Date a Bride (Date A Live Fanfiction)

"Damn it, damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!"

He cursed, hurling anything he could grab across the cabin. Instruments clattered to the floor, a chair overturned, and his boot slammed into the metal wall with a furious kick that left his foot throbbing.

The crew watched in tense silence, each member stepping cautiously back as he continued his rampage, throwing and kicking anything within reach.

"How...?" he growled, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the console. "How did she tank that blast without turning to ash...?"

His voice dropped to a near whisper, thick with disbelief and barely contained fury.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. The Blast—capable of obliterating an entire city—was supposed to reduce her to nothing. Nothing!

The Bandersnatches had failed miserably, so Plan B had been put into motion: neutralize the spirit completely.

It didn't matter if it meant forfeiting his own chance at recognition, so long as Artemisia didn't get it either.

If she were left empty-handed, forced to share in his humiliation, it would all be worth it. He'd gambled everything on this risk to ensure that, one way or another, no one walked away with glory.

But to see the spirit survive... and with so little damage? His plan had crumbled in the wake of that unbearable truth.

His eyes darted to the small monitor in his cabin as he took a shaky breath, trying to calm himself.

Yet, what he saw on the screen only fueled the flames of his anger.

"Artemisia..."

There she was, standing tall and unshaken in the clearing. Before her, the spirit knelt on the ground, shoulders drooping in a posture of complete defeat.

"H-How did she..." he stammered, his eyes widening in disbelief.

He couldn't understand how, in such a short time, Artemisia had managed to bring the spirit to this pathetic state. It shouldn't have been possible—certainly not this quickly.

His anger surged, hot and volatile.

"Damn it!"

He slammed a fist down onto the console, a jolt reverberating through the cabin.

One of the crew members flinched but held their ground, clearly uncertain, yet unwilling to disturb him.

"Orders, sir?" they asked tentatively.

He clenched his jaw, lowering himself slowly into his chair, adjusted to its place by an assistant.

"Orders?... What orders are you waiting for?" He leaned back, covering his eyes with a weary hand as he released a long sigh.

"She's already done all the work...There's nothing left for us to do now. Every damn step she's ahead... like we're nothing but bystanders."

He thought about the situation. If only Artemisia would keep her promise this time and actually give them some credit... but what difference would it even make? After all his time serving under Westcott, he still hadn't received any recognition.

They were forgotten workers, doing everything yet acknowledged by no one. His only hope had been to capture that spirit, and with that chance now gone—

"Huh?!"

A sudden beep from his monitor jolted him. Someone was trying to establish a connection.

"Miss Artemisia, is there anything you w—"

But the voice on the other end wasn't who he'd expected. A familiar laugh echoed through the speakers.

"Heh-heh... Looks like you've failed once again..."

"S-Sir Westcott!"

Yes. It was none other than Isaac Westcott himself.

"My sincerest apologies, sir," he stammered, immediately straightening in his seat as if Westcott could somehow see him.

"Apologies? Oh, there's no need for that. I never had high expectations to begin with."

The words stung, and he clenched his fists beneath the console, forcing himself to keep his voice steady.

"W-We... we encountered unforeseen resistance, sir. The spirit—she's far more resilient than anticipated."

"Clearly... Perhaps I should reconsider the value of keeping you and your crew around. It seems Artemisia has proven more competent than an entire airship team."

He bit his tongue, resisting the urge to snap back. Taking a deep breath, he replied, "Sir, give us one more chance—"

"Say... was she a Spirit?"

Westcott dismissed his pleas entirely, catching him off guard with a question he hadn't expected.

"What? Y-yes, Of course, she is sir..."

"Heh-heh, well then, you've clarified that, hmm?" Westcott sounded pleased. "So, this mission wasn't a total loss, even if all we gained was that knowledge..."

"Y-Yeah..."

A bead of sweat formed on his forehead as he heard Westcott's low, menacing chuckle from the other end. He wasn't sure where this was leading.

All we gained was that knowledge? But hadn't Artemisia already captured the spirit? What was Westcott talking about?

"...So, you said you wanted another chance, didn't you?"

There was no time to dwell on the questions swirling in his mind as Westcott continued speaking.

"Y-Yes sir... another chance...I promise, this time, I'll capture the next spirit myself and deliver it to you—"

"There's no need for that."

"Huh? W-What do you mean, sir?"

"Listen closely," Westcott's tone darkened. "As you can see, The spirit is about to shift into her inverse form."

"I-Inverse form?"

His eyes darted to the small monitor in his cabin, and only then did he see what Westcott meant.

He had no idea what had happened while he wasn't paying attention, but what he saw on the screen now was anything but good.

"What... what kind of monster has she become..."

On the screen, the spirit's once-familiar shape was warping, her form twisting as a dark aura surged around her, shadows pooling at her feet like living ink.

"Not a monster—a piece of art" Westcott's voice crackled back in a low hiss, "Now pay attention. What you see before you is raw power, unchecked by any limits or conscience. The spirit's true potential."

He gripped the edge of his console, unable to tear his eyes from the screen.

"Sir, this... this is beyond anything we've seen before..."

"Precisely—which is why I'll say it once, and only once. I'm giving you the chance you requested. The chance to prove me wrong about your worth."

A heavy silence filled the cabin. The crew's eyes flickered anxiously to their captain, who stood tense, a bead of sweat tracing down his brow.

"What... what would you have me do, sir?" he managed, forcing down the tremor in his voice.

Westcott's laugh seeped into the cabin's stale air. "Simple. The Astral Cannon is prepped and ready. Let her taste her own destruction. And when the time is right... you'll be the one to strike. The perfect closing act."

"A—Astral...! B-But sir... if the Astral Cannon fires... I'll—We'll be caught in the blast..."

"Precisely. A clean slate," Westcott replied with chilling indifference as if the man's fate were trivial. "You succeed, or you don't come back. Survival isn't the point—though, by all means, try to escape if you think you can clear the blast radius."

The monitor's feed flickered, and a close-up of the spirit's monstrous form appeared, casting a ghostly light over the console.

She sat in the clearing like a wrathful god, energy swirling around her as her inverse transformation was half nearing completion.

He gritted his teeth, casting a hard gaze over the cabin. Refusing this order would be as good as signing his own death sentence.

"Yes, sir,"

However, if he accepted, there was a sliver of a chance—however slim—that he might survive.

"Good." Westcott's voice dripped with satisfaction. "Then go make yourself useful."

With that, the line went dead, leaving him with only the faint hum of the console, the flickering screen, and the cold knowledge of what awaited him in the field.

"Fuck..."

He stared blankly at the console, his breath coming short as he slumped back onto the chair, letting his shoulders fall heavily against the chair support.

"Sir..."

His eyes flicked toward the hesitant voice. One of the crew members had stepped forward.

"If the Astral Cannon fires..." They faltered, catching the dark expression in his eyes, but he gave a curt nod, allowing them to continue.

The crew member shifted uneasily, swallowing before speaking again. "Sir, the Astral Cannon—its stored solar energy... It was designed to channel decades of solar power into a single strike. Even if it hits the target dead-on, the fallout..." They hesitated, looking pale. "The entire region could be affected. Nearby inhabited areas—towns, cities... They'll all suffer the aftereffects."

The captain closed his eyes, a wave of nausea rising. The extent of the devastation was sickeningly clear, yet he didn't stop the crew member from voicing what everyone in the cabin was silently dreading.

"It's... it has a blast radius of more thantwo hundred kilometers (~124 miles). And the aftershocks—seismic disruptions, radiation—could reach twice that." They continued, eyes downcast, barely able to look at him. "The human cost..."

"Fuck you."

"...Huh?"

"S-Sir, what did you just—"

"F-U-C-K Y-O-U... Did you hear me now?" He snapped, shoving himself up, fists clenched.

"Fuck all of you!"

His rage lashed out, finger-stabbing toward each member of the crew. The one who had approached him took a shaky step back, wide-eyed.

"You think I don't already know that? Huh? You think this is news to me?" His eyes blazing as he glared from one face to the next. "Is dumping your guilt on me supposed to make the blood on all your hands feel lighter? You think that helps?"

He rubbed his eyes, stalking around the cramped cabin like a caged animal.

"Motherfuckers... FUCK! FUUUUUUCK!"

He stopped, pulling his hand away from his face, his eyes bloodshot.

"Why...why didn't any of you Motherfuckers speak up when Sir Westcott was on the line, huh? Isn't he the one who should know exactly what we're about to do?"

"Sir—"

"You shut the fuck up when I'm talking, got it? Or I'll make sure you'll do it for the rest of yourtwo-cent life."

He jabbed a finger toward the crew member beside him, who shrank back, eyes cast down.

"Sigh...FUCK!..."

He let out a frustrated sigh, then slumped back into his chair, rubbing his temples.

The cabin fell into a strained, almost suffocating silence. No one dared breathe too loudly, let alone speak.

"Prepare for withdrawal, set the timer on the Astral Cannon to ten seconds before impact."

The command rippled through the cabin like a shockwave.

A ten-second timer?

The crew exchanged uneasy glances, fully aware that ten seconds wasn't nearly enough to escape the blast radius. Yet, not a single complaint passed their lips.

They knew from the moment they'd signed on that survival was never guaranteed—not against the monsters they'd been tasked to face.

Spirits. Beings of unimaginable power capable of annihilating entire cities with a single step. For humanity to have any chance, DEM's forces had to fight without hesitation and sacrifice without question.

They were expendable assets in this war, bound to the organization with an unspoken vow: sever all ties, and forget any life outside. Families, friends, even the most distant memories of a normal life—they'd all been left behind.

They were, in every sense, ghosts.

"We're so dead..." A dry chuckle escaped his lips, as he watched his crew exchange silent, solemn nods.

Part 2:

The teleportation left Artemisia's vision hazy for a split second, but the sterile, polished hallway of the airship snapped quickly into focus.

She steadied herself, took a sharp breath, and strode purposefully toward the command cabin. They were now over 400 kilometers from the island—the very place where the spirit had been, moments away from her inverse transformation.

The airship's purpose was clear: monitor the situation, ready to intervene only if things spiraled out of control.

After all, spirits were rare enough to begin with. Thehad been hunting them down for years, with no sign of stopping, which led In the past two years, to only be able to record one confirmed spirit sighting—and that had been two years ago.

Spirits had either been obliterated or gone into hiding, and they hadn't captured a spirit alive until two months ago, when they secured, or Nia Honjo as she called herself. Westcott had poured resources into that operation, and it was clear that capturing a spirit alive had far more value to himthan simply eliminating the threat.

So, why deploy the Astral Cannon now—a weapon of destruction even more catastrophic than a nuclear strike—The cannon's blast would obliterate not just the spirit, but everything within a massive radius. It was complete overkill, and it made no sense given Westcott's goals.

How had they even secured authorization for its use? And even if they somehow managed to get permission, why would they use such a weapon on a mission that was already contained?

She didn't understand. She was aware they were a bunch of clowns, but to reach this level of irresponsibility and stupidity was beyond comprehension.

Taking a deep sigh, she arrived at an imposing metal door. She placed her hand on the biometric scanner, inputting the cabin password with practiced precision. The door hissed open, granting her entry with a mechanical whoosh.

Inside, the atmosphere was tense, charged with anticipation. Monitors flickered with a myriad of data and images, their glow illuminating the faces of crew members hunched over consoles. Her eyes were immediately drawn to Sir Isaac Ray Pelham Westcott, who stood at the helm, his gaze fixed intently on the screens before him—The smile on his face was...

"Sir Westcott," she greeted, keeping her tone formal even as a twist of anxiety tightened in her gut. Beside him, Ellen Mira Mathers stood with her usual composure, arms crossed, a small, knowing smile tugged at the edge of her lips As their eyes met.

"..."

"Artemisia," Westcott spoke, his gaze fixed firmly on the screens. "You've arrived just in time."

She adjusted her stance, folding her hands down as she lowered her gaze in shame.

"I... I apologize, sir... If I had completed my mission sooner, the spirit would already be in our hands, and we wouldn't be in this... situation."

She held back the questions brewing in her mind, though one blared louder than the rest: How had those fools managed to get authorization to use the Astral Cannon? After all, The only one who could grant the full permission was none other than Westcott himself.

"There's no need to stir up a fuss over those affairs. You have done ever so well. In fact, I dare say our present circumstances shall precipitate the best-case scenario"

"The best?"

Throughout their exchange, Westcott hadn't spared her a single glance. His gaze was fixed intently on the flickering screens around him, the cold light casting an unsettling glow across his face. The big smile he wore never wavered, as if he was savoring a private amusement.

Curious, Artemisia followed his gaze, eyes narrowing as she focused on the screens.

"...!"

A sudden, blinding flash erupted across the monitor, and she instinctively raised her hand to shield her eyes, fingers spread just enough to peer through the glare. She squinted, struggling to make sense of the chaotic images.

As her vision slowly adjusted, something on the screen came into focus, and a chill ran down her spine.

"...That's—"

Her breath caught, words slipping away as she grasped the scale of what she was seeing.