[ it's only been two years since the eighth galaxy officially separated from the union - since you lost lin jingheng and monoeye hawk. you spent the first hundred days in isolation, working, working, working, but the world never stopped turning, and prime minister edward has finally stepped down. you've taken his position - the new prime minister of the entire eighth galaxy.

truthfully, it wasn't a position you ever really wanted. especially not now, but you know why it needs to be yours. the prime minister is nearly ancient, even for your kind - edging on 250, he's close to the end, and the hospice report given to you on your way to visit him at his home makes that even more brutally clear. he's on an intense amount of painkillers, he can't eat on his own, can barely sleep on his own. most people, at that age, in that much pain, would take a lethal injection to end their lives peacefully, but the former prime minister is refusing. he's stubborn; you like that about him, though.

right now, it feels far away, disassociative like everything does, after lin and your father died. as you approach the hospice center, you see a few doctors wheeling out the former prime minister's massive wheelchair - it's the size of a small car, and you see the wheels get stuck. the doctors start to fus sover it, as four or five more come over to attempt to move the thing with teamwork, but for you, now? now, it's easy. you wave them off, and come over - and with both hands on the wheelchair, you yank the small car sized thing right out of the mud, bare handed.

the doctors look at you, surprised. "...Prime Minister Lu, you've been working out, lately."

you give them a little smile. prime minister edward opens his eyes, and he looks at you. this is routine, now - you two take these walks together, because this old man does love this galaxy, and you want to try and help him enjoy it in his final days, even in your miserable state. (after all, you know what it's like, to be confined like that. to be unable to use your body. how demoralizing it is. how cruel.)

so. you escort him every day from the hospital and take him around the military command post, and you two catch up and talk. you trudge through the mud, peaceful and quiet, the very picture of dependability, holding the eighth's moral heart in your hands. today, your four former students run up to see you and the prime minister on your walk - they're lively and squabble, the bright young stars of the winked out starry sea academy.

you talk about the future. the prime minister asks you about the military training program.

"Bixing... Military supplies, production, and large-scale industries are getting too much funding and planning. What do you plan on turning the Eighth Galaxy into...a super fortress where all citizens are soldiers?"

your four students look at you. you're careful, when you respond - that you want to protect the future of the eighth galaxy. that you want to make sure no one intends to impress a fake utopia on you the way they impressed it on the other seven. that you're going to make sure your galaxy is safe. that no one ever tries to take advantage of you again. for a peaceful future. a safe one.

edward falls silent. the kids ask you a question about rebuilding starry sea academy, and it makes something tiny and bitter in your heart twist into pieces - you ask them where they're going to come up with six million credits to pay for it, and they laugh, and they run off. bright and happy as they talk, share old memories - you shoo them off, reminding them not to bother the tired old prime minister, and you hear them arguing about the old school motto. how you told them once, not to be discouraged if they sink into the dark waters of their lives. in times of strife and trouble, don't bury yourself in the mud or the sand; remember the foundation the starry sea academy built for you.

in the darkest mud of your own life, pulled under the riptide of despair, you can't help but take it with a touch of something bitter. how shameless. how foolish that had been. how far away it seemed, now.

prime minister edward snaps you out of it. you're about to turn his wheelchair around when his ancient, frail hand comes out and presses lightly against your wrist. you look down at him, and there's something in his eyes that reminds of the first time you met him, a fire that was impossible to extinguish in sickness and old age.

he says, in this soft, creaking voice, "My wheelchair weighs almost a whole ton, yet you can still lift it up with your bare hands. I’ve also heard that you even sleep for less than three hours a day, but you don’t look a bit tired at all."

you have an excuse ready immediately. ] I'm still young -

[ but the prime minister doesn't fall for it. he looks you cold in the eyes and asks - "What did you do to yourself?"

... you close your mouth. in your heart, you can almost feel the biochip. you decide, clinically, that the old prime minister is close to death, anyway, and too sick to stop your experiments. why hide it? you keep your voice calm. in the darkness of your lab, you've been practicing. injecting. practicing. testing. injecting. making breakthroughs. day by day. ] ...Just a small experiment. There are still a lot of unknown factors. I can't exactly share details right now, but if it succeeds, I could potentially build a fleet of extremely high mental strength soldiers.

[ the track marks on your arm hurts, a little.

prime minister edward's voice sharpens. "Like those half human, half monsters fleets of the Freedom Corps?"

no. ] Of course not. If AIs could completely replace humans, modern warfare would’ve already been a war of robots by now. The AI fleet of the Silver Fortress wouldn’t fall so easily either, we have a failed example before us already. [ and that's the truth. what you're creating is better - you, as the first experiment, could lead the way. the prime minister's voice carries so much strength, for someone so frail, when he responds to you.

"You know I'm not asking you what type of soldiers are better. Do you know the dangers of this? If - "

but you cut him off, as calm as can be. you remember, in the back of your mind, the soldiers who eliminated such a large chunk of the eighth's fleet. who killed lin. who killed monoeye hawk. you have sharpened, from soft to steel. from idealist to leader. to the prime minister lu bixing.

you are perfectly calm. ] If this kills me, then my job ends here. But for as long as I’m alive, I will no longer return back to the state where others can take advantage of me.

[ never again. you will make the IUS pay. you will make the Freedom Corps pay. you will annihilate them, if you have to. you will make them understand that the eighth is not their plaything and their toy.

the prime minister tries to plead with you. "“Listen to what you’re saying, isn’t this contradicting what you said before? You really plan on opening a new Era with this mentality? A whole new era of exploration?” and you retort - ] What new era? Those are just pretty words.

[ he looks like he wants to say something else - a gust of wind, blows, though, and the prime minister convulses, letting out a horrible, wracking cough. it's moments like these when you remember that he's so frail, a stark reminder to the fierce words he gave you a moment before, and you shift the wheelchair to block the wind until he's able to catch his breath. and when he does - you expect nothing, but he looks you dead in the eye.

“Bixing, there will be nobody who can pull you back from the wrong path when I leave one day.”

the wheelchair's handle cracks under your palm.

(because you know. you know, you know you know you shouldn't - you know this is a bad idea, you know you shouldn't experiment on yourself, you know you shouldn't stoop to the level of the union, but you're grieving and you're so fucking angry and you have a chance and you have to take it - ) ]

Why won't you sign the papers to be put to sleep? [ you ask, changing the question, because you have to, voice soft to keep yourself from shattering to pieces. not like this. he looks at you again, trembling with the strength it must take him to stay like this.

"“Being put to sleep can end pain and give the patient honor and peace in the final moment of their life. I voluntarily give up my honor and peace until the very last second, so that I can struggle and fight with this galaxy until the last moment. I…"

you try to stop him, because you don't want to hear it, because you can't, ] - Let me give you a shot of anesthetics. Can I send you back so you can get some sleep?

[ but he grabs your sleeve even tighter, rasping, shaking "I...I... resigned seven times...in the Eighth Galaxy’s government...and came back an eighth time....so that I could take the position of Prime Minister...during the toughest times…" ]

Okay - okay, I know, Edward - [ you can't stand to see him like this, really, even beyond your own guilt, because he is in so much pain, because you saw the rainbow virus nearly consume this man alive and you're using the exact same virus to experiment on yourself, and your face crumples as you cover his hand with yours, and he continues.

“I...I couldn’t do anything on my own...until...until I met you guys...I finally saw a bit of hope...Bixing, can you also give yourself a chance to stand up again...after perishing into ashes seven times? The words you’ve spoon-fed the kids...are...are…”

finally, he trails off, there, into a coughing fit. you're so shaken that you take the chance to bring him back inside to the hospital, and when you return him to your doctors, the words repeat over and over in your mind.

Could you give yourself a chance to stand up again after perishing into ashes seven times?

could you?

forty five days later, the prime minister finally passes away in his sleep. for you, it was the beginning of a nightmarish ten years of suffering and pain. for you, it was the beginning of your falls - of the seven tiny hatch marks carved into your desk with a knife, in the present day. ]