As Jeanne stepped away from the quiet confines of the small border town, she caught the distinct sensation of a peculiar gaze tracking her from the shadows. There was a lingering intent behind it, an unspoken yearning to bridge the distance and establish contact.
The unseen observer harbored zero intention of remaining a ghost, however. Stepping directly out of a completely exposed corner where no practical cover existed, the figure materialized with an uncanny suddenness that left Jeanne thoroughly startled.
It was a Savra. Reflecting on the encounter, Jeanne found herself deeply fascinated by the natural camouflage inherent to the race. How on Terra did their physiological invisibility extend so flawlessly to their garments, turning a fully clothed individual into absolute wind? It remained a brilliant, unmapped mystery in her mind.
"You must be Lady Jeanne," the operative spoke, stepping forward. His voice carried an overwhelming wave of profound reverence, looking up at her with a stark, starry-eyed adoration that left Jeanne somewhat bewildered. What could she have possibly executed to earn such fierce idolatry from a total stranger? She had spent the last month doing nothing but wandering the backroads.
Before she could dissect his behavior, the core of his message registered: the Doctor had proactively initiated a tracking sequence to locate her. What manner of emergency had unfolded on the landship? Had their scanners unearthed another massive vein of pure Originium?
Though her rational mind dismissed the fantasy as a statistical impossibility, it didn't prevent Jeanne from indulging in a fleeting, ambitious daydream. If the myth proved true, she could theoretically summon another ancient dragon of Fafnir's catastrophic proportions to her side.
Yet, remembering how the current dragon attached to her hip was already systematically dismantling her personal wealth, she promptly dragged the ridiculous fantasy to the executioner's block, thoroughly stomping on its grave for good measure.
Managing Fafnir's gargantuan metabolic demands was already turning her into a hyper-stressed guardian; if she were to introduce a second apex predator to the family dynamic, she would likely depart Terra to meet her Divine Creator significantly ahead of schedule.
Jeanne maintained her silent stride, following the Savra scout deep into the recesses of a highly concealed cavern. Tucked away within the rocky vault was a remarkably primitive communications array—a battered piece of Terran technology so heavily weathered that visible fractures marred several structural seams.
"The Doctor's signal should bridge the encryption link in just a few moments," the operative murmured, offering a respectful bow. "I shall establish a perimeter outside to guarantee your absolute privacy. Simply alert me once the dialogue terminates."
His customer service remained so intensely deferential it made Jeanne distinctly uncomfortable. There was a haunting familiarity in the way he looked at her—the exact, starry-eyed worship that the citizens of Laterano routinely directed toward their chosen icons. For an individual who carried massive psychological scars from her time under the holy arches, the look triggered a sharp, defensive reflex.
Fortunately, the internal tension didn't have time to fester. The radio terminal—a high-tech anomaly that closely resembled a vintage wireless station—suddenly crackled to life, unleashing a familiar voice that sounded thoroughly drained of vitality.
"Hello? Jeanne? Spirits above! Where in the world have you been hiding within the borders of Kazdel?! I spent a literal eternity combing through Rim Billiton trying to unearth your coordinates. If Kal'tsit hadn't forcefully reminded me to check the local intelligence feeds, I would have worked myself straight into a grave!"
Before Jeanne could articulate a response, the Doctor unleashed a frantic torrent of grievances, her tone carrying the absolute, bone-deep exhaustion of a coordinator who had been thoroughly broken by Jeanne's total disappearance from the grid.
Faced with this sudden wave of panic, Jeanne experienced a distinct, creeping sensation that she had somehow evolved into a rebellious teenager who had callously run away from home without leaving a note. A sudden, irrational wave of guilt filtered through her heart.
"I am incredibly sorry about that!" Jeanne offered an immediate, sheepish apology. "My initial itinerary was strictly limited to a casual trek across the Rim Billiton frontier. But then, on a total whim, I decided to cross the border into Kazdel to observe the local customs and cultural landscapes..."
As the justification left her lips, Jeanne suddenly snapped back to awareness. Why on earth was she actively apologizing to this individual? She hadn't executed a single violation of code.
She was merely a mother accompanying her adopted daughter on a standard vacation... no, a sovereign summoner guiding her familiar through a standard integration routine. Why did the Doctor's rhetoric make it sound as though she had committed an unpardonable treason against the landship?
"Wait a minute, why am I the one offering concessions here?" Jeanne's features shifted into a wicked, predatory grin as she leaned closer to the receiver, deftly carving out a beautiful rhetorical trap for her colleague. Let's see if the exhausted researcher would blindly tumble into the pit during a moment of relaxed vigilance. "What exactly transpired on your end to leave you this thoroughly depleted? Did that incredibly cold, un-tender feline of yours orchestrate another grueling campaign to torture your sanity?"
"What could she possibly torture me with? She is merely an... exceptionally broad-minded and magnanimous physician," the Doctor stammered. Her brain caught the lethal trajectory of the conversation at the absolute last second, slamming on her psychological breaks to violently drag herself away from the precipice of a sudden, brutal execution.
The Doctor let out a massive, trembling sigh of relief on her end of the line. Part of her salvation stemmed from her split-second verbal pivot, while the greater blessing was the simple reality that Kal'tsit wasn't physically present in the terminal room to audit the transmission.
Nevertheless, the terrifying spike of adrenaline had effectively burned away her lingering lethargy. Choosing to completely bypass the trap Jeanne had laid for her, the Doctor shifted the dialogue back toward their primary strategic objective.
"In all seriousness... do you have time for a return to our sector? The administration has encountered several critical shifting variables, and we desperately require your personal intervention—and that of your daughter—to stabilize the board. Though, the finer details of the contract must naturally be evaluated face-to-face once you cross our threshold."
Between managing the delicate security parameters required to safely guide the landship, Rhodes Island, back to home port and dynamically restructuring their long-term military campaigns, the Doctor had been bleeding her personal stamina dry. It had been an eternity since she had experienced a single cycle of standard human sleep.
Yet, she categorized the grueling physical toll as an entirely acceptable sacrifice. If a temporary bout of absolute exhaustion was the price required to purchase a flawless blueprint for their collective future, she was fully prepared to maintain her overtime shifts until her vital signs collapsed entirely.
Jeanne cleanly intercepted the underlying subtext. The leadership was effectively petitioning her to formally embed herself within the violent machinery of the Sarkaz civil war—or at the very least, deploy her absolute martial output to ensure the landship's safe transit back to Babel's sovereign territory.
Under normal historical conditions, the high-ranking administrators would have likely hesitated to invite her into a national conflict of this scale; after all, when her mana pools remained severely constrained, her raw individual output lacked the velocity required to forcefully rewrite the landscape in a short window.
But the current strategic reality was entirely transformed by the entity anchored to her leg. With Fafnir acting as an absolute multiplier, Jeanne's destructive output had ascended to an entirely separate tier of existence. If she were to initiate a full-bound assault, she possessed the physical capacity to terminate the entire war within a single calendar day simply by executing a high-speed decapitation strike against Theresis's central command structure.
This supreme leverage was the exact variable that had driven the Doctor to aggressively solicit her aid after weeks of internal deliberation. It remained a delicate negotiation, given that Babel currently possessed zero concrete assets or material wealth capable of serving as an equitable compensation package; there was simply nothing within their inventory that a living Saint would actively covet.
"I see... precisely how tight is your window?" Jeanne inquired, her tone shifting into a smooth, decisive cadence. "If the time is absolute, I can simply mount Fafnir and cleave through the upper atmosphere; we can bridge the physical distance in less than twenty-four hours. Though, executing a high-altitude dragon flight across the frontier would undoubtedly generate a massive, highly disruptive theatrical spectacle."
She was fully aware that crossing the threshold back into Babel meant permanently entangling herself in the brutal, bloody chessboard of the royal siblings. Her actions would fundamentally dictate the ultimate fate of the nation.
Yet, the agonizing hesitation that had paralyzed her mind over the past month had been cleanly dismantled. Thanks to the raw, unyielding perspective offered by the old Pope back in the settlement, the fog had completely dissolved. She was done weighing the variables on a scale of cold, impossible logic.
If pure human reason could never definitively prove which path constituted absolute righteousness, she would simply abandon the analysis entirely. She would anchor her actions to her own instincts, charging forward to execute the exact changes her heart desired.
Besides, she maintained an absolute, ironclad faith in the tracking capabilities of her occasionally glitched Revelation. Combined with her own protective intuition, it was an incomparably dependable compass—infinitely more efficient than locking herself in a room to drown in circular thoughts.
Jeanne was entirely ready to step onto the battlefield.
"We have time! Ample time!" the Doctor's voice erupted through the speaker, her tone overflowing with a sudden, triumphant surge of adrenaline. She was an exceptionally brilliant strategist; the moment Jeanne volunteered to negotiate an plan, it signified that her spirit had already chosen to align with Babel's cause.
With that single concession secured, the Doctor calculated a seventy-percent probability of successfully integrating Jeanne into their defensive. The only remaining question was whether they should organize a localized lightning strike against Theresis or execute an entirely separate tactical maneuver.
Once the final logistics were locked in, Jeanne terminated the encryption link and set the communicator aside. She looked down at her feet, her eyes finding the quiet, intensely loyal living accessory that was Fafnir. Reaching down, she scooped the young dragon up with both hands, hoisting her high into the air.
"Listen closely, little one. It appears our next deployment involves embedding ourselves directly into a massive war. Once the sparks fly, you will be granted absolute authorization to let loose and fight to your heart's content! Tell me... how does that sound? Are you excited?"
Hearing that she was finally being permitted to unleash the absolute fullness of her ancient draconic lineage without restriction, Fafnir's golden eyes flared with an absolute, manic glee. She flailed her small arms through the air, her primitive mind completely incapable of processing the sheer volume of her internal ecstasy, ultimately condensing her boundless joy into a singular, roaring battle cry:
"Ruaaa!"