Overcome

By Karen Hart

Disclaimer: The Xenosaga series is the property of Monolith Software, Inc. and Namco Bandai. I write these fanfictions for love of the game(s) and make no profit off of them.


The numbers on the lift display ticked down. Shion's stomach rebelled a bit as the cage slowed to a halt at level ten: the Dammerung's main service bay. There was a harsh buzz and the doors parted.

The Elsa was below her, in dry dock for repairs and refitting. Mechanics and service droids swarmed around the ship. Shion descended the series of long ramps, telling herself that her slow progress was to keep the walkways from shaking.

There were things that needed to be done before they could undertake the search for Earth. The Elsa needed to be overhauled inside and out: a new set of engines, a stronger overboost system, a state of the art matter synthesizer—and whatever other improvements they could think of.

It was time consuming and stressful. Everyone wanted to be underway. But the alterations were necessary.

Shion stared for several moments when she reached the bottom. The last time she'd seen the Elsa it had been travel-scarred but whole. Even a few minutes ago, seen from above, the ship had appeared largely intact.

Not so much from this angle. Much of the outer plating had been loosened, electrical lines and support systems in clear evidence. A lightweight scaffolding surrounded the Elsa like a spider's web. Workers moved with alarming confidence along the quivering framework.

Someone in green coveralls gave her a nod and an okay sign. She had clearance to be there. Shion took a deep breath and began climbing up to the main entry hatch a few meters above.

She'd been putting this off for days.

Shion would have much rather been in the engine bay than here, heading for the men's cabin, to sort through her brother's belongings.

She and Jin had been at loggerheads for years. He'd taken care of her since she was eight and they'd lost their parents, but she'd been unable to feel grateful.

He'd been too flighty, incapable of sticking to a single interest. He had had a tendency to switch careers every half year, so that Shion dreaded the times he'd come into their little common room to announce his latest passion.

Admittedly he did have an affinity for swordplay and ancient history. But he'd been discharged from the military and there was small use for musty tomes in a world of instant data retrieval.

Or so Shion had thought.

She'd resented him since they'd been forced to evacuate Miltia, leaving their parents' corpses behind. They'd gone to live on Second Miltia with their paternal grandfather, Ouga Uzuki, a man with a limited understanding of children and, worse, no humor. He'd died before Shion turned thirteen.

It was up to Jin to raise her after that, but it was clear he hadn't been ready for the task. He'd retreated to Ouga's collection of printed books, and fencing, leaving Shion essentially to her own devices.

He'd been more aware than Shion wanted to admit. They'd never gone hungry, for one. And somehow they could always afford to keep up the costs of Shion's accelerated education.

Things had calmed down between them once Shion had turned eighteen and left to work at Vector Industries' headquarters. Or at least they spoke little enough to create the illusion of a cordial relationship.

Circumstances had forced them back together in the past year, though Shion had done her futile best to avoid them.

They'd lived side-by-side, fighting along with and against each other. They'd relied on each other.

Then Jin had died.

True, she didn't know it in her mind—he could have escaped Michtam's destruction somehow—but she knew it in her heart.

Shion hadn't cried when she'd realized the truth. She'd been too busy at the time. She'd kept herself too busy.

Most of it was distraction. Better heads than hers knew what they'd need to make a long-distance journey even without a faster-than-light capability. Or at least how best to stretch their resources.

She offered a few suggestions of her own and stayed out of the planning. Instead she wandered the supercolony that had been her home for four of the last five years of her life.

Jin had threatened to visit her in the early days of her employment, and had even made good on his promise. It was a short visit. She hadn't made him welcome.

He'd kept trying, asking her regularly to come home. She'd declined.

There was so much on the Dammerung he would've been fascinated by if she hadn't chased him away. Amid the industrial sectors it had vast metropolises, and parkland. Even forests. Glittering canals had crisscrossed the colony, some of them elevated.

It had been beautiful. It still was.

Distraction hadn't worked. Everywhere Shion looked, she saw Jin. And there was a place she needed to be, and something she had to do, before they got underway.

So here she was, in his part of the men's quarters, looking through his things and deciding if she wanted to take any of it with her.

Shion could live without a lot of it, the calligraphy set and the embroidered futon and his collections of old poetry. They needed the space these things were taking up.

She wanted to gather it all up, toss it in a disposal chute, and not have to think until there was nothing she could do about it. But she promised herself she'd be careful.

Once she'd had a good look at them Shion carefully refolded the futon and set it to one side, and put the calligraphy set back in its case. She had moved on to the poems, cautious of damaging the slim volumes.

She cracked one open, then another. On the third a small slip of paper—real paper—slipped out. She reached down and opened it.

It was a crude drawing of a tall man with long black hair and a little brown-haired girl. They both had green dots for eyes. A child's drawing.

They held hands.

Jin and Shion.

She couldn't remember drawing this, but she must have.

She'd idolized Jin, at one point. He'd astonished her with stories of distant planets, and the typical family routine was interrupted for special outings.

Her throat hurt. There'd been a time, almost beyond remembering, when she'd adored her older brother. The times he'd come home on leave had been the most fun she'd ever known.

Then their mother had taken ill and Miltia had happened. Jin had become responsible for her and familiarity had bred contempt.

They'd wasted the last fifteen years, finally reconciling at the last available moment.

Guilt gripped her. How could she think of leaving these things behind?

Shion slid from the couch to the floor and huddled there until the sleep cycle went into effect and the overhead lights switched off. She didn't notice the dark, or the lowering temperature.

She should have reached out to him, talked to him, done something. Just not avoided him. And now he was gone, and she had nothing but memories she regretted and a few trinkets.

The dim safety lights along the walls' edges came on, though Shion hardly noticed. In her mind she saw him teasing her during those times she'd lost track of the hour and forgot to come home from school. Or forgot meals. Or missed appointments. She'd reacted with bad grace every time.

Shion had been so sure she'd known what was best, and now she wasn't sure of anything.

Her neck and shoulders burned, and her back ached. She'd been hunched in this position for—she looked at the clock—hours. It was getting warmer. The lights would be coming back on soon. Shion unfurled herself.

There was something crumpled in her hand. She looked down.

She'd ruined the drawing she'd made for Jin, the drawing he'd kept close and cared for all these years.

The image was almost indecipherable now, the siblings wounded by small rips in the paper. There was a hole in child Shion's right eye.

There was no avoiding them. The sobs were harsh and loud, and her body shook with every gasp for breath as she gathered in more air for a fresh bout of crying. Fool, she thought of herself. Idiot. Blind wretch. What didn't she ruin?

She'd forgiven herself for so much lately, but there was a limit. Acceptance ended and was replaced by guilt. She hadn't deserved Jin's love.

She hadn't deserved it, but she'd had it, and still didn't understand why.

With trembling fingers she tried to smooth the image to its original shape, bending the tears back into place. It was better, but the damage couldn't be concealed.

So much time had been wasted. She hadn't done enough and she hadn't cared enough. Now it didn't matter because there was nothing she could do to fix any of it.

Memories of calling Jin her "no good brother" to anyone who'd listened resounded through her mind. She'd insulted him to his face and behind his back.

He had deserved better.

(But she heard Jin's voice, too, calling her a wonderful sister and saying she had a right to be happy. It was almost the last thing he'd ever said to her. She'd been too overwhelmed to object, except to beg his forgiveness. He'd been so good.

Maybe he hadn't been wrong, not to give up on her.)

The shaking stopped. The lights had come on and Shion realized her face felt sticky. She looked around the room, strangely disoriented but much calmer.

She was on a space-going ship, preparing to search for humankind's birthland. She had things to do, things she had to do. She'd lost Jin, but that loss had helped to open up this chance.

The ruined drawing hung from her fingertips. She folded it carefully, and placed it atop the other things. They'd remain in storage on the Dammerung. She'd come back for them someday. At least she'd try.

Shion had found a treasure, and now she felt strong enough to let go of it.