Ideon walks in from the edge of the map,
not summoned, but remembered
by the last star still awake.
The universe is already a bruise
when the three hulks lock,
rust‑red joints agreeing to become a god.
Every cockpit is a confession booth.
Cosmo’s hands, small storms on the levers,
translate grief into vectors and velocity.
Children cry in the back of the throat of the giant,
and circuits bloom—
wrist‑light, sword‑light, gun that is not a gun
but a straight line drawn through history.
You were never a machine,
only an argument the cosmos had with itself
about how much power is too much prayer.
Your Ide gauge rises like a bad thought,
like a chorus of almost‑extinctions,
each impact a metronome tick
closer to the last downbeat.
War names you “asset,”
cult names you “Legendary Giant God,”
both are wrong;
you are the moment a mirror realizes
it has been reflecting only funerals.
Every faction lays its flags at your feet,
hoping infinite energy means
infinite exceptions to consequence.
Inside, relationships fray to filaments—
linguists bargaining with mysteries,
soldiers bargaining with sleep,
lovers bargaining with the next jump.
You listen, enormous and impassive,
to their bargaining chip hearts
and calculate the odds of redemption
on a scale big enough
that one universe weighs less
than a single terrified breath.
When you finally answer,
it is not with doctrine but with erasure.
The Gun speaks once,
a white‑out across constellations,
and the Solo Ship, the Buff Clan,
the careful scaffolding of sides and stories,
folds into a single, equal silence.
Yet in the afterimage,
beyond where any camera can pan,
there is the faint idea of children
running through a garden not yet drawn,
their shadows long, unarmed,
their laughter unmeasured—
as if your last act was not destruction
but editorial:
striking through everything
that could not learn
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