act47side

You were never one to stop walking, Nasti. Once you've decided on a path, you'll see it through to the end.

Don't stop now. Don't let me take away the meaning of what you've accomplished. My life may have had no meaning, but there must be some meaning to all that you've done...

If this tree is the new abode for the souls of the Sarkaz, then let me be its first denizen.

I gave you a home twenty years ago. Now, you've given me one.

When the children stand around the tree to listen to its voice... I want it to be your laughter that they hear, not your weeping.

And I want to remember your smile when I think of you...

Nasti, my child...

I've had good memories... memories that made me smile...

I remember... it was...

She cannot finish the sentence.

Half a year has passed since she realized that she was beginning to forget, and fled her hut under the Roosting Tree, following Nasti's trail all the way to Columbia.

A journey far too long for a dying Banshee.

It was not the reunion that she had hoped for. But as the obsession that carried her to this point falls apart, death has finally caught up to her.

Countless scenes fade from Væla's memories, and become vivid before Nasti's eyes.

The Banshee's oar lies still in her hands.

She hears a lament. The king who painted the same dream with her has passed, in a faraway place that she cannot see.

The Banshee stands still beneath the Roosting Tree.

She spent three months witnessing her kin fall victim to oblivion and become an empty husk, the price they paid for her lies, and there was nothing she could do about it.

The Banshee kneels still on the floor of a dilapidated house.

She promised to deliver a Gargoyle who helped her in the past, but all that was left was the tip of a petrified tail.

The Banshee's sorrow and regrets are infinite, flowing past Nasti like a river without end.

After all of these memories have faded, there is one last thing that is left. One tiny, brief fragment.

The Banshee is putting a child to bed, a girl whom she brought back to the Convallis.

Her eyes are filled with fatigue as she looks at her old friend, but all she would talk about is how lovely the child is.

She used to be a child, once.

She opens her eyes and sees this land for the first time. She does not know whether it is good or bad.

But Nasti can see that she is smiling.

Time passes through the Banshee, like the wind across the surface of Mist Lake, leaving nothing behind.

Væla fades away into the sky.

A leaf gently drifts down.

I'll catch you, and remember you...

Mother.

Nasti catches the leaf gently, as her mother once picked a leaf from the tree for her.

...One does not need a bone whistle to accompany a smile.

After a long silence, she blows a tune with the leaf.

Like threads, the notes weave the gentlest incantation that she has ever weaved.

Be at peace.

I'd like to make a bet with you, Miss Wilson.

How many sky stocks do you think young Pavard, that honest and serious secretary of mine, will go and buy once he delivers the balloons?

Zero. The end of the line at the stock exchange was two blocks away when I came.

The last time I saw this level of excitement in the District was when the Department of Defense decided to send troops to Bolívar. I still have one of those cactus hats in my office.

People went into the streets wearing those hats, shouting slogans and turning the veins of the D.C. green.

I haven't seen those hats in a long time.

No one wants their taxes turn into guns, not since Robert McKesson and his feat of 'saving Bolívar from the Bolívarians' became the butt of evening radio's jokes.

Everybody wears a propeller on their heads now.

A blue propeller hat that spins. It's awfully noisy, to tell the truth.

I hear there's a new version that automatically plays that rock song every Columbian knows when the propeller spins.

I grew up listening to 'Terra Bless Us' and 'Cityway 66'. I once thought that the song of our time would be 'Goodnight, Arc-01.'

Turns out it would be 'Good Night, Kristen Wright.'

The obsession that Columbians have with the future will never change, but the one they're following seems to have changed while we weren't looking.

Kristen never intended to become an idol.

The Department of Defense never intended to become a joke.

It never occurred to any of us, when we raised a glass to the failure of the DOD, that it wouldn't be just the DOD who loses credibility.

The people listening to late-night radio over a pot of mac & cheese don't differentiate between the DOD, Congress, or the cabinet, after all.

As you said yourself, these days, the masses seem more willing to take inspiration from a legend or miracle.

Sometimes, however, we need to turn their gazes back to the soil that nurtures miracle.

Back to Columbia.

Finally, we lay our eyes on Propeller Paradise. Not a day has passed that we don't think about it, ever since that fateful night two years ago...

The synchronized aerial turn that we just witnessed is a testament to the skill of our test pilots, even in times of peace.

Now, Propeller Paradise reveals its miracles to use, this wonderful spectacle of the Columbian Dream—

Demonstrating that—

Declaring that—

Silence.

Every media outlet, every channel, voices rich or coarse or sharp or warm, all fall silent at the same time.

The entrepreneurs and investors on the streets, along with thousands upon thousands of ordinary people, fall silent too.

For a few minutes, the only sound in Max, D.C. is the sound of their propeller hats.

The rustling sound they make, like falling leaves, is the only accompaniment to this spectacular disaster, witnessed by millions in the capital.

...'turn their gazes back to the soil that nurtures miracle.'

Back to Columbia.

A terrorist attack?

...A premeditated act of terror.

Investigators confirm that the explosion was caused by a batch of Arts weapons smuggled in disguised as general parts.

The weapons can be traced to numerous centrum nations, including...

Kazimierz, which has long since abandoned the ways of chivalry, and Leithanien, the ancient nation of casters, have used their despicable tricks against us.

The voice of progress falls silent today. It is the darkest day in Columbia's eighty years of history...

The nation is waiting for me to speak.

I should tell them: 'They have destroyed more than just an exhibition; they have destroyed the hopes and dreams that every Columbian entrusted to it.'

I should tell them: 'This shameless, heinous act was committed by those who envy our splendor, trying to make our people timid and afraid.

I should tell them: 'But they're doomed to fail. Columbia will never be defeated. No conspiracy can stop the Lamp and Star from shining bright in the west.'

And then, Columbians will eagerly turn their taxes into guns again?

Everything that they fervently devoted to Propeller Paradise, all those sky stocks, and the spinning propeller hats, will turn into shields and swords.

When the smoke clears, the empty sky will be more inflammatory than any speech.

The winds on the wilderness of Columbia have never stopped, mercilessly blowing away the smoke and cloud that surrounded Propeller Paradise.

The sky feels even emptier than before, after all things bright and beautiful have fallen.

But it's not entirely empty.

Is the soot playing tricks on my eyes?

I see it as well as you do, Mr. Vice President.

As do millions of people here in D.C.

Floating platforms supported by a complicated system of massive hot-air balloons and propellers have fallen. Floating labs of many shapes and sizes have fallen.

The ropeway system that connected the levitation layer has fallen, along with hundreds of pods. The saucer-shaped tower that linked the ground and the sky has fallen, along with the elevator that it supports.

Only one thing rises through the clouds, into the bright skies of Columbia.

Message from Maylander, sir.

Propeller Paradise has stopped moving toward the capital. It is now headed for the southeastern border, accelerating.

Maylander believes they are trying to escape Columbia, which would be an act of treason.

Mechanized units on the border are moving to cut off Propeller Paradise's potential routes.

More importantly, the unknown object in the sky has already been locked on by our defensive artillery deployed along the District's route.

With your speech about to begin, they want to hear how you define it.

The Department of Defense recommends opening fire immediately, and sticking with the current narrative. Maylander has raised the possibility of conveying a different message through the survival of this facility.

But they have also noted the risks of doing so. The facility was created by Rhine Lab, after all.

Before they do anything, I would like to get a good look at this thing myself.