The Last Choice [Melantha Hastings - History Pt 4]

Posted on Thu Aug 27th, 2026 @ 2:01am by Ensign Melantha Hastings

1,373 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Younger Years
Location: Various
Timeline: April, 1996

The argument had begun three weeks earlier. It had started, like most family arguments in houses such as Hastings Manor, with perfect manners and quiet voices. Which somehow made them worse. Rain battered softly against the dining room windows while the emergency generator hummed somewhere deep beneath the estate foundations, the now-familiar mechanical vibration reminding everyone present that England itself had become increasingly unreliable.

Power outages had become routine. Fuel restrictions worse. Road checkpoints now stood on major highways leading into London. Military aircraft crossed Berkshire skies so frequently no one looked up anymore. The world had moved beyond uncertainty. Now— Civilization was actively collapsing. And the Hastings family had been pretending for far too long.

“You are not going.” Sarah Hastings’ voice remained perfectly controlled. Which meant she was furious. The Marchioness sat at the head of the long dining table, silver untouched before her, posture immaculate despite exhaustion that had visibly aged her ten years over the last six months.

Across from her sat twenty-two-year-old Melantha. Arms folded. Jaw set. Determined. “I was not asking permission.”

That had been a mistake. James looked up immediately. At thirty-one, the future Sixteenth Marquess of Hastings had begun carrying himself with the same unbearable certainty as their father. “You are behaving irrationally.”

Mel turned sharply. “I am volunteering.”

“You are leaving an estate protected by military cordons to enter an active war zone.”

“I am assisting civilian evacuation teams.”

“You are not trained.”

“No one is trained anymore.”

Silence. Oliver sat slouched near the opposite end of the table. Twenty-nine years old. Angrier every day since Robert’s death. His glass sat half-empty. Or half-full. It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell with Oliver. “She’s right.”

Sarah turned immediately. “Do not start.”

Oliver leaned back. “People are dying across half of Europe and we’re sitting in this bloody mausoleum pretending titles still matter.”

“Oliver.” James’ warning tone failed entirely.

Oliver laughed bitterly. “Oh spare me.” He gestured broadly toward the darkened windows. “Robert is dead.” Silence slammed into the room. No one said his name anymore. Not willingly. Not since the sealed Royal Navy letter had arrived. Oliver stood suddenly. Violent energy radiating from every movement. “Thousands are dead. Governments are falling apart. NATO command structures barely exist and half the bloody aristocracy in England is still having dinner parties pretending civilization isn’t ending.”

Sarah stood. “Enough.”

Mel spoke quietly. “I cannot stay here.”

Every head turned. She looked at her mother first. Then James. Then Oliver. Finally—Edward. Her father had not spoken once. The Fifteenth Marquess sat near the fireplace, one hand resting against the armrest of the old leather chair, eyes tired in ways she had never seen before. He had aged immeasurably since Robert. Mel held his gaze. “People need help.”

Sarah’s voice sharpened immediately. “You are the daughter of this family.”

“No.” Mel stood. For the first time in weeks emotion broke through. Not anger. Something deeper. Grief. “Robert is dead because everyone keeps waiting for someone else to act.” The room fell silent. She looked toward the rain-streaked windows. Toward the estate that had protected generations of Hastings men and women. Protected all of them. Except Robert. “I cannot sit safely here while children are dying in refugee camps across Europe.”

James stood now too. “This family has responsibilities.”

Mel turned. “And what good have those responsibilities done anyone lately?”

That landed harder than intended. Sarah looked physically wounded. James said nothing. Oliver stared at her with quiet pride. And Edward, he...Finally moved. Slowly he stood. The room instinctively quieted. He crossed toward the windows, hands clasped behind his back. For several long seconds no one spoke. Then very quietly— “Let her go.”

Sarah turned sharply. “Edward—”

“No.” His voice remained calm. Firm. Final. He looked at Mel. There was sadness there. But also understanding. The same understanding he had shown her sitting on a stone wall in Cornwall fourteen years earlier. “She was never built for standing safely on the sidelines.”

Silence. Sarah stared at her husband. James lowered his eyes. Oliver smiled faintly. Edward stepped closer to his daughter. And very softly said “You carry the pain of others too easily.” A pause. “It has always been who you are.” The decision had been made.

Three days later Melantha Hastings left England.

---

Southern France no longer resembled Europe. The roads were chaos. Burned civilian vehicles abandoned along shattered motorways. Entire villages evacuated. Temporary refugee camps stretched across once-beautiful countryside where thousands waited desperately for transport that rarely came. The humanitarian convoy had begun outside Marseille. Twenty transport trucks. Medical teams. Civilian volunteers. Military escort vehicles operating under what remained of NATO coordination. Mel moved continuously. Three weeks without proper sleep. Children separated from parents. Burn victims.
Trauma casualties. Starvation. Dehydration. She had stopped noticing exhaustion days earlier.

The world had become suffering measured in numbers too large to understand. A medic shoved another supply crate toward her. “We need these moved to Truck Six.” Mel caught it automatically. Nearby a child no older than six sat wrapped in thermal blankets staring silently at nothing. He had not spoken in two days. She knelt beside him. “Hello.”

No answer. That was becoming common. The distant sound reached her first. Wrong. Low mechanical vibration moving fast across the ruined highway. The soldiers escorting the convoy reacted instantly. Weapons raised. Shouting. One screamed—“Contact!”

The world exploded. Gunfire erupted from the western ridgeline. Transport trucks lurched violently. People began screaming. Mel dropped the supply crate and instinctively moved toward the nearest cluster of civilians. Three figures emerged through smoke. At first— Human. Then wrong. Too large. Too fast.

Augments. Retreating soldiers trying to force passage south toward extraction zones. One NATO vehicle erupted in flame twenty meters away. The shockwave threw bodies across broken pavement. A woman screamed beside her. Mel turned, And saw the child from moments earlier still sitting frozen beside the truck.

Time slowed. She ran. Another explosion. The world disappeared in white fire. Then... then there was nothing...

---

She became aware of voices first. Distant. Distorted. Pain unlike anything human language could adequately describe. She tried opening her eyes. Bright lights above her. Hospital ceiling. Machines.

Movement. Someone was crying. Her mother. She recognized the sound immediately.

“…internal trauma extensive…” A man’s voice. Medical. “…neurological damage catastrophic…”

Another voice. “…there is no surgical intervention available…”

The words drifted through pain. Then, Her father. Quiet. Steady. Terrified. A voice she had never heard afraid before. “What options remain?” Silence. Long silence.

“There is experimental cryogenic suspension technology currently under development.” Another pause. “It may preserve neurological structures long enough for future medical intervention.”

Sarah. Shaking now. “You’re saying you cannot save her.”

The doctor answered softly. “Not now.”

More silence. Mel tried speaking. Nothing came. She could hear them. But her body no longer obeyed. Edward’s voice again. “How long?”

A hesitation. “We cannot predict.” Minutes passed. Or hours. Melantha was not sure.

Then suddenly, Warm fingers wrapped around her hand. She forced her eyes open. Her father sat beside the hospital bed. Older. So much older than he had looked weeks earlier. But smiling. Trying to smile.

“Hello darling.”

She wanted to ask what happened. Could not speak.

He squeezed her hand gently. “It appears…” A faint laugh. “…the world has become considerably more foolish than expected.” Even now. Even here. Trying to comfort her. Tears blurred her vision.

Edward leaned closer. And for the first time in her entire life— She saw fear in his eyes. Real fear. “They are going to put you to sleep.”

She blinked weakly. He kept smiling. Too hard. Too forced. “Just for a little while.”

Her vision darkened slightly. Machines humming louder now. Doctors moving around the room. Edward brushed hair gently away from her forehead. And whispered— “I will be here when you wake up.”

The medication entered her bloodstream. Warm. Heavy. Darkness creeping inward. Her final thought was simple. Safe. Certain. Father will be here. She closed her eyes expecting morning. Instead, She slept through four centuries. And when she woke… Everyone she had ever loved had already become history.

==

Ensign Melantha Hastings
Counselor
USS Tokyo

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