“Child of the Maelstrom” – Microfiction
Story
Stars shimmered above the shattered dome. A view to the Maelstrom Reach reflected her eyes, round pools of dread. A mirror to Winna’s own broken soul the moment the Family Alarm began its mournful wail.
For eight years, it had only signaled birthdays (with their stale sugar rations), promotions to heavier armor (that barely fit her plump frame), and those rare good days in this decaying stretch of galaxy. Now, a tremble started in her fingers – too tiny, she knew, for battlefield work. The charity marathon, her hard-won passion project? Might have to wait.
It was the morning of something called an “arr-aign-ment.” Words twisted in her head. Big, scary words she’d overheard, her mind always too-eager to race. She couldn’t be late. Her hand drifted to the alarm clock. Silence. Then dressed in her officer’s attire, struggling with the oversized buckles.
A blink in the mirror, her face solemn even for a child, then ~ the Alarm ー again.
Everyone in the barracks knew (even a Dependent child) when that alarm sounded and flashed that harsh official crimson, it meant war. Bombs, battlefields – whispers of terrors far beyond her skill with ancient munitions. Her stomach churned – the potent Family Alarm cocktail not helping, just making her smaller, weaker.
She forced the inebriating sip. It was protocol. No other word seemed to matter lately.
Loosened inhibitions, they said, heightened reactions under stress. Her limbs buzzed, useless. At least her mind, always buzzing, catalogued possibilities: plea of incompetence (but they’d laugh), fake a broken suit (but she was too good, wasn’t she?), maybe even…the thought snagged on a branch in her immature brain. Protocol over self-preservation. Wasn’t that what had broken her soul? Had it made it too small to begin with? A harsh buzz jolted her.
Commander Anya surveyed the girl – EOD Specialist Salleh, wasn’t she? Too young, too soft. She wouldn’t make it (probably not).
Those plump cheeks, still unlined by the horrors she’d witnessed countless times. A poor child from an even poorer clan playing dress-up in an oversized uniform. That’s all she was.
She forced down a familiar clip of guilt. Dependents weren’t meant for the frontlines, but war didn’t care for niceties. It didn’t care at all.
Salleh’s eyes, round with a mix of fear and that unnervingly keen intelligence, flew to the crimson lights. Not sympathy Anya could offer, nor pity the girl would want. “EOD Specialist Salleh,” she said, voice flat, “Report for deployment.”
It was the best mercy available: the swiftness of orders, the illusion of purpose, anything to drown out the wailing alarm that reminded of her own unspoken doubts. Another child soldier sacrificed on the altar of necessity.
Winna stared up at the ravaged sky. Another star might soon wink out. Maybe her own. It wasn’t the dying she feared, not entirely. It was the knowledge that once again, she’d put duty over desire, followed rules when her heart pounded out a different tune.
The marathon would have to wait. Until the trial ended, or the war. Maybe forever.
日本語
粉々になったドームの上で星が輝いていた。マエストロム・リーチの景色は、彼女の目を映し出した。家族警報が悲痛な慟哭を響かせた瞬間、ウィンナは自分の壊れた魂を映し出した。
この8年間、警報は誕生日（砂糖の配給が古くなる）、より重い鎧への昇格（ふくよかな体格にやっと合う程度）、そしてこの朽ち果てた銀河系で滅多にない好天を知らせるものでしかなかった。そして今、彼女の指が震え始めた。チャリティーマラソンは、彼女が苦労して勝ち取った情熱のプロジェクトだ。後回しだ。
それは “アランメント “と呼ばれるものの朝だった。彼女の頭の中で言葉がねじれた。小耳に挟んだ恐ろしく大きな言葉が、彼女の頭の中でねじれた。遅刻は許されない。彼女の手は目覚まし時計に向かった。静寂が訪れた。それから警官の服装に身を包み、特大のバックルと格闘した。
鏡を見て瞬きし、子供とは思えないほど厳粛な表情を浮かべた。
その警報が鳴り響き、厳しい官憲の深紅の光を放つとき、それは戦争を意味することを、兵舎の誰もが（扶養家族である子供でさえ）知っていた。爆弾、戦場……古代兵器の扱いに長けていた彼女の技量をはるかに超える恐怖がささやかれていた。彼女の胃はキリキリと痛んだ。家族警報の強力なカクテルは何の役にも立たず、ただ彼女を小さく、弱くするだけだった。
彼女は無理やり酩酊状態のカクテルを口にした。プロトコルのせいだ。それ以外の言葉は最近重要でないように思えた。
抑制が緩み、ストレス下で反応が高まるのだという。手足はブルブル震え、使い物にならない。少なくとも彼女の心はいつもざわめき、可能性を分類していた： 無能の偽証（でも笑われる）、壊れたスーツの偽証（でも彼女は優秀すぎるだろ）、もしかしたら……その考えは彼女の未熟な脳の枝に引っかかった。自衛よりプロトコール」。それが彼女の魂を壊したのではないだろうか？そのせいで、彼女の魂はもともと小さすぎたのだろうか？厳しいざわめきが彼女を揺り動かした。
アーニャ中佐は、EODスペシャリストのサレーを見た。若すぎるし、柔らかすぎる。彼女は助からないだろう（たぶん助からない）。
そのふっくらとした頬には、彼女が数え切れないほど目撃した恐怖がまだ残っていた。貧しい一族の貧しい子供が、特大の制服を着ておままごとをしている。それが彼女のすべてだった。
彼女は見慣れた罪悪感を押し殺した。扶養家族は前線には向かないが、戦争はきれいごとなど気にしない。まったく気にしなかった。
サレハの目は恐怖と気の遠くなるような鋭い知性が入り混じった丸いもので、真紅の光に飛んでいた。アーニャが提供できる同情でも、少女が望む同情でもなかった。「彼女は平坦な声で言った。
命令の素早さ、目的の幻想、彼女自身の言葉にならない疑念を思い出させる慟哭のアラームをかき消すためなら何でもできた。また一人、必要という祭壇の上で犠牲になった子供兵士がいた。
ウィナは荒れ果てた空を見上げた。またひとつ星が消えるかもしれない。自分の星かもしれない。彼女が恐れていたのは死ぬことではなかった。それは、またしても欲望よりも義務を優先させ、心臓が別の音を奏でているのに規則に従ったという知識だった。
マラソンは後回しだ。裁判が終わるまで、あるいは戦争が終わるまで。もしかしたら一生かもしれない。
読書
World “The Maelstrom Reach” – Year 680K A.H.
Summary
- Setting: The Maelstrom Reach – a fractured galaxy eons past Earth’s prime.
- History: Shaped by cycles of technologically-driven cosmic war.
- Culture: Values warrior honor and strategic brilliance, with influences from Mongolian and Kievan Rus (Nomadic Knights) traditions.
- Technology: Blends the practical with salvaged “MagiGuard” from fallen ages, potentially influenced by Final Fantasy XII’s concepts.
- Weirdness: Distorted time zones, dimensional rifts, and maybe even sentient AI nebulae add unpredictable, strategically exploitable threats.
The “Future Frontier” Vibe
- Timescale: We’re so far removed from present-day Earth, humanity as we know it might be unrecognizable. This frees us to be truly creative with the tech and societal changes.
- Fractured Galaxy: This implies conflict, splintered factions, maybe even zones where the laws of physics themselves are wonky due to war tech.
Mongolian and Kievan Rus Influences
- Warrior Culture: Expect a society valuing honor, strength, and tactical skill. Battles might even be ritualized in some way, which ties nicely into the game-like feel.
- Clan Structures: Perhaps instead of countries, there are powerful families or corporations vying for territory, each with their own Druzhina elite units.
- Aesthetics: Think ornate armor mixed with futuristic gear, harsh landscapes, nomadic strongholds…
Final Fantasy XII Touch
- Airships and Magitek: I’m picturing a blend of weathered, practical vehicles and sleek craft powered by some form of mystical-seeming energy.
- Social Inequality: The FFXII world has a stark divide between the elite and downtrodden. We can echo that with the powerful Druzhina and those they’re meant to protect.
- Myth and Mystery: FFXII has those ancient lost civilizations… our Future Frontier could have ruins holding dangerous, forgotten tech.
Winna’s Fate – “A Child No Longer” – 680.1K A.H.
The war dragged on, a grinding, bloody mess that stole years and comrades from Winna. Yet, her mind honed itself into a weapon just as deadly as the bombs she defused. That buzzing alarm, once the herald of dread, became just another tool. Then came the whispers… faint, like starlight through the shattered dome, promising something beyond this battlefield.
Rumors of rebellion, of a world free from duty’s iron grip. The old Winna would have hesitated, clung to protocol. But years on the brink of annihilation stripped away childish things. She listened to the wind, plotted with trembling yet determined hands. Sabotage, stolen intel, silent messages that built into a chorus of resistance.
It took years, each day a gamble against the watchful eyes of those she once obeyed without question. The escape was a desperate scramble through war-torn ruins, the price of freedom paid in the lives of others. Yet they found it: a hidden world, a society born from defiance. The marathon she’d dreamed of as a girl complete with hundreds of others at her side.
Winna’s frail body wasn’t meant for leadership. Her voice still faltered, but her mind was a weapon they rallied around.
Years bled into decades.
They built, they lived, they remembered. And every time she glanced skyward, past the dome now whole and clear, she wondered if that was her victory? Or had she simply traded one cage for another?
Her end came abruptly. A new recruit’s tea, laced with a fast-acting poison meant for another. Winna, ever the pragmatist, didn’t fight it. Perhaps this too was part of the pattern the whispers had foretold? She passed surrounded by faces not of soldiers, but of family. Young faces, unburdened by the duty that had shattered her own soul.
