Chapter Text
Gegrüßet seist du, Maria, voll der Gnade.
The first time she uttered that prayer, Eva Stratt was five years old, held in her mother's arms, woken after some nightmare racked her child mind after the news of her father's sudden death.
Operation Krivaja, she later found out, the cause of his demise. Only when she rose to power—unwanted crown bearing down its weight on her shoulders—years later was she able to access those files, learn how exactly he met his demise. A member of the Dutch Battalion under the United Nations Protection Forces, dead by gunfire, a human shield against Republika Srpska forces.
Her mother was never the same after that. Losing her father caused her to lose her mind, ten years later she lost her too.
Mütterchen, who raised her in the midst of her own grief, a history professor at LMU, the one who ignited her love of learning, who taught her to love the meekest of the world. The same love that drove her to love her father, the love that drove her into madness.
It was her who encouraged her own studies, that drove her into the humanities, to study history just like her. It was there in her mother's alma mater where she learnt of the rise of civilization, the way people lived throughout time and space, how love drove the beginnings of humanity, how easily it is corrupted, love turned to greed, for profit, for self—yet love remained all the same.
In the wailing cries of new life, in the broken song shared between lovers, in the infantile handprints on the roof of an ancient cave, in the taste of a homecooked meal, tearings of bread and the sharing of a cup, in the warmth of another, bodies overlapping, sharing of heat, in dance and music across peoples and cultures.
Love was a constant since the beginning of time, Am Anfang schuf Gott Himmel und Erde.
It was what drove her to work towards an MA, in joining the United Nations. Lover of Earth, the reason she of all people was awarded the title Director of the Petrova Task Force.
Lover of humanity, who else would make the decisions she made? Who else could understand how fickle man can be? How governments are quick to betray their own humanity, sacrifice their own people if it meant their own survival. How they hoard resources, food and water, energy and money, not for the people of their nations, but to keep themselves cozy at the end of the world.
The collapse of countries, the resource wars that would inevitably follow, man turned against fellow man, crimson blood stark against the ice and snow, the lengths humans can go to have something in their stomachs. She knew, of all people, what awaited the Earth in the coming years.
Director Stratt, protector of the dying sun.
No greater love than this.
Niemand hat größere Liebe denn die, daß er sein Leben läßt für seine Freunde.
-
Sunrise over Baikonur, the Hail Mary made its successful launch. Soon enough, it will dock in the ISS, from which her astronauts will be sent further than anyone has ever dreamed of, off into the depths of space, empty void, cold and devoid, in the hopes of survival.
Her astronauts—no, not all of them.
Ryland Grace made it very clear that he was not an astronaut, and he was right. He was her molecular biologist, her First Officer and second in command, lead of astrophage research, the first person she allowed—truly allowed—in her life.
The one she opened up her heart to, the man who made a home in her heart, lover of humanity becoming the love of a man. Her love, Ryland Grace.
He was her solution. Her sheep, led to the slaughter, she the butcher, all for the hope of feeding the little lambs in this dying pasture.
Sacrificial lamb and Scapegoat, what a pair they made.
-
To celebrate the successful launch, members of the Task Force took to holding a gala, a night of music and drinking, in honour of the mission and the hope it represented.
A moment of refuge in the face of uncertainty. Eva Stratt did not join them.
Instead, her tired legs took her to the place she knew best, her Vat, what she called home for those four years.
She did not know when that started, when she began to consider that stolen ship her home. Home was always a place of instability, of a mother not in her right mind, a child forced to pick the pieces up.
No, she did know.
Home was Ryland Grace.
The moment she walked into his life, the day she forced him onto the project—or so she told herself, in all his goodness, Grace never once claimed that he was on the Vat unwillingly—he became her home.
Her first perception of him was his arrogance and pride, his cursing speech at the UNESCO Conference, though the Grace she now knew would never utter such words.
Then she learnt of his own heart, how it bled for his children—Not enough, never enough, and though she was the one to deepen those wounds, it is that blood she bears, always, his and all the world's staining her hands.
Of his kindness, his devotion to study, his drive to learn of those foreign bodies, even in the face of the world's hatred for those beings, not once had Grace ever spoken of the astrophage with cruelty, only wonder in their existence.
Little by little, her heart opened up to him, he made a home inside her heart. For all she has done, she hoped she remained in his own, too.
Home, her Ryland.
Condemned to the stars.
Her Vat now sat empty, save for the remaining military personnel, all lights have dimmed, will remain so until the start of the next project, a continuation of research, any chance to warm the freeze that will surely come.
Without him, astrophage research without her lead scientist. Without her too. Someone had to pay for those crimes, ram caught in the thicket.
The Vat's rooms laid empty, all except hers. On her bed, colder than it had ever been, she sat, staring out the small glass of her window, at the very stars the Hail Mary will one day be a part of.
Alone. Eva Stratt was alone.
On the bed that once gave her warmth—no, it was not the bed, nor was it the blankets or sweaters or socks.
It was him, always him, her own little sun.
One day, it started, what now felt like a lifetime ago, this arrangement they used to share. Of her tucked into the crook of his arms, the heat of his body permeated the coldness that never seemed to leave her. Of his head laying in the divot of her lap, cold fingers carding through the sandalwood of his hair. Of his body wrapped around her own, arms that snaked their way around her waist, always pulling closer.
Early morning or late at night, time made no difference.
Now it was all that stood between them. Time, what they'll never share again.
Or her bed. The thought left her empty. Her sun, her warmth, forever gone. Even if the sun was not dying, without him, she thought she'd never feel warmth again.
-
He visited her that night.
There, across the too-large expanse of her bed, he sat, the blond of his hair and the yellow of his raincoat a beacon in the moonless night.
He should not be here, why was he here? She killed him, her finger on the trigger, he the one at the end of her barrel.
She tried to move, reach her hand out to his faceless form, hold on to his already fading image.
Oh, how she tried to reach him, but he did not let her.
Murderer, his face half-turned away, glint of starlight blinding his glasses, hiding the cerulean—or was it azure—of his eyes.
You're murdering me.
She could not look, could not bear to see him, screwing her eyes shut, willing him away.
Eva Stratt did not cry when she gave the execution order. Nor did she cry as she watched his body being wheeled away. Her neck remained stiff, she could not put down her crown just yet, not when the drugs were pumped into his system, not when he was strapped into his eternal prison, not when Earth lost visibility of the ship.
She could not remember the last time she cried, maybe her mother's funeral, maybe the night she took this position, executor of the innocent, destroyer of the planet, sacrifice and sinner.
Atmen tief durch, feelings re-entered her fingers, she opened her eyes—burning with damp heat—once more.
Stormy blue, darker than hers, she remembered now that she was face to face with him. Those eyes that once traced her form, once filled with warmth towards her, now cold and unfeeling.
His face, buried in her bed, buried into the grass, mud-stained, desperate, tears welling, highlighting those storms she fell in love with.
His mouth fell open, Wer Menschenblut vergießt, des Blut soll auch durch Menschen vergossen werden.
She blinked, and he was gone.
Eva Stratt did not sleep again that night.
-
The day after the Hail Mary made its successful launch, she called her lead researchers for a final meeting on the Vat.
LeClerc, Lokken, Komorov, Redell, Lamai, Hatch, about a dozen others of her team, and him.
His form was blurrier with the light of the sun beating into the windowed office, still he remained in the corner of her eye. She had tried looking at him, willed herself to face him head on, but he always disappeared. Instead, she looked towards her team.
“I take it you all know what you're here for,” her voice was consistent, no hint of her restlessness, of his haunting affecting her.
The team looked at her grimly, they did not respond, but by their expressions, she knew they too received that email.
Office of the Prosecutor,
Warrant of Arrest for Eva Maria Stratt.
The moment the Hail Mary launched, an emergency vote was held among members of the United Nations Security Council, a unanimous decision under Article 15 of the Rome Statute.
All the Governments in the world sought to prosecute her, demanding her crew as witnesses for her crimes.
“They can't force us to testify against you,” Lokken, the first to speak.
If she weren't so tired, Eva would have laughed at the irony, but she only held her gaze. “You of all people should know that these charges aren't for nought.”
Her eyes swept across the room, “I can count on one hand the number of you here by choice.”
“That doesn't mean we have to witness,” LeClerc, the next to respond.
“Oh, but you will. When you are called to the stand,” her voice rose, cutting across the tension of the room, “you will tell them I held you captive, threatened you with force, blackmailed you with your families. That you were coerced into joining this project, that every order bearing your name was forged and forced by my hand.”
“No,” not even Lamai could keep her leveled head.
“You will. And when I am found guilty and given my sentence, you will continue your research.”
“We'll be directionless,” Komorov snarled, though she knew that he did not believe that, that she had trained them to wear the mantle in her steed.
“No government wants to take accountability for the things they signed off on. Someone has to take responsibility, but I will not let that be any of you.”
Her voice softened, enough that they knew it was not the Director before them, but Eva.
“The work is not finished yet, and you all know what needs to be done.”
In the months leading up to the launch, Eva Stratt along with her primary team put together a plan for the projects after the end of the Task Force.
A series of projects stretched across the world—bio-engineered crops to withstand the cold, arctic animal breeding to increase their populations as a last resort food and material source, astrophage as a source of energy to mitigate the reliance of electricity, greenhouse infrastructure funded and constructed globally—all headed by the faces staring at her.
She needed them out of the firing squad, the world needed them still. And they knew, she made sure they knew.
Redell was the first to break eye contact, a howl of laughter echoing from him.
They could not change her mind, and they could not go against her orders. Absolute loyalty, after all, was what kept them here these past four years.
Believe in the Hail Mary, believe in your own ability to save the world, is what she left them with as they streamed out of the room.
Grace, too, left with them. Grace had left her too.
-
Later in the day, when all her team had left the Vat, they came for.
How insulting, she was more than willing to voluntarily summon herself, to use force against her—let alone her own nation's army, let alone the Vat's military personnel—four years and they still knew nothing of how she operated.
At least Carl was not amongst those forces, she was glad to have dismissed him the day before, though Eva knew, even in the midst of his anger at her decision, he knew it was their only option, and he too would never raise a hand against his own Director.
Well, the Chinese Navy never did like her co-opting the ship. Briefly, as they raised their guns toward her, Stratt wondered how much their government paid them to turn against her.
A division of the Bundeswehr Special Operations Forces surrounded her. Eva never considered herself patriotic, her own nation raising their weapons against her, though, solidified that belief.
This level of force was entirely unnecessary, a complete waste of resources. They were making a show of her, if Eva had to guess, the moment they dragged her off of the Vat, a drone or even a camera crew would be present, filming the start of the fall of her empire.
The Commander, she decided, based on the decorations lining his uniform, flourished a handcuff, a firm hand squeezing the metal around her wrists. She was sure they'd leave bruises, but the soldiers did not let her regard her bindings any further.
Against her back, though covered by the thick of her coat, she felt the coldness of those barrels shoved up against her form, less than kindly encouraging her to begin her walking, her descent into the underworld.
They wanted a reaction, but she would not give them the satisfaction. Eva Stratt kept her head held high, even as those weapons bore into her spine, even as the evening sun blinded her with its rays, even as the rain began to fall around them, harsh droplets sharp and cold in spite of the setting sun.
Above her, the whirr of a drone competed with the lapping waves. Behind her, a yell cut through the air.
“Wait! You can't-” the words died out before they were finished, but Eva knew that voice, it was one that should not have been here.
She whipped her head towards its direction.
Carl, just like Ryland, was a good man, it was no wonder they became friends so quickly.
Her eyes found his own, bringing her cuffed hands up, a signal to the soldiers to allow him entry, though she was not sure if they'd even allow her that.
They did, somehow, they chose to humor her request. Carl barreled towards her.
“You do not need to be here, you have been dismissed.”
He studied her for a moment before raising up what he held in his arms. Ryland's yellow raincoat and wool beanie.
“And let my Director catch a cold from the rain? He would never let me hear the end of it.” She did not miss how his voice cracked at the mention of him.
“You are not my bodyguard, nor am I your Director anymore. You are dismissed,” she spoke cooly, trying not to betray what she truly felt seeing those items again.
Carl said nothing in response, only draping the raincoat over her shoulders, then adjusted the beanie to cover her hair.
Sandalwood and cinnamon, a faint but persistent presence. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend he was beside her, but he was gone, forever, damned by her hand.
“Believe in the Hail Mary,” Carl whispered as he saluted, a habit the Vat's inhabitants picked up some three months into the start of the project. Eva never cared for such recognition, but it quickly became a recurring habit, and for once she was glad to see it.
She watched as the military men threatened Carl to leave before once more pushing at her to enter the jet.
Sunset over the water, her final sight of her Vat is of those soldiers standing guard, a rainbow mockingly cast overhead.
-
Aber die Gottlosen, spricht der HERR, haben keinen Frieden.
In all her years of traveling, whether by boat, plane, or car, Eva Stratt was not one to fall victim to motion sickness.
Nor was she one to believe in karmic justice.
Yet, the memory of Ryland's first arrival could not help but be brought up to the forefront of her mind as she was forced off of the speeding jet into yet another vehicle.
How he stumbled as he disembarked, nearly colliding with her. How he doubled-over into a traffic cone, how she pushed him into that meeting, giving him no time to prepare.
How cute he looked standing at the front of the room like a puppy surrounded by lions. How his hand reached to grip her own, how she led him to sit beside her. His stunned expression as she demanded him to stand, granting him full clearance, the day he became her First Officer, the most important person in her life.
A queen and her knight, Terra and Sol, fated to orbit, forever out of reach.
Now, her head spun, bile threatening to climb up her throat. The soldiers were not so kind as to offer her any nausea-relief pills, nor were they kind enough to let her catch her breath after touching down. If karma were to exist, surely this was the start of it.
And again, they were not kind enough to shield her from public view. No, they wanted a show, she the world's circus monkey.
Then again, she knew to expect it, the hatred and ridicule that came with her fall.
All around her, a crowd had gathered, all to vent their frustrations, to watch her demise. The chain linked fence the only thing keeping their hands from reaching her throat.
Kankerlijer.
Hoer.
Trut.
Her vision blurred, nausea climbing further, sharp pain radiating from her temple, iron and nickel invading the air, crimson coating her vision.
And then she felt it, the stone that connected to her temple.
Only then did the soldiers shove her into the car, knocking the back of her skull against the seat.
She could take it, she had to take this. It was her duty to bear it, retribution in the wake of all she had done.
Wer unter euch ohne Sünde ist, der werfe den ersten Stein auf sie.
-
They held her in the Detention Centre overnight. A small, damp room, a perpetual musk lingering in the air. Thin mattress and an even thinner blanket, a room stripped bare of its usual furniture. A rusted metal door kept her from leaving.
So this was the famed ICC Detention Centre. At least her stay would be short, the beginnings of her trials set for the next day.
They were already treating her like a convicted criminal, law demanded she be treated as innocent, guilt not yet proven by the Court. Yet, a part of her was relieved, she was a criminal, she already was guilty, this was what she deserved. This small room bearing nothing but a bed and a strip of fabric, she was not deserving of anything more.
And then he came, standing before her, filling the otherwise empty space.
Grace, the sinner's first visitor. Grace, what did not belong to her.
Wrapped in his raincoat and beanie, blood still caking her skin, he visited her.
His hand reached towards her, stopping against her cheek, index dragging down its length, smearing crimson, staining his skin.
The reddened finger left her, rising to rest and cover his eye, a mirror to her own. His lips curled, baring his canines.
“Auge um Auge, Zahn um Zahn; wie er hat einen Menschen verletzt, so soll man ihm wieder tun.”