I’ll be the Red Ranger
Chapter 115 – Waking Up

- Alan Aquila -

At first, Alan could neither see nor hear anything. In those initial days—if they could even be called days—it was as though he were submerged in a deep, dark ocean where nothing existed. Not even time seemed to pass; perhaps he wasn't even aware of its passage. It was a void, a blank expanse where his consciousness floated aimlessly, untethered to reality.

But gradually, over an indeterminate span that could have been days or weeks, distant echoes began to reach him. Fragments of perception seeped in like tiny cracks forming in the surface of glass, allowing slivers of light to pierce the darkness. The sounds from the world above started to echo in the depths of his mind—muffled voices, soft weeping—but he couldn't discern who they belonged to or why they resonated with such sorrow.

More time slipped by. Days blended into weeks, weeks into months. Alan had no concept of how long he had been adrift in this abyss. Then, one day, a blinding light shattered the darkness—so intense it was like staring directly into a sun after an eternity of night.

He felt his eyelids tremble, heavy as if they had never moved before. Sounds began to coalesce into waves of confusion: muffled voices, the irregular beeping of monitors, a persistent buzzing that seemed to emanate from within his own head. Sensations flooded back—the first hints of physicality anchoring him to his body rather than the endless sea of emptiness.

Alan sensed he was back in his own flesh, no longer lost in the void. He willed his arm to move, but it remained stubbornly still, devoid of strength. He tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. His body was a prison of flesh and bone, trapping him between dreams and reality—a state both alien and hauntingly familiar.

But he refused to surrender. Alan would not accept confinement. His mind grappled with the scattered pieces of his memory, attempting to assemble a puzzle where none of the parts seemed to fit: ‘Where am I? Who am I? How much time has passed?’

Then, like a thunderclap, reality burst through the fog. Sensations sharpened—the feel of sheets against his skin, the sterile scent of the room, the uncomfortable tug of tubes and needles invading his body. His heart raced, not from physical exertion but from a primal instinct shouting from deep within: ‘You are alive. Wake up. Fight!’

Summoning every ounce of willpower, Alan forced his heavy eyelids to part. Slowly, painfully, but enough to let slivers of light filter in. The world around him came into blurry focus—a mosaic of shapes and colors that gradually sharpened. He had emerged from the abyss back into a reality that was both familiar and utterly changed.

At last, Alan had opened his eyes.

At first, his vision was blurred, but he could make out a figure beside him: someone with short black hair, a weary face, and eyes brimming with tears. He didn't need to think hard to recognize his sister.

She was speaking, but the words were muffled, almost unintelligible.

"I'm sorry, Alan... but I can't make this decision alone," Sophie Aquila said, cradling her brother's face gently.

Alan tried to muster the strength to respond, but his throat was dry, and no sound came out. The most he could manage was a slow blink. Even staying conscious was a struggle.

His eyes roamed the room, and he noticed other medical personnel alongside his sister. One of them approached his bedside, passing a scanner over him, the device emitting soft beeps and flashes.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Alan had a coherent thought: ‘So, I'm no longer on GL581.’ Simple as it was, the realization began to stir his memories, helping him recall what had happened.

As he endeavored to piece together the events—the attack, the blinding pain—one of the doctors spoke nearby.

"Speaking will be difficult for now, but can you blink your eyes?" the doctor asked.

Alan blinked once.

"Good. I need to test your cognitive abilities. It will be basic for now. Do you know who you are? Blink once for yes and twice for no."

Alan blinked once.

"Do you remember what happened to you?" the doctor inquired.

Alan paused before blinking twice.

"All right. I'll try to explain a few things," the doctor began, detailing how Alan had been found and the initial state of his body.

Alan listened, recalling the attack. It was a surprise he'd survived at all.

"However, even after using the VAT, we had to keep you in a coma. The Orks have developed a new type of virus that lingers on their weapons. It's capable of counteracting the VAT's effects and gradually consuming the victim," the doctor explained.

‘They must have found a cure if they've awakened me,’ Alan thought, a flicker of hope stirring within him, though his face remained impassive.

"Unfortunately, we don't yet have a cure for the virus. For now, we're calling it ORK-X01. But we have a temporary option that would allow you to live a relatively normal life," the doctor continued, though Alan sensed a strained optimism in his tone. "However, to make this work, we need to remove all the infected areas. They can't be regenerated using the VAT, which is why we needed to bring you back to consciousness."

At that moment, Sophie began to sob quietly beside him.

"We would need to amputate both of your legs. You could use robotic prosthetics, but they can't be regenerated. Only then can we keep the virus at bay and allow you to stay awake. Your sister couldn't make this decision for you, so we needed to ask you directly," the doctor said gently.

Alan pondered for a moment. Though he couldn't express it, he didn't want to return to the darkness. That was his greatest fear now—to lose the consciousness he had finally regained.

Without hesitation, he blinked once.

"Are you certain? It's an experimental treatment," the doctor pressed.

Again, Alan blinked once.

"Very well. We'll proceed immediately," the doctor affirmed, nodding to the medical team.

Sophie walked alongside the gurney, tears silently tracing paths down her cheeks as she clung tightly to her brother's hand. Even as Alan was wheeled into the surgical center, she refused to let go, her grip firm—a lifeline anchoring him to the world.

Alan's mind drifted in and out of a hazy fog. His thoughts were fragmented, cutting in and out like static on a broken transmission. Flashes of bright lights, snippets of muffled conversations, the cold touch of metal instruments—all blurred together. He remembered the prick of a needle, the sensation of a sedative pulling him back under.

When he finally resurfaced, he was back in his room. The sterile white walls greeted him, monitors beeped softly in the background, and the faint hum of medical equipment filled the air. Sophie's face hovered above him, her eyes red-rimmed but calmer now, the tracks of her earlier tears fading. He had no idea how much time had passed since the surgery or how long he had been confined to this bed.

Questions swirled in his mind, muddled and persistent. How were Oliver and Isabela? Had they made it out alive from that harrowing ordeal? Memories of the mission flooded back—the chaos, the onslaught of the Ork attack. He wondered if his friends had fared better than he had, hoped they hadn't suffered similar fates.

Days turned into weeks as Alan regained strength, each small victory hard-won. The simple act of moving his fingers required intense concentration, and his voice, when it finally returned, was raspy and weak. Relearning to walk was the greatest challenge of all. His new robotic legs—sleek yet alien—responded sluggishly at first. Every step was a deliberate effort, a reminder of what he'd lost and what he had yet to regain.

One afternoon, as he painstakingly practiced walking along the parallel bars in his room, a holographic projection caught his eye. Sophie was seated nearby, watching the display intently. The image showed a massive arena that resembled a futuristic battleground. A young man moved slowly among deactivated robots, their metallic forms casting long shadows under the arena lights.

"O-Oliver?" Alan's voice was barely above a whisper.

Sophie turned, surprised. "Ah! You're watching too?" she said softly. "They came to visit you just before the doctor suggested the surgery. Sorry, I didn't know if I should tell you or not, especially since you're still recovering."

"H-how are they?" Alan asked, his throat tightening.

"They were worried about you," Sophie replied. "Oliver is trying to secure a spot to become a Ranger."

"They're broadcasting it?" he asked, a mixture of hope and envy creeping into his voice.

"Yes, for the first time. It seems he's doing well." She offered a small, encouraging smile.

Alan felt a heavy knot forming in his chest. While his friends advanced, pushing forward in their ambitions, he was left behind—tethered to hospital rooms and rehabilitation sessions. He didn't blame them; it wasn't their fault. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being left in the shadows. Regret gnawed at him. From the beginning, he hadn't taken the Academy as seriously as he should have. His pacifist ideals, while noble, had perhaps made him complacent. He wondered, late at night, if his reluctance to engage had put his friends in danger.

"That's... great," he said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Deep inside, the desire to be out there with them burned fiercely.

But that path seemed closed to him now. He glanced down at his mechanical legs—wondrous feats of engineering yet stark reminders of his limitations. With these, the chances of joining a Ranger division were slim to none. The Rangers demanded peak physical condition, and though technology had advanced, prejudice against augmented soldiers lingered.

His thoughts were interrupted by the quiet hiss of the door sliding open. A nurse entered, carrying a tray with a syringe poised atop it.

"Your injection is ready," she announced gently.

Alan returned to his bed, the momentary distraction fading. The nurse approached and began the routine procedure. The VAT injections were a daily need, a way to keep the Ork virus from ravaging his system. As the serum entered his bloodstream, a familiar burn spread through his veins, momentarily overwhelming his senses.

In that searing moment, a resolve crystallized in his mind. Perhaps the Rangers were out of reach, but there were other paths. Paths where his new condition might not be a hindrance but an asset.

"Sophie," he began quietly after the nurse had left, his eyes meeting his sister's. "I need to talk to Dad. I want him to pull some strings so I can get into the Officers' Academy."

She blinked, surprised. "Are you sure about this?" Concern tinged her voice. "You've just started recovering, and the stress—"

"I'm sure," Alan interrupted, his tone firm despite the lingering weakness. "The Mecha Pilot Corps. That's where I need to be."

Search the lightnovelworld.cc website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.