“No!” Aoba dove, her Vulcan cannons stitching a line of hot lead across the tentacle. It didn't even flinch. It simply retracted the limb, sucking Strue’s wreckage into the fleshy surface of the moon. She didn’t eject.
The Lord British didn’t explode. It was simply… absorbed. Pulled into the meat like a pebble into mud.
“Twelve?” Aoba whispered. The outer perimeter had three Gradius-class cruisers.
No one laughed. Because no one was sure if she was joking. Otomedius Excellent -NTSC-U--ISO-
Diol’s Fairy flitted too close to a spire. The spire pulsed, and a wave of harmonic resonance shattered her shields. She spiraled, her engine flaming out. “My… my wings…” she whispered, before her signal vanished.
She looked down at her console. The ISO was still open. The lyrics. The damned lyrics.
Strue went first. A tentacle the size of a subway train, tipped with a diamond-hard beak, punched straight through her Goliath’s chest. Her scream cut off in a burst of static. She didn’t eject
That was the first thought that flickered through mind as the warning klaxons of the Excellion tore through the hangar bay. The retrofitted space carrier, a relic from the last Bacterian war, shuddered as something massive latched onto its hull. She was still in her flight suit, one boot off, a protein ration between her teeth.
Tita’s voice was strained now. “Aoba, fall back to the Excellion . That is an order.”
Otomedius Excellent -NTSC-U--ISO- Insert disc two. Pulled into the meat like a pebble into mud
“The NTSC-U sector is lost,” Tita said, her own Angel—the Lord British —launching from the adjacent bay. “All remaining forces, form up. We’re punching a hole for the Excellion to retreat.”
The ship lurched. The lights flickered. When they returned, the hangar’s main viewport showed a sight that made Aoba’s blood run cold.
“Which is why we are buying time,” Tita replied. “Not winning. There is a difference, Anoa.”
It wasn't a core. It wasn't a battleship.
The song began.