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Teppelin falls.
Its death knell sounds for three days across the surface, and echoes for two more underground. And in the swath of that radiance, Team Dai-Gurren rests.
There’s no decision; no discussion. Simon just curls up in Lagann, and that’s that. Any and all complaints come from Kittan — “Oh, sure, he found himself shelter. What about the rest of us?” — but he, too, tires himself out before noon and dozes off beneath King Kittan. Rossiu catches them awake once each: Simon, at Boota’s fervent nudges when his breaths begin to shallow, and Kittan, after the sunlight beating off his gunman’s hull has painted his exposed skin an intolerable, broiling red.
Without their battleship, they’re scattered, in both thought and locale. Their bridge has been reduced to five charred seats, and their kitchen’s an ominous cloud trailing Nia wherever she goes. Rossiu’s managed more of a barrack than most: one warped piece of scrap metal, tented over two slabs of earth, which casts enough of a shadow for himself and Gimmy and Darry to sleep — so long as both children are tucked close to his chest.
It’s a bit like their first days on the surface — governed by a wrestling match between the sun, a million stars, and Kamina; each opponent blazing brighter than the last. It’s lawless. Limitless.
Until the people of Kutou arrive.
There are two hundred and twenty-nine of them, a mass of elders and children and those who bind them together. Drawn to the surface by a green flash, they claim, that fissured their concrete ceiling, and left scars as impossible to scrub from existence as the afterimage of lightning on Rossiu’s eyelids — which is enough to springboard Team Dai-Gurren into their usual selves.
They’re supposed to be leaders now, after all.
And once they get going, they fly, fast and hard and precise. Those five days of rest were a tensor, really, like the rubber bowstring on the Bachika siblings’ handheld launchers, and Team Dai-Gurren’s greedy accrual of potential only intensified the longer it stretched on.
Rossiu’s tasked with laying out a new settlement. Aboveground, without a perimeter. There are no restrictions, Simon tells him — so Rossiu hunts them down. He quizzes Nia about how Teppelin used the materials that showered down around them, and Leeron walks him through the logic of separating the weapons depot from the hangar. More people arrive — two hundred, then three, then five — and each time, Rossiu scraps his ideas and starts from scratch.
It’s difficult work, and it unravels Rossiu’s brain only to knot the tissue into more complex patterns, but it’s fun. Exciting, even. This is humanity’s future. They have a future! And the only downside is that it’s still in the future, rather than the present. But Team Dai-Gurren becomes symbiotic with this irritation; their kineticism turns the days over with bloated efficiency, and Rossiu thinks they might just continue forever. The universe would have to end before they spin out.
Until the morning he’s roused by Darry, tugging on his poncho, asking about Gahilon.
꩜
The downside to his new sleeping arrangement dawns on Rossiu before… well, before dawn itself.
It takes what feels like twenty minutes to detangle himself from them; to stand without tugging at Darry’s loose hair; to fumble his wrist out of Gimmy’s clasped fingers. His right leg’s numb by the end of the affair, and he can’t crack the awkward bend out of his spine. It might be permanent.
(It’s not much of a downside.)
Gravel crunches under his boots as he balances out. It’s a wonder he doesn’t wake the whole team, with how it cuts through the quiet, even against his best efforts.
Much easier, by far, is finding Lagann. It doesn’t matter that the sun hasn’t risen yet; light is evergreen around Simon. So Rossiu knocks gently on the gunman’s top, and waits.
Within the minute, the canopy retracts, revealing a Simon who’s still half curled in on himself. “Hey, Rossiu,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Rossiu blinks, then catches himself. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“It’s cool.” Then Simon yawns, so loud and sudden that Rossiu flinches; its boldness out of phase with the hazy blue pre-dawn. “What’s up?”
“I… I wanted to ask you for something. Not related to the settlement.”
“Huh? Oh.” Simon unfolds himself just enough to tap Lagann’s front edge before collapsing back in the seat. “Sure.”
A little stiff — from sleep, he’s sure — Rossiu climbs up Lagann’s face in a twisted ladder of limbs. He swings both legs inside the cockpit before tucking one under himself, and briefly assesses his stability. Satisfied, he confesses, “I have to spend a day away from the settlement planning next week.”
Simon shrugs. “Okay,” he agrees. “What’s going on?”
“It’s… one of Adai’s holy days. Called Gahilon.” Rossiu’s face flares with heat, and he’s grateful it’s muted by the darkness. “I don’t — I didn’t even realize it was coming up until Darry reminded me of it.”
Simon doesn’t call Rossiu out on his embarrassment. Instead, he says, “Oh, yeah. We had something like that back in Jiha, too, I think — though not for another few months. To celebrate the new year, right?”
“Not… exactly.”
Having traded sleepiness for curiosity, Simon tilts his head to the side, eyes wide.
“Well… you saw Adai. It wasn’t really known for its celebrations.” Rossiu rubs at his forehead with one hand — Kamina’s ghost knows when he’s being a wet blanket, he’s certain — and plants the other on Lagann’s edge, propping himself up. “It was more like a… a memorial, I guess. For everyone who was ‘chosen’ to leave.”
Simon huffs. “Yeah, that does sound more like Adai, now that you mention it.” There’s a brief pause before he adds, “Uh, no offense.”
“None taken. You’re right,” Rossiu tells him. After so long on the surface, it’s hard to take any of Adai’s beliefs seriously. To come of age as the beating heart of a god, and still think it holy.
“But you still want to… memorial-ize?”
Rossiu actually considers it before catching himself. Simon’s got a way with digging — and it’s earnest enough to shift Rossiu’s answer from the ‘no’ it should be to “Gimmy and Darry are looking forward to it.”
“And you can’t say no without telling them why,” Simon guesses.
Rossiu nods. In truth, he still hasn’t figured out how. A lump lodged in his throat when Gimmy and Darry were chosen, too sour and saline to swallow. Adai’s own children, orphaned by the village itself. “I will eventually. But I want them to have this for a little longer.”
“That’s nice of you.” Simon yawns. “And, well, it gives you the chance to make it your own.”
“I —” Rossiu frowns. “What do you mean by that?”
“You said that Gahilon was about remembering the people who came to the surface. Right?”
“Yeah.”
To Rossiu’s right, day breaks. Only a sliver of it reaches over the horizon, just enough to blow light into the endless sky — but Simon steals most of it, his eyes shining like mini suns. “Well… you all made it, didn’t you? It’s not some promiseland up here, sure. But I think it’s worth celebrating.”
Of course Simon can find something worthwhile, suffocating between Adai’s gravelly views. Rossiu smiles. “Yeah,” he agrees.
“Maybe we can all celebrate with you,” Simon suggests. “Everyone’s been working so hard putting the settlement together, and they all came from underground too!” Then he blinks, and ducks his head down. “As long as — y’know, it doesn’t clash with your traditions too much.”
Rossiu blinks. “I mean, if you really think so, I don’t see why not. We don’t have much in the way of ‘traditions’ — I bet Gimmy and Darry would have fun with something new.”
“No traditions?” Simon tilts his face up towards Rossiu again, confusion creasing between his brows — but it’s alight, too, with more than just the sunrise.
Rossiu laughs softly. He leans to his side to let the leg he’s been sitting on fall into the cockpit. “It’s not like we had the resources for much.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“We did —” Rossiu catches on the admission, same as a thread, ignorant to its unraveling. “You remember the cutouts in the village walls?”
Simon nods.
“Well, we had those, and we had plenty of rocks from the bottom of the reservoir. Crumbly ones, and flat; not great for building or anything. But what we’d do is carve a — an image into one. Or a symbol, really, for someone who’d been chosen. And setting it inside the walls meant that they’d be protected by the Face Gods.” Again, he laughs. “What nonsense.”
Simon considers it for a moment. “That sounds nice,” he finally says.
Rossiu raises an eyebrow. “Nice… how?”
“Well” — Simon pats the side of his mecha — “it’s no god, but Lagann protects me. Anything can happen up here on the surface, you know?”
Rossiu bites his tongue. He can see Yoko shuffling towards them, stretching her arms above her head, and decides to let the question give way to whatever she’s interested in. Simon doesn’t need his optimism squashed so early in the morning.
…
… but.
꩜
“Rossiu. Hey, Rossiu.”
“Leave him alone, Gimmy, he’s still sleeping!”
“So? It’s Gahilon, he —” A muffled whap cuts him off. “Ow! What was that for?”
“Shhh!”
Fabric scuffles against itself, and a spray of gravel hits Rossiu’s face. He jerks away — awake now, if he wasn’t before — and opens his eyes to find Darry wailing on Gimmy with her plush.
Rossiu stifles a laugh as he pushes himself onto his knees, which softens his scolding at the edges. “Darry.”
Both children settle into their composure before Rossiu’s even upright — but stretched by the wide smile on Gimmy’s face and warmed by the rosy tones on Darry’s, it doesn’t last long. It bursts with their nearly-in-sync exclamation of, “Happy Gahilon, Rossiu!”
And Rossiu smiles, too. He pulls them both into a hug, not having to reach very far in their tiny setup. They’re both still small enough to fit neatly under each of his arms — but what little mass they do have is still more than the nothing he’d have been left with if he’d stayed in Adai, and he cherishes it. “Happy Gahilon,” he says. They don’t quite let go when he pulls away, so he takes each of their hands as they step out of the makeshift shelter.
And… holy shit.
Rossiu, of course, expected rain. Figured a dour ceiling would’ve rolled in overnight to drench their blueprints and muddy their celebration grounds with Adai’s gloomy context. And maybe that happened after all — but Team Dai-Gurren’s already beaten it back, their punch more combustive than the sun’s.
Decorations hang from Dayakkaiser’s cannon and Gurren’s sunglasses. Kiyoh’s roped the beastmen diplomats she’s been working with into a drinking game. Nia wages war against a grill, flying raccoons and eggplants alike casualties in her fervent blitz. Laughter marbles it all, and beginningless smiles paint the festivities the red of a hearth.
Gimmy and Darry squeal with the thrill of it, heralding their arrival. Kiyal’s the first to head their way, and she squats before them, beaming. “Isn’t it awesome?” she asks.
“Uh huh!” Gimmy nods with vigor. “Uh huh uh huh uh huh uh —”
As he chatters on, Darry nods her own agreement. “It is!” Then, with her free hand, she points to a group of people gathered — unsurprisingly — around Kittan. He’s still sunburnt; his flushed skin is even more apparent as he flails his arms about in some sort of… dance? “What’s that?” Darry asks.
Kiyal giggles. “Yeah, big brother’s making a fool of himself, huh?” She looks between Gimmy and Darry. “You wanna play?”
Both children cheer and run after Kiyal, their grins overflowing with excitement.
Rossiu lets them go, and stays put a moment longer to wait for everything to sink in. Then he spots King Kittan, and thinks he might have to absorb the soil through his skin for that to ever happen.
Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Team Dai-Gurren isn’t known for half-assing anything.
It’s a… shrine, probably. More accurately, it’s a cylinder, supported by the gunman and stretching from the ground up to the heavens. Divots trace its circumference all the way up its height, each lined with an array of flowers in full bloom. A few have stones set inside of them — and one of the new arrivals, whose name Rossiu hasn’t yet memorized, sits beside a pile of them at the shrine’s base, carving.
Rossiu might cry, if it didn’t feel wildly incongruous with just about everything. The flowers alone bear more colors than ever lived in Adai, and they shine in the unfiltered sunlight.
So instead, Rossiu smiles to himself, and follows Gimmy and Darry.
꩜
He doesn’t end up near the shrine again until the afternoon. There’s been so much to do — games, and the adopted candle-lighting ceremony of Kutou Village, and gift exchanges.
Rossiu’s never heard of the latter, but it seems to be premeditated — to a certain degree. Kittan handed Gimmy a slingshot, and as if in retaliation, Darry received a rifle from Yoko. And even with rubber rounds, the effort to prevent the children from causing any major harm has been their toughest fight since Teppelin.
(Father Magin was wrong. And Rossiu never needed proof that the loss of two orphans would be mourned by so many — but these days, it’s almost a struggle to count himself at the top of that long, long list.)
It’s Yoko who manages to settle them down, with a promise of evening sharpshooter lessons. Now she and Leeron are sat behind them, spelling out each of their names in the dirt. It’s enough of a distraction from their weapons, as Gimmy and Darry attempt to carve the same characters into the two most pliable rocks Rossiu could find.
Rossiu’s content just to watch. So content, in fact, that he doesn’t notice Simon’s arrival until he speaks up. “You need some help, Rossiu?”
Rossiu startles. Then he looks to his right to find Simon, drill in hand, eyeing up his own work. “Ah,” he says, “sure.”
Simon sits next to him. Rossiu’s carving for Gimmy and Darry is complete, so he gestures to the edge of a second rock, just barely scored with the scalpel he’d been using. Before he can say anything, though, Simon asks, “Ota? Who’s that?”
“My mother,” Rossiu answers. Simon, wordlessly, uses his drill to define the carved edge. “She was chosen a few years ago.”
Already finished, Simon sits back and leans on his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I bet she was amazing.”
Rossiu nods. He picks up the stone that now preserves her name and studies it. “Thanks,” he finally says, for about five different reasons.
“Mhm.” Simon nods, then wipes his brow, the motion ending in a gesture out towards the rest of the party. “I hope this isn’t all too much. When I told Kittan, he got really into it, and then his sisters did too, and then…” He chuckles. “I think all of our villages celebrated new years in one way or another. Even the beastmen. So… it got a little out of hand.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Rossiu tells him. Visibly, Simon relaxes. “Gimmy and Darry are having fun. That’s what matters.”
Simon snorts. “Yeah, you’re right about that. I don’t think Kittan and Yoko expected them to have quite so much fun, though.”
“Huh?” Rossiu follows Simon’s gaze to his left, and finds that the children have once again taken up arms. Gimmy’s somehow tackled Kittan to the ground, and sits on his chest sporting a gloating smile — oblivious to Yoko, who’s helping Darry line up a direct shot from a few yards away. “Oh. Heh. I… should probably stop that.”
“Eh, let them have their fun.” Simon climbs to his feet anyways, and steps towards the shrine. “Kittan can take it.”
As Rossiu follows, he notices the stones in Simon’s hands. “You made two?” he asks. One’s clearly for Kamina, but — “One for your parents?”
“Nah. This one’s for bro,” he explains, holding out a rock with the flaming skull of Team Dai-Gurren on its face, “and… well…”
Well.
“I mean, you made it to the surface too, didn’t you? Figured you deserve one of your own.”
Once Rossiu remembers how to speak, he squeaks out an insufficient, “Thank you.” The forked circle icon of his village is less ominous, out here in the sunshine, outlined by Simon’s drill instead of bloodred dye.
Simon smiles in response, and that’s it. They both set their stones into one of the available divots before turning back towards the others.
It’s like the morning’s come anew. Joy spills from each of them: Gimmy, dodging potshots and whining about the unfairness of having to reload; Darry, laughing like a maniac while firing at him; Nia, desperately trying to smooth down the hair Yoko’s ruffled, and Leeron, fawning over it nonetheless. It’s enough to overflow Adai’s stagnant reservoir — still puddling in Rossiu’s mind — and raise it up to the surface with them.
Rossiu’s happiness is kept inside, he’s certain, but a deluge within his own self still overwhelms his heart.
My mother would approve, he thinks.
Simon calls out to the others, and jogs towards Nia. And Rossiu can’t help but finally, finally consider his words from the prior week.
Maybe… maybe one day she’ll arrive with a batch of newcomers.
That would be nice, Rossiu thinks as he follows. She’ll love the rest of my family.