along the beach. She laughs enough for the both of them, it’s a beautiful summer day, and all she can think is that- for once- she gets to enjoy the peace and quiet. She’s young then, she remembers what it’s like to fall in love. To think these walks on the beach, these brief, unforgettable moments of happiness--
Only start to go up in flame soon. Even as they consume the white-haired woman. As she sinks in the shadows beneath, as her hand reaches out- grasping, struggling to hold on as hard as she can to the point she feels her fingers bleed.
Even as her arms fall off at the elbow. Even as those gentle fingers slip from her grasp, even as she falls onto her knees and wails. Screams like a banshee, lets rage overwhelm her like she’d never known before. Claws bloodily at the shadows that took her. She shouts like a madwoman, flails like a child. Begs to not lose her, not like this. Not so soon. Not when she sees something more than what she has.
Licking wounds physical and emotional, she sets wrath-filled eyes upon the enemy.
And dies inside completely.
She awakes with a wheezing rasp, she can’t find the power in her lungs to scream like she used to. Cold metal blankets her face, and she can see through the gaps in the robotic appendages that the sun has barely risen in the sky outside of the compound, mocking in its brilliance even as she shakily rakes the nightstand with a hand and ignored the crumpled state of the pack as she dropped a cigarette from it into her hand and tried to manage it between a set of metallic fingers as her other hand clamored on the nightstand once more. She brushed aside her glasses in favor of the butane torch lighter which she shakily brought up to light her smoke. Sweat-matted graying blonde hair was brushed out of her face as she took her first drag and pulled through a good fifth of the cigarette before she finally let out a trembling breath that sent a cloud of menthol-tinted smoke float it’s way up to escape out of the nearby window’s small crack.
Even as her senses started to restore themselves, she reached for the nightstand again, hand brushing over the familiar curl of her sidearm, hefting it up in a hand and routinely- mechanically- sliding the magazine from the well and checking. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. She then adjusted her hold on the wood-paneled grip, grasping the slide for the pistol and cocking it back. Eight.
Against her better judgment, her metallic fingers shifted on the grip as she fed the magazine back into the well of the pistol. For a few moments, she could only stare at the weapon in her hand. Click.
She took another drag of her cigarette, breath heavy and shaking. Klak.
She brought the barrel up against her temple, rasping, trembling.
She took a deep breath, enough to let out another cloud of menthol-heavy smoke.
And slowly, achingly, put the gun back onto the nightstand, flicking the safety back on with a click. Not today, either. As she clawed for her glasses and slid them into her hand, she slowly fumbled out of bed and moved into the adjoining bathroom.
Turning on the faucet, she splashed water onto her face before sliding her glasses on. The round frames settled into place and the world became that little bit more clear as she looked at herself in the mirror. Long, messy graying blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and down to the small of her back save for the sweat-streaked bangs that still clung to her temples. Tear troughs broke apart otherwise pretty features to accent the dark circles under her deeply sea blue eyes. Her navy-blue tank-top was clinging to her skin caked in a cold sweat, her dog-tags almost disappearing into her cleavage from the leather being stuck against her breast, the UNSC-branded sweatpants felt heavy on her legs. By the time she noticed her cigarette was nothing more than a butt, she could only sigh and flick it into the disposal. Despite her desire for another, she instead moved over towards the shower.
______________________
In the waking hours of the Cold War, only a few years after the end of the global conflict known as World War II, besides an arms race to procure and produce a nuclear arsenal, a more secretive series of experiments were being conducted worldwide. Technology used to produce the humanoid ships of before was reverse-engineered and expanded upon- splitting off into the Japanese GUNDAM initiative, the global creation of humanoid combatants soon to be termed “T-DOLLS”, and- of course- advancements in many different scientific fields quietly hidden away from the rest of the world as it felt like one more push would roll the clock’s minute hand over unto midnight. In the wake of such fears, the founding of the United Nations Security Council and its charter could hardly be seen as clandestine in comparison.
But the actions of the UNSC were not limited to public status. From the best and brightest of the world, they drew in veterans, soldiers, scientists- including those working on the newest hotbed of the world- A.I.
Mankind advanced at an incredible pace, coming into the 1960s with the common people unaware that their fantasies of futuristic, science-fiction materials such as A.I., thinking and feeling machines- androids, and oh so much more were not fantasy at all.
_________________________
She shrugged into her button-up shirt, uniform pants, and slung on her shoulder holster with her sidearm fixed before looking disdainfully at the disorderly pile of neck-ties- most black, but a few in red or white. Rather than fight with them, she pulled her double-breasted coat from the hanger by the door and dusted the shoulders of it. Noting the triplet stars and the UNSC badge adorning a bicep, she glanced over its rich navy blue color and began to pull it on an arm at a time. Leaving its front open, she pulled on her leather gloves and began to affix her hair into a more appropriate looped ponytail. As she did so, a knocking came to her door.
“Ma’am?” A small, feminine, voice queried, “Mail delivery.”
She paused long enough to press her palm to the door and slide it open, noting the woman on the other side. Blonde hair and a concerned look on her face, even as she uncomfortably handed over two letters and an envelope. Letting out a quiet, ghost-like “Thank you, Nine-Eight.” She ignored how the T-DOLL barely managed to snap a salute before hurrying down the hall. As she finished affixing her ponytail, she moved to gather her boots and set them by her bedside, gathering another cigarette from her pack before putting it into her coat’s breast pocket, and began to light the menthol cigarette while she looked through the arrivals. Paperwork. She mused, tossing the envelope onto the nightstand. Garbage. She hummed the first letter into the nearby waste bin, ignoring the brief rattle of bottles.
The third, however, sent a shiver down her spine. Barely able to stomach opening it when she saw the name attached. By the time she’d finished, the sheet of paper fell to the floor unceremoniously.
_____________________
Dear Big Sister,
I hope your time in the UNSC is going well. It’s been many years since I last saw you. I apologize for the abruptness, but as I have taken up port in Europe, I . . .
I wished to speak to you. I realize you are likely busy, but I have few I can turn to anymore. I don’t want to bring up old wounds, but--
I swear, I have seen her on the seas. It can’t be anyone else. My older sister is out there, somewhere. I absolutely don’t want to give you false hope, not after what you have been through, but I’m certain of it. I’ve put a reconnaissance photo in with the letter, it was taken a month ago by someone I trust- who is now badly damaged.
I’ll be in Portsmouth in the United Kingdoms for a few weeks, with some of the Royal Navy. She’s out there. Please, help me find her.
Ever Your Sister,
Enterprise
And on that grainy picture, was a silver-haired woman in a tattered dress, cresting waves. The same face that had haunted her nightmares for over fifteen years. She sat blankly for minutes, the picture clenched in robotic fingers, until she finally began to pull her boots on and- with an almost breathless air- started to run towards the brass’ office.
She needed to get to England.
Notice: This is going to be a dark fucking story. Why? Because I wanted to write it. It’s also going to be a ridiculous mess of crossovers and completely irrelevant takes on countless different properties and some historical events. Any resemblance to properties’ original canons or the like are purely accidental. It’s also probably going to EXTREMELY piss off fans of a bunch of these properties, because I don’t know the first thing about any of it- I just wanted to write it. Them’s the breaks.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Shit tons of references to suicide, self harm, maiming, substance abuse, and whatever dark thing I think fits at the time. I’ll try to warn per chapter when things come up, but it’s probably just better to assume you don’t want to read this story if you’re in a fragile mindset. I’m writing this while listening to SHIZUME SHIZUME [Counter Raid Another D] for fuck’s sakes.
Somewhere, over a great distance, a pair of eyes met. One was tired, despondent. The eyes of someone who died a long time ago. The other were like flames in the night, lit with fury and hatred. A ghost come back to life to wreak terrible vengeance.
It was a shame that once upon a time, those eyes stared into one another’s with longing. She whispered with broken, chapped lips, “You failed me.”
And without as much as a rebuttal, the corpse simply nodded. She had.
It was a shame that once upon a time, those eyes stared into one another’s with longing. She whispered with broken, chapped lips, “You failed me.”
And without as much as a rebuttal, the corpse simply nodded. She had.
IN THE DEPTHS
PROLOGUE
THE DARK DOWN BELOW
The white-haired woman smiles, and against her better judgment, she smiles back. She watches the way those long locks sway from under the wide-brimmed hat as her hand is held and she’s pulled along the beach. She laughs enough for the both of them, it’s a beautiful summer day, and all she can think is that- for once- she gets to enjoy the peace and quiet. She’s young then, she remembers what it’s like to fall in love. To think these walks on the beach, these brief, unforgettable moments of happiness--
Only start to go up in flame soon. Even as they consume the white-haired woman. As she sinks in the shadows beneath, as her hand reaches out- grasping, struggling to hold on as hard as she can to the point she feels her fingers bleed.
Even as her arms fall off at the elbow. Even as those gentle fingers slip from her grasp, even as she falls onto her knees and wails. Screams like a banshee, lets rage overwhelm her like she’d never known before. Claws bloodily at the shadows that took her. She shouts like a madwoman, flails like a child. Begs to not lose her, not like this. Not so soon. Not when she sees something more than what she has.
Licking wounds physical and emotional, she sets wrath-filled eyes upon the enemy.
And dies inside completely.
She awakes with a wheezing rasp, she can’t find the power in her lungs to scream like she used to. Cold metal blankets her face, and she can see through the gaps in the robotic appendages that the sun has barely risen in the sky outside of the compound, mocking in its brilliance even as she shakily rakes the nightstand with a hand and ignored the crumpled state of the pack as she dropped a cigarette from it into her hand and tried to manage it between a set of metallic fingers as her other hand clamored on the nightstand once more. She brushed aside her glasses in favor of the butane torch lighter which she shakily brought up to light her smoke. Sweat-matted graying blonde hair was brushed out of her face as she took her first drag and pulled through a good fifth of the cigarette before she finally let out a trembling breath that sent a cloud of menthol-tinted smoke float it’s way up to escape out of the nearby window’s small crack.
Even as her senses started to restore themselves, she reached for the nightstand again, hand brushing over the familiar curl of her sidearm, hefting it up in a hand and routinely- mechanically- sliding the magazine from the well and checking. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. She then adjusted her hold on the wood-paneled grip, grasping the slide for the pistol and cocking it back. Eight.
Against her better judgment, her metallic fingers shifted on the grip as she fed the magazine back into the well of the pistol. For a few moments, she could only stare at the weapon in her hand. Click.
She took another drag of her cigarette, breath heavy and shaking. Klak.
She brought the barrel up against her temple, rasping, trembling.
She took a deep breath, enough to let out another cloud of menthol-heavy smoke.
And slowly, achingly, put the gun back onto the nightstand, flicking the safety back on with a click. Not today, either. As she clawed for her glasses and slid them into her hand, she slowly fumbled out of bed and moved into the adjoining bathroom.
Turning on the faucet, she splashed water onto her face before sliding her glasses on. The round frames settled into place and the world became that little bit more clear as she looked at herself in the mirror. Long, messy graying blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and down to the small of her back save for the sweat-streaked bangs that still clung to her temples. Tear troughs broke apart otherwise pretty features to accent the dark circles under her deeply sea blue eyes. Her navy-blue tank-top was clinging to her skin caked in a cold sweat, her dog-tags almost disappearing into her cleavage from the leather being stuck against her breast, the UNSC-branded sweatpants felt heavy on her legs. By the time she noticed her cigarette was nothing more than a butt, she could only sigh and flick it into the disposal. Despite her desire for another, she instead moved over towards the shower.
______________________
In the waking hours of the Cold War, only a few years after the end of the global conflict known as World War II, besides an arms race to procure and produce a nuclear arsenal, a more secretive series of experiments were being conducted worldwide. Technology used to produce the humanoid ships of before was reverse-engineered and expanded upon- splitting off into the Japanese GUNDAM initiative, the global creation of humanoid combatants soon to be termed “T-DOLLS”, and- of course- advancements in many different scientific fields quietly hidden away from the rest of the world as it felt like one more push would roll the clock’s minute hand over unto midnight. In the wake of such fears, the founding of the United Nations Security Council and its charter could hardly be seen as clandestine in comparison.
But the actions of the UNSC were not limited to public status. From the best and brightest of the world, they drew in veterans, soldiers, scientists- including those working on the newest hotbed of the world- A.I.
Mankind advanced at an incredible pace, coming into the 1960s with the common people unaware that their fantasies of futuristic, science-fiction materials such as A.I., thinking and feeling machines- androids, and oh so much more were not fantasy at all.
_________________________
She shrugged into her button-up shirt, uniform pants, and slung on her shoulder holster with her sidearm fixed before looking disdainfully at the disorderly pile of neck-ties- most black, but a few in red or white. Rather than fight with them, she pulled her double-breasted coat from the hanger by the door and dusted the shoulders of it. Noting the triplet stars and the UNSC badge adorning a bicep, she glanced over its rich navy blue color and began to pull it on an arm at a time. Leaving its front open, she pulled on her leather gloves and began to affix her hair into a more appropriate looped ponytail. As she did so, a knocking came to her door.
“Ma’am?” A small, feminine, voice queried, “Mail delivery.”
She paused long enough to press her palm to the door and slide it open, noting the woman on the other side. Blonde hair and a concerned look on her face, even as she uncomfortably handed over two letters and an envelope. Letting out a quiet, ghost-like “Thank you, Nine-Eight.” She ignored how the T-DOLL barely managed to snap a salute before hurrying down the hall. As she finished affixing her ponytail, she moved to gather her boots and set them by her bedside, gathering another cigarette from her pack before putting it into her coat’s breast pocket, and began to light the menthol cigarette while she looked through the arrivals. Paperwork. She mused, tossing the envelope onto the nightstand. Garbage. She hummed the first letter into the nearby waste bin, ignoring the brief rattle of bottles.
The third, however, sent a shiver down her spine. Barely able to stomach opening it when she saw the name attached. By the time she’d finished, the sheet of paper fell to the floor unceremoniously.
_____________________
Dear Big Sister,
I hope your time in the UNSC is going well. It’s been many years since I last saw you. I apologize for the abruptness, but as I have taken up port in Europe, I . . .
I wished to speak to you. I realize you are likely busy, but I have few I can turn to anymore. I don’t want to bring up old wounds, but--
I swear, I have seen her on the seas. It can’t be anyone else. My older sister is out there, somewhere. I absolutely don’t want to give you false hope, not after what you have been through, but I’m certain of it. I’ve put a reconnaissance photo in with the letter, it was taken a month ago by someone I trust- who is now badly damaged.
I’ll be in Portsmouth in the United Kingdoms for a few weeks, with some of the Royal Navy. She’s out there. Please, help me find her.
Ever Your Sister,
Enterprise
And on that grainy picture, was a silver-haired woman in a tattered dress, cresting waves. The same face that had haunted her nightmares for over fifteen years. She sat blankly for minutes, the picture clenched in robotic fingers, until she finally began to pull her boots on and- with an almost breathless air- started to run towards the brass’ office.
She needed to get to England.
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