CHAPTER 5

[Log Entry: No. 2 / Mountain Zone―Campsite]

“AND SO I TELL HIM, GO ON, GET TO WORK ON THE TRENCH. And Lotus comes back all like . . .”

　Cactus formed two rings with the thumb and index finger of each hand, then brought them to his eyes and peered through them. Apparently, he was simulating a pair of glasses to round out his impersonation of Lotus.

　“The trench is ready, yes, yes!” Cactus spoke in a high-pitched screech to make sure we got the point.

　I had to give him some credit. The portrayal wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

　He continued in his normal voice. “And so I follow him back, expecting to check it out, right? And it turns out the thing’s only knee-deep! I mean, what, is it supposed to be a trench or a pit trap? I hop in to show him why it won’t work, but he starts pouring cement into the thing! The stuff hardens right up, and wouldn’t you know it, just then a buncha machines decide to show up. So now I’m batting away enemies, stuck in a knee-deep trench . . . I tell ya, I thought I was done for!”

　As he spoke, Cactus swept his arms wide and dramatically reenacted the motions of the story. I didn’t find the tale particularly interesting, but the rest of the squad seemed to love it. They were sprawled out comfortably, erupting in great fits of laughter at each twist.

　Despite my disinterest, I maintained the appearance of a captivated listener. To do otherwise would have been careless. I was certainly capable of feigning a laugh, even when faced with dismally uninspired material.

　And to be honest, I wasn’t alone. No. 4’s smile seemed a bit forced, too. At first, he’d listened attentively, but partway through Cactus’s tale, it seemed to click for him that this wasn’t the kind of thing you were meant to take seriously.

　In contrast, No. 3 was very literally clutching his sides with laughter. At a glance, it seemed he and Cactus got along quite well, and I’d noticed he was also pretty friendly with Phlox.

　Phlox, for his part, had probably heard the current story dozens of times. His laugh was pained, as if the humor for him was in the fact that the captain was still getting mileage out of this particular standby.

　On the other hand, No. 6’s laugh seemed slightly condescending. I’d discovered him to be a bit standoffish, though I knew from his profile that he’d scored staggeringly well on all of his tests. The discrepancy between the data and the way he conducted himself in person was surprising; I’d need to keep my guard up around No. 6.

　Next to him, No. 9 and No. 22 sat side by side. Both were smiling and seemed to be enjoying themselves, if not to the extent of No. 3. One could tell at a glance that they had honest, straightforward personalities.

　According to the reports I’d been provided with, No. 22 was supposed to have a bit of a timid side. That might have stemmed from a lack of confidence. Perhaps what faith he lacked in himself he instead placed in those around him. Or maybe he acted the way he did out of habit, long used to following the lead of his twin model, No. 21.

　No. 9’s smile, though . . . That betrayed his sincere nature. The more contact I had with the Healer, the more my initial impression solidified into certainty.

　He was also exasperatingly kind. Just earlier, for example, I’d bent over to pick up some materials with my injured hand. No. 9 had dashed over to admonish me. “Stop! You mustn’t lift anything heavy until it heals! Here, I’ll carry those for you.” He then gently took the items from my grip. Honestly, they weren’t of any notable weight to begin with.

　No. 9 acted that way not just toward me but toward everyone. He was always carefully watching the other members of the squadron, making sure nobody was feeling unwell or overexerting themselves. No. 9 seemed intent on finding any way he could to contribute to the squad. I attributed it to feelings of inferiority for being unable to participate in combat, even though such feelings were wholly unnecessary.

　No. 9 didn’t need to feel inferior for being unable to fight, as he was the very lifeline holding the YoRHa Experimental M Squadron together. If he were to die, all the squadron’s members would lose their means of resurrection.

　But putting speculation aside, here we were―myself, No. 3, No. 4, No. 6, No. 9, No. 22, and the Resistance members Cactus and Phlox―all sitting together listening to the captain’s story. Black, No. 21, and Lotus were not present. The three had gone off to (according to Black) conduct a strategy meeting: No. 21 because of his role in providing squad reconnaissance and Lotus because, despite his quirks, he was thoroughly familiar with the area. Black’s choices seemed reasonable enough.

　However, I had reservations about Black spending much time in close proximity to No. 21. The Scanner might be more perceptive than Black gave him credit for. A single slipped word or miniscule shift in expression might be more than enough to trigger No. 21’s suspicion. Ultimately, it was a matter of whether Black was sufficiently in control of his actions or not. This was, after all, the same man reckless enough to utter my formal designation aloud.

　“Lemme tell ya, things were shapin’ up real bad for yours truly! As soon as we take out the machines, this whole pack of wild boar storms in and wham! I’m all like, ‘look at the pretty stripes on the piggies, mommy,’ and then the world’s goin’ hazy and all I can focus on are the pretty flowers and that nice clear river just over there . . .”

　As another round of laughter erupted, in walked the man I’d written off as trouble, No. 21 at his side and Lotus trailing just behind.

　“Everyone, listen up.”

　The sound of Black’s voice flipped a switch in the room. The laughter abruptly stopped. With the loss of attention from his audience, Cactus stopped his charades, instantly looking more serious.

　No. Maybe it was the other way around. Everyone had stopped laughing and regained their focus because Cactus dropped his act.

　“We’ve plotted an exit route,” Black said. “However, it won’t be easy. I’d like to ask for your undivided attention.”

　He raised his arm and pointed into the air at his side. Just beyond the tip of his finger, a map flickered into view. It appeared to show the surrounding area. The small blinking dot in the center, then, would denote our current position.

　“We’re currently located here,” Black said, pointing at the blinking dot.

　Bingo. One point for me.

　New lights began to dot the map, all surrounding ours. They were red, and there were a lot of them. I didn’t have to wait for the explanation for these, either; I knew immediately that they represented enemy units.

　“As you can see, the surrounding area is full of hostile machine lifeforms. The cave and our present campsite just happen to be situated in a tiny gap in their coverage. We remain undetected for now, but it’s only a matter of time before the machines discover our presence.”

　No. 4 raised a hand.

　“Sir! Any chance we could request backup or aerial support?”

　I hated to dash his hopes, but nope. Not a chance. I found out why firsthand: the moment I’d entered the atmosphere on my descent, enemy units had swept in to intercept. The assault was so intense, as I’d climbed inside the escape pod, I figured there was a good chance it’d be my coffin.

　“No good, No. 4,” Black responded. “The enemy has the airspace around here locked down tight. There’s no way for a transport carrying an extraction unit to approach and safely touch down.”

　Black’s response was word for word what I’d predicted. But No. 4 didn’t look disappointed. It seemed he’d asked just for the sake of asking, anticipating the answer just like I had.

　Next, No. 22 raised a hand. “Couldn’t we fry ’em with a satellite laser strike?”

　Again, Black shook his head.

　“I’m afraid the area’s just too large. It isn’t possible to take out the number of enemies we’re facing with a single strike. Not to mention, Command won’t authorize use of a satellite laser to begin with.”

　“And why the hell not?” No. 3 asked, clearly dissatisfied.

　“As one of the most powerful weapons in our arsenal, we can only afford to use it sparingly. Indiscriminate firing would give the machines too much opportunity to analyze its properties and develop a way to resist it.”

　“Swell. So in other words, we’re not important enough to risk their precious baby.”

　No. 3 spat the words out, but somewhere among the distaste, I sensed another feeling: resignation. I could easily guess why. This undoubtedly was not the first time they’d been rebuffed by Command.

　“I didn’t call this briefing just to deliver bad news,” continued Black, trying to soothe his audience. He turned to Lotus. “The report, please.”

　Lotus stepped forward, a little too eagerly, ending up with his face poking through the projected map. He didn’t seem to notice or care, instead just barreling on with his presentation.

　“Yes. Hrm. Well, in short, the present region used to be Resistance-controlled territory. But, you see, four years ago, the machine lifeforms swept in and ravaged everything. Since then, it’s remained uninhabited. Yes. So, with that in mind, I should very much like to introduce to you all a most fascinating characteristic of machine lifeform behavior. Truly, I cannot overstate how intriguing this particular facet is. Caught your attention, have I? Hmm. Now, you see, it turns out that the machine lifeforms are quite aware of the differences between androids, including the Resistance, and the weapons they employ. And that, of course, is why . . .”

　How long was he going to babble on for?

　Apparently, I wasn’t the only one losing my patience. No. 4 tried to hurry Lotus along, asking, “And your point is?”

　“Precisely this: when we treat our weapons like thus . . .”

　Lotus grabbed Cactus’s rifle.

　“Hey! What’re you . . . ?! That’s mine!”

　Lotus ignored his captain’s protests and placed the weapon on the ground, then slowly backed away from it.

　“Voilà. You see, the machines show not the slightest interest in our weapons when left unattended like so. They focus their attention solely on us.”

　No. 3 interjected, “Just imagine, gettin’ rushed by a bunch of machines when we’re unarmed . . . Sounds like a damn nightmare.”

　It was perhaps the most obvious and unnecessary observation ever made.

　But Lotus stretched his arms wide, a knowing smile on his face.

　“The point is, the focus of their attention is on us. They leave the weapons alone.”

　No. 3’s mouth hung open in confusion, and he wasn’t alone. To tell the truth, I hadn’t the slightest idea what Lotus was implying, either. Black and No. 21 would have clarified the details in the strategy meeting, but aside from those two, everyone present looked absolutely lost.

　Phlox walked over and clapped a friendly hand on Lotus’s shoulder. “So, uh, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this, but . . . the way you explain things. It always comes across as pretty damn disjointed. How about you try once more, laying it out for us step-by-step?”

　“Disjointed? Me?”

　Lotus tilted his head to one side, mystified. Clearly, he’d believed his explanation was more than sufficient.

　“All right. Erm. Let’s see . . . Yes. Well, as this area was formerly under Resistance control, it was obviously outfitted with an airfield. For the purpose of transporting goods to and from the area, naturally.”

　Suddenly he was talking about an airfield. Where had this come from? I was getting more confused by the second.

　Unable to bear watching the spectacle any longer, No. 21 stepped in.

　“Here’s an aerial photo showing the old airfield,” the Scanner said.

　The map displaying the hordes of enemies around us shifted to a view of one tiny swatch of level terrain in the Mountain Zone. I could make out the contours of what had once been a runway; the entire length was scarred with bomb craters.

　“As you can see, a few undamaged transport vessels remain on site.”

　I was finally starting to understand what Lotus was getting at. The machine lifeforms could clearly distinguish between androids and their equipment. A transport ship with androids aboard was a prime target: the machines would smash it to pieces. But one sitting idly on a runway or in a hangar with no androids in sight―things like that, they left be.

　So the plan was to commandeer an old transport long ignored by the machines and make a break for it. That seemed to be the gist of what Lotus was trying to say.

　“But I thought the enemy had control of the skies in this area?

　At No. 9’s question, No. 21 flicked the display to a different aerial photograph. The runway was still visible, but this time, it was surrounded by a slew of red dots: enemies in the vicinity of the airfield. And I was willing to bet they were all flying ones.

　A short distance away blinked a single white light, much brighter than the enemy dots. No. 21 placed a finger on it.

　“This is the enemy control tower.”

　“And what about it?”

　“It manages the flight paths of airborne machines. So if we neutralize the tower . . .”

　The light indicating the control tower winked out, and the red dots surrounding the airfield soon followed.

　“ . . . we eliminate guidance for all flying enemies, effectively paralyzing them.”

　Several questions remained. Would destroying the tower be as simple a task as their briefing made it out to be? And would the long-neglected transport be operational? Still, it was a plan, and given our current situation, it seemed to be our only real option for escaping the area. Nobody was about to protest.

　“We have Lotus and No. 21 to thank for this proposal,” said Black. “However, it is not within my authority to issue orders to Resistance members. So instead, I ask: will you join us?”

　At Black’s appeal, a curtain of uncertainty fell over Cactus’s face. He started shaking so bad, it almost hurt just to watch the guy.

　“Uh . . . Wh-what should we do?”

　He looked to Phlox for help. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen Cactus like this in our short time together. While he was supposed to be the leader of their little group, he often leaned on his subordinate Phlox for assistance. Lotus, the lowest rank on their little team, was generally left to do as he pleased. I had no idea how Cactus could stand to run things that way.

　“You’re the captain. You gotta make the call,” Phlox responded.

　“Oh. Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

　This was another mystery to me. Phlox would drop a casual comment like that, and Cactus would magically find his composure again. Their whole organizational structure was beyond me: I couldn’t wrap my head around their convoluted chain of command, or the relationships they had with each other.

　“All right. Yeah! Count us in,” Cactus concluded. “Er . . . I guess I should say, please take us with you!”

　The three Resistance members bowed their heads in unison.

　Black responded, “Very well,” and segued into the details.

　“We’ll be operating in three teams,” he explained. “Team A will conduct an assault on the tower, starting with the elimination of all surrounding enemies at long range. The team will consist of No. 4 and No. 22, and I’d like to ask our three Resistance allies to accompany and assist, given their familiarity with the terrain.”

　So the plan was to split up and let each group do its thing, huh? I carefully committed to memory the rosters of each team. I’d need a firm grasp on everyone’s whereabouts.

　“Next, Team B will take control of the transport. Considering the high concentration of enemies on the grounds of the airfield itself, I want No. 21 leading the way, spotting enemies for No. 3 and No. 6 to dispatch as they follow closely behind.”

　“Think you’re up for that?” Black asked, looking at No. 3.

　The Attacker seemed pleased. “Up for it? Hell, I was born for that shit.”

　No. 6 gave a dismissive shrug, his expression conveying both his disdain for No. 3 and a desire that we all know No. 3’s crass comment did not speak for him.

　“Finally,” Black continued, “Team C will keep the squadron backup safe by escorting No. 9 to the transport. Escort will be provided by myself . . . and Defender No. 2.”

　He glanced toward me as if implying something. I ignored him. It was exactly the sort of obvious gesture someone entrusted with sensitive information might attempt, and exactly what I found so irritating about him. Subtle attempts to relay information in this setting only invited trouble. He’d put not only No. 21 on alert, but probably No. 6 as well.

　But he prattled on like a fool, not a care in the world.

　“Finally, I’d like to ask Captain Cactus to provide a word of encouragement before we commence,” he said. “After all, you did such a good job easing everyone’s nerves with your stories. Attentiveness like that is the mark of a fine leader.”

　That comment caught me off guard―not just the realization that Cactus’s earlier clowning had been for the benefit of the group’s morale, but that Black was the one who’d observed a fact that I missed. Considering the instructor’s appalling carelessness, I hadn’t thought him particularly attuned to his soldiers’ needs.

　It seemed he wasn’t an entirely unqualified leader. And neither was Cactus.

　Not that it concerned me. The extent to which Cactus and Black were suited to their roles had no bearing on my mission. It was a trivial detail―one that could be safely discarded from my mind the moment I acknowledged it.

　“Let’s all make it back alive and safe. No matter what!” Cactus proclaimed.

　As I listened to everyone cheer in response, I had a strange feeling―one that was difficult to put into words.

　Let’s make it back? To where? M Squadron’s fate was already decided. The three Resistance members were deserters. Not a single person here had any place to go back to.

　M Squadron wasn’t even meant to evacuate the stranded Resistance members in the first place; the distress signal and the mission surrounding it was just a sham. They’d been told they were being sent to the Mountain Zone to identify the source of the signal and assist anyone found on site, but their “mission” was just a pretext to have M Squadron rendezvous with their eventual assassin. Me.

　The Resistance members were just extras on the stage.

　But as soon as the thought entered my mind, I felt disgusted with myself for having it.

　“No. 2!”

　I pulled myself back into the moment. The squadron members and Resistance androids were nowhere to be found. The only ones who remained were me, caught up in my superfluous thoughts, and No. 9.

　“Here. Don’t forget to put this into your supply tank.”

　“ . . . Put what into my supply tank?”

　“This! The water, remember? I brought it just like I promised. Hurry, before it gets a bunch of dust in it.”

　Remember? Remember what?

　Ah. Right. He’d run off earlier saying he was going to fetch me some water. He seemed worried about me running out during a fight and being unable to function.

　“And just so you know,” No. 9 said, looking me straight in the eye, “even Healers have to complete sword training. At least the basics, anyway.”

　For the first time, I became aware of the intensity in his gaze. I’d pegged him as a quiet, reserved type, but the way he stared at me now suggested a degree of strength I hadn’t anticipated.

　“So, uh . . . let’s do a good job together at the airfield.” He smiled at me.

　I was caught by the radiance of his smile. For a moment, I found myself frozen in place, unable even to nod in response.

　But No. 9 didn’t seem bothered by my lack of response. He dashed off, leaving me alone.

　I needed to get going. I was in Team C as well. I couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion. I needed to act normal.

　I stood and began to follow No. 9. A small beep stopped me. The timing was almost uncanny, as if the SSU had been waiting for this moment to pipe up.

　“What is it?”

　Its low, tinny voice announced, “Alert: Four hours have elapsed since scheduled mission completion time.”

　“There have been complicating factors. Request extension of time allotted for mission completion.”

　Right now, there was too much going on at once. There was no way I could execute my mission without the squadron quickly realizing what was happening. If Command had a problem with that, maybe they should’ve considered what kind of situation they were dropping me into. Nobody told me I was going to have to carry this order out behind enemy lines.

　Or . . . on second thought, maybe that was deliberate. Maybe in the chaos of our escape, the perfect opportunity would present itself.

　Allowing yourself to become attached to your squadmates could prove a real obstacle when it comes time to kill them.

　Black’s words replayed themselves in my mind. It was irritating to think I’d received advice from Black. Though at first his words seemed nothing more than a casual comment, now they were haunting me like a curse. The sense of unease within me was growing.

　“Extension denied. Proposal: Eliminate YoRHa Experimental M Squadron immediately.”

　Great. Nobody was going to cut me a break.

　“Understood,” I muttered to the SSU.

　Then, to myself, “Keep your emotions out of it.”

　I had to dispose of anything that could get in the way of my mission, and unnecessary feelings were at the very top of the list.

[Log Entry: No. 22 / Airfield―Control Tower Approach]

The control tower seemed so far away. In actuality, it was only a few hundred meters―I could’ve sprinted the distance in no time. Yet it still felt impossibly far away, thanks to the dozens of machines occupying the stretch of ground before us.

　In a situation like this, No. 21 would have instantly been able to rattle off the exact distance to the tower, accurate to the millimeter, and then tell me that as long as I was able to take down X number of enemies every Y period of time, I’d reach the tower in T minutes S seconds. He’d have given me the facts in hard numbers and told me that I didn’t need to worry.

　“First off, we gotta eliminate the enemies near the tower.” No. 4’s voice seemed the very definition of composure.

　In contrast, when I responded, “Understood,” my voice quaked like a frightened child’s. No. 21 wasn’t by my side. That alone was enough to fill me with fear. This was the first time we’d ever had to operate apart from each other.

　No. Enough. I couldn’t rely on No. 21 forever. I had to grow up.

　When we first rolled off the production line, we’d both been like little children. Our memory banks were free of any data beyond the preinstalled settings, and we had yet to begin our training. It was so much fun simply being together, I think we spent every moment smiling ear to ear.

　But as we looped our way through the rounds of study and tests, No. 21 became more and more clever. Stronger, too. I felt like I was barely keeping up, running with everything I had just to stay at his back. But even then, things were all right. As long as I kept chasing after my twin, that meant that I was growing, too. And if I had to chase after him forever . . . Well, that just meant we’d always be together.

　So when had things changed? At some point, I wasn’t hoping to simply follow in his footsteps anymore. I wanted to walk beside him. I wanted to be able to protect him like he protected me.

　No, no, no. There wasn’t time for those thoughts now. I needed to concentrate on my shooting. The enemy still hadn’t noticed us. We needed to act while we had the initiative. I lined up a machine in my sights. I wanted to make each kill with one clean shot.

　But the moment I fired, everything changed. Now the machines were alerted to our presence. We’d expected as much, of course, but we hadn’t anticipated how swiftly they’d react.

　“Erm, the enemy appears to be closing in!”

　Lotus didn’t need to tell me. It looked like the machines had calculated our firing position nearly instantaneously. If No. 21 had been here, I’d have been able to snipe from farther out, but on my own, this was as great a distance as I could manage.

　I needed to finish them off before they reached us, but they were moving too fast. There were too many of them, and they were packed too tight. I was having trouble lining up another clear shot.

　I panicked. “I-I’m not gonna be able to make the calculations in time!”

　“Take a deep breath.” No. 4’s voice was steady.

　Approaching enemies were falling one by one: No. 4 was shooting with perfect accuracy. I was awestruck. How was he managing at this distance, and when there were so many of them?

　“Halve the resources you’re allocating to aim correction,” he directed, “Rely on instinct for the rest.”

　“Y-yes, sir!”

　No. 4 was right, of course. With the enemies packed this tight, even if my shots were slightly off I’d still likely hit something. It was going to be all right. I could do this. I just needed to concentrate on thinning the machines’ numbers. We needed to get to the tower quickly so we could neutralize the flying units. The airspace had to be safe by the time No. 21 commandeered the transport.

　Just then, I heard Phlox say, “Let’s go, Cap.”

　“Huh?”

　“Decoy duty. We’ll move out wide on both flanks and harass the enemy. It should take some heat off the YoRHa snipers.”

　“Don’t. It’s too dangerous,” No. 4 began, but over his shoulder, I saw a pack of machines closing in.

　“No. 4! Watch out!”

　Half aim. Half instinct. I silently repeated No. 4’s words and fired. The enemies clattered lifelessly to the ground. No. 4 had turned to fire, too. I felt as though I’d only managed half as many kills as him, but still, a victory was a victory. It did leave me uneasy about how well we’d manage if the next group of machines was larger, though.

　“Yeah, we definitely wanna split the herd up.” Phlox was as calm as ever. The way he announced his plan, you’d have thought he was stepping out for a casual stroll.

　“We don’t have as much punch as you guys, but if all we gotta do is draw attention, I think we’ll do just fine. Not to mention, we’ve got a secret weapon. Isn’t that right, Cap?”

　Cactus piped up with a lively, “You know it!”

　What was this secret weapon? I wanted to ask, but I was too busy firing at more approaching machines. Phlox and Cactus took off at a full sprint in the direction of the enemy horde.

　“Are they . . . gonna be okay?” I asked Lotus, who remained behind.

　“Yes, yes. Nothing to worry about.”

　It did little to reassure me, considering Lotus’s usual threshold for concern.

　“Earlier,” Lotus said, “I outfitted their weapons with a virus. Hrm. Yes. It’s quite effective against machine lifeforms, you see.”

　I recalled our approach to the cave during the initial rescue operation; we’d found it surrounded by autoturrets made from virus-infected machines. I certainly had my questions about Lotus’s personality―whether he took things seriously or was just a lazy bum―but when it came to engineering, I had to admit he was at the top of his game.

　“It’s delivered via their bullets, yes. Any machine struck by one will be, for lack of a better word, zombified. They’ll transform into autoturrets, firing on anything in range!”

　The way Lotus said it, I didn’t think he was trying show off. His invention seemed to bring him genuine delight. Implanting viruses and modding machines wasn’t a job to him so much as a hobby. He was into it for the personal enjoyment.

　Lotus made to continue explaining the modifications, but No. 4 interrupted. “Hold up.

　“Anything in range?” No. 4 asked. “No distinction between friend and foe?”

　“Oh. Erm . . .”

　From some distance away, we heard a shriek from Cactus, along with an angry shout from Phlox.

　“Loootuuus!”

　Undoubtedly, the two had discovered the same detail firsthand.

　As I’d feared, Lotus’s net contribution to the op was close to zero, if not squarely in negative territory.

　“No. 22.”

　“Yeah?”

　“Let’s not waste the chance. We take ’em all out. Now.”

　No. 4 was right. This wasn’t what Lotus had promised us, but the machine offensive had admittedly deteriorated into a state of chaos.

　“Got it!”

　And there was only one way for me to help: take down as many enemies as possible. The more kills, the better. We’d exterminate the lot of them and seize ourselves a transport. This would be the time we made it back alive. This mission would end with our escape to safety―the same me and the same No. 21 that existed right now.

　Half aim. Half instinct. Still repeating my newfound mantra, I kept shooting to kill every machine in range.

[Log Entry: No. 21 / Airfield―Runway]

There were so many enemy units, I began to wonder if there was any need for me to be scouting at all. Just behind me, No. 3 barreled along the machine-infested runway, blade gleaming with each strike. The runway was so packed, he could have just swung his sword in circles with his eyes closed and he’d still be taking down machines.

　First, I had to find us a route to the transport. Once we reached it, we’d get ourselves inside while cutting down any reinforcements that tried to swarm in. Then No. 3 and No. 6 would head back out, keeping the area around the craft clear while I hacked the thing’s controls. Once the craft was ours, we’d alert Teams A and C to make their way over. We’d all been briefed on the plan.

　“Graaaaaaah!”

　I saw several machine bodies go flying through the air as I heard No. 3’s battle cry. Once more, I found myself in awe of the physical strength he had to possess in order to swing his huge sword around so freely.

　“Take this! And this! C’mon! I’m right here!”

　Another mob of machines swarmed No. 3, as if goaded on by his taunts. His giant blade drew one more wide arc, and the entire group was neutralized, heads smashed or cylindrical trunks stove in. They flew backward, smashing into the next wave of oncoming machines.

　“Hah! That all you got?!” No. 3 yelled. “Hell, I could keep this up all day! How about a challenge?!”

　Unfortunately, the machines obliged him. A new group crashed down from above―ground units ferried in by flying machines high up in the sky. It played out exactly as No. 4 had always feared: No. 3 had a bad habit of letting his attention wander every time he finished something off.

　“Shit!”

　This time, it wasn’t No. 4’s bullets that brought No. 3 back from the brink of defeat. The newest machine assailants clattered lifelessly at the M001 unit’s feet, and I saw No. 6 standing cool and composed with sword in hand. He, too, had finished off an entire group of enemies with one smooth action.

　“Could you please stop yelling?” he asked. “It’s so vulgar. You don’t have to holler like an ape every single time you swing your sword.”

　“Oh, shove it, you stuck-up bastard.” No. 3 growled in response.

　No. 6 ignored him and turned to me. “Which way next?”

　“Four incoming from the north. Big ones!”

　“You heard him. Let’s get to it.”

　“Yeah, I’m standin’ right here! You don’t have to tell me!” No. 3 turned to the north and started running. “And it’s No. 3, sir, to you!”

　The well-worn phrase elicited a snort from No. 6.

　“I’ll think about it . . . if you manage to survive, that is.”

　No. 6 looked like a predator about to pounce on its prey, practically licking his lips at the prospect of taking on the big machines. Slaughtering enemies almost seemed to bring him joy, like he’d never get enough of it.

　No. 3 was the same way. Whenever he began swinging that huge sword, leaping to and fro, it looked like he was dancing. He dragged enemies along with the tip of his blade, then beat them into the ground, letting out another of his “vulgar” cries, grinning the whole time with almost manic glee.

　Yeah. These two would do just fine. They’d give me exactly what I needed.

　Hardly a few minutes had passed before the four large machines were four piles of lifeless scrap strewn across the battlefield.

[Log Entry: No. 9 / Airfield―Back Lines]

From the way the sky looked, I thought it might start raining at any moment. Ashen clouds were rolling in on an unpleasantly warm wind. I recalled a document I’d read explaining that storms in the Mountain Zone were a lot more intense than those in open terrain. I hoped there wouldn’t be thunder. I hated thunder.

　We crept among the shadows of fallen trees and great boulders scarred by machinegun fire, slowly making our way forward. Team C’s only responsibility was to get aboard the transport safe and sound, and in order to accomplish that, we needed to do everything we could to avoid encounters with the machines.

　We didn’t have No. 21 with us to give warning of enemies closing in on our position, or No. 22 to pick off those machines with deadly precision. I had no idea how we’d fare if our team found itself cornered into a fight.

　I knew that the instructor would do his best to protect me, but even then, I worried that No. 2 might have to absorb hits on my behalf. No. 2 wouldn’t hesitate, either. He’d do whatever it took to keep me safe. I felt certain of that. It only made it all the worse to think of him hurt or killed for my sake.

　“This . . . from Team . . . reporting in.”

　No. 4’s voice sputtered over the instructor’s SSU. The wireless transmission itself was coming in uninterrupted, but No. 4’s words were almost impossible to make out over a background of gunfire or some other racket.

　“ . . . Control . . . power lines . . . ccessfully destroyed.”

　The roar of an explosion accompanied this last statement. Then another, and yet another. I figured it must have been the sound of flying machines crashing to the ground as they lost flight guidance.

　“Good work. Head down the runway to the transport and stand by,” the instructor ordered.

　I looked down the runway, too. Dead machines littered its length; nothing seemed to be moving. Beyond the trail of carnage sat the transport. No. 3 and No. 6 had secured us a clear path.

　“We should hurry, too, sir!” I said. “Before enemy reinforcements arrive.”

　This was our chance. Sensing no machines lurking in the surroundings, I started to run straight for the transport.

　“No. 9! Stop!”

　The sudden shout froze me in place. Had I failed to notice a lurking enemy? No. That didn’t seem to be the case. So why had the instructor ordered me to stop?

　“Sir?” I asked, turning around. I quickly looked around once more, but I still didn’t see any sign of an active machine.

　The instructor had drawn his blade. I could hardly remember the last time I’d seen him with his sword out.

　I flicked my gaze to No. 2, who had been right behind me. It didn’t seem like anything had happened to him, either. What was the cause for alarm?

　“Sir?” I repeated.

　“Keep your guard up out there.” The instructor’s face was rigid, his tone flat.

　“Y-yes, sir. Of course.”

　Something wasn’t right. I could sense the tension emanating from the instructor as clear as day. It was almost frightening, in a way. A part of me wanted to flee, to put as much distance as I could between me and him.

　“Sir! This is No. 21, Team B!” The transmission blared from instructor’s SSU.

　I was grateful to hear No. 21’s voice. It was coming through loud and clear, a stark difference from No. 4’s broken messages. Maybe it was because Team B would have been much closer to us than Team A.

　“The enemy is regrouping on our position. As soon as I’ve got the transport’s engines running, we need to take off. Please get here as soon as you can!”

　“Understood.”

　When I looked up at the instructor again, he seemed back to his usual self: strict, but calm and collected.

　“Let’s move,” he said, glancing at me and then No. 2, as if sizing us both up. For the briefest moment, I thought I saw the disquiet return. Was it just my imagination?

　I didn’t have time to find out. Both the instructor and No. 2 took off running toward the transport. I followed their lead, unease and confusion still swirling within me.

[Log Entry: No. 6 / Airfield―Heavy Transport]

The inside of the transport was eerily quiet. When Lotus claimed the machines didn’t give these things a second thought as long as no androids were aboard, I thought he was full of it. But given the state of the craft, it seemed true enough.

　Still, the machines weren’t stupid. They’d installed one hell of a lock on the cargo bay door and had also outfitted the interior of the craft with a series of bulkheads, each also locked. It was a hassle every step of the way. Not that I had to deal with it. That was all on No. 21.

　So we had to hack each lock, and then open the bulkhead before we could proceed to the next one. We went on like that for a while, making a snail’s pace through the transport’s interior. By the time we reached the door to the control room, who knew how much time had passed?

　“Another lock?” No. 21 groaned, then set to work on the panel next to the door. All I could do was stand there looking at No. 3’s dumb face and wait. I didn’t like it, but it’s not like I had a choice. No use for a couple of Attackers when there weren’t any enemies in sight.

　“You almost done?”

　No. 3 peered over to where No. 21’s hands were furiously tapping away. Hmph. Like he had the first clue whatever it was our Scanner was doing. Could he get any dumber?

　The door began to slide open. After a few centimeters, it ground to a halt.

　“Dammit all to hell!”

　Apparently, they’d doubled up on locks for this last door. A lot of forethought for a bunch of machines.

　No. 21 shoved one hand through the small crack between door and frame, while continuing the hack with his other hand. He was pretty sick of this game, too. Or maybe he was feeling the pressure with No. 3 standing over his shoulder, because now he was trying to force the thing open.

　Tiny sparks sputtered from the panel. No. 21’s face contorted with effort.

　Mmm . . . I hadn’t known he could look like that. A faint groan escaped his clenched teeth. I saw irritation and panic and anguish, all bundled up into a delectable whole. A slight shiver passed through my body.

　For a while now, I’d wanted to have our Scanner all to myself, the two of us alone in a room, my hands upon him. No. 22 certainly had his own allure, but now I wondered if No. 21 might be even more fun. Always walking around with that cool expression and haughty attitude. He was probably the type that started acting shy the moment you had him cornered.

　“Got it!” he exclaimed.

　The panel under his free hand crackled and spat out new sparks, much greater in number and size. That was our signal. The door was sliding further open. No. 21 shoved himself through the gap, and No. 3 was in so fast after him, he might as well have been riding the Scanner’s back. Still no sign of hostiles beyond, or anywhere else in the transport, for that matter. I made a point of sweeping my eyes around once more before following No. 3 inside.

　The control room was a lot bigger than I’d expected. Both the forward wall and center floor had large viewing screens mounted perfectly flush with the surrounding construction. Apparently, this heavy transport we’d chosen was a pretty recent model.

　Ah. Right. I recalled Lotus’s explanation of how the area had fallen to machine control just four years ago. Not exactly ancient history.

　No. 21 planted himself at the main control terminal, his fingers busily tapping away.

　Such long, slender fingers.

　“Think we can get ’er to fly?”

　Could No. 3 not keep his mouth shut for one damn minute? I wanted to watch those delicate fingers in peace. I wished the ugly brute wasn’t with us at all, in fact.

　“Almost there. If I can get this thing to issue us a key, we’re as good as airborne.”

　The wall screen lit up, and the one on the floor blinked on to show a map of the airfield. Did this mean we’d successfully seized control? All we had to do was wait for Teams A and C now?

　I’d gotten my hopes up too soon.

　A guttural cry erupted from No. 21’s throat, and lines upon lines of gibberish streaked across the screens.

　I had a sinking feeling about what I was seeing.

　“Hey! What’s the matter?! What happened?!” No. 3 yelled.

　Did he really need to ask? Of course he did, the bolthead. And now, because he had asked, No. 21 felt compelled to answer. He squeezed the words out, voice laced with pain.

　“An . . . enemy . . . logic virus . . . It was a trap!”

　I knew it. Everything had been going far too smoothly. Relying on a bunch of locked doors with no guard detail in sight? The enemy never skimped on security like that.

　The logic virus wasn’t our only problem. One corner of the ceiling popped open, and a swarm of machines dropped in. If the damn things had been here all along, it would’ve been nice if they could’ve cut the games and shown up at the beginning. It would’ve made the journey inside a lot less boring.

　Us Attackers finally had work to do. Three swings of my blade, and three machine heads went flying. They offered no challenge―were these models tailored to fight Resistance androids? They had superior numbers for sure, but killing them was easier than squashing bugs. If this was all they had, maybe I’d have been bored even if they had attacked earlier.

　Still, it looked like the machines had defeated us.

　“Guess that means mission failure,” I said. “What a joke.”

　This was it. The end of the line. If we couldn’t gain control of the transport, we didn’t have a hope in hell of making it out alive. And now the enemy knew what we’d been up to. The Resistance members wouldn’t be escaping the area, and us YoRHa units would all be annihilated―again. What a disappointment. Nothing to do but laugh.

　I was in for a surprise, though. No. 21 seemed to be hanging on.

　“No . . .” he said. “It’s . . . not . . . over . . . yet!”

　His fingers resumed their dance across the terminal, an order of magnitude faster than before. He seemed to be searching for something.

　The symbols filling the screen changed. They blinked, then began clearing from the screen at the same speed they’d appeared. Just watching it made me dizzy.

　“Gotcha!” No. 21 exclaimed.

　I wanted to ask what he’d found, but didn’t. He had enough on his mind as it was, and I wouldn’t be able to understand any explanation he tried to give me. I wasn’t cut out for that console crap.

　The screens flicked brighter, and a short string of characters appeared dead center in each of them. Bright white. In the next moment, they all turned into zeroes.

　Heh. Look at him go.

　The white symbols vanished, and No. 21 crumpled to the floor.

　“Tr . . . transport control . . . secured. All that’s left is . . . takeoff . . .”

　His voice trembled as he spoke. I could hear him gasping for air.

　No. 3 dashed to the console. “On it,” he said.

　But, as I suspected, takeoff wasn’t going to be that simple. The instant No. 3’s hands touched the controls, an alarm blared.

　“The hell is it now?!”

　Please. Wasn’t it obvious? Our plan was blown wide open the second the backhack started. Now every machine in the area knew we were in here trying to steal a transport; the nature of their response seemed pretty obvious to me. But, as always, recognizing the obvious wasn’t No. 3’s strong suit.

　“Get ready for company!” I told him. I didn’t want to bother, but I threw in some bonus explanation for his benefit. “The alert. All the machines are gonna be headed this way.”

　If that wasn’t clear enough for the idiot, I’d stick my sword straight through him.

　No. 3 responded with one of his typical crass outbursts. “Shit!”

　I looked down and realized the floor screen still displayed a map of the runway. I hadn’t even needed to go to the trouble of explaining. The transport was surrounded by those all-too-familiar blinking red lights―a lot more of them than I was going to bother trying to count.

　Fortunately for us, at that moment Team A happened to burst into the room. They’d made it to the transport with impeccable timing.

　“What’s the status?!” No. 4 demanded, a sharp bark that reverberated throughout the control room. He’d been the first inside, with No. 22 on his heels. After a bit of a delay, the three Resistance members filed in, too.

　Well, how about that? Team A had completed its mission.

　No. 3 shouted back in the most obnoxious way possible, “We’ve got control of the transport, but now all the machines are swarmin’ in on us! No. 21’s hurtin’. Got spiked when he hacked the system!”

　“Understood.” No. 4 said. He turned to No. 22 and added, “Let’s go. The machines aren’t gonna lay a finger on this ship.”

　The two dashed out only for Team C to come tumbling in―with a whole host of machines in tow. No. 3 stepped away from the console and gripped his sword.

　“Sir! The helm’s all yours! C’mon, No. 6, let’s deal with these chumps!”

　“I don’t take orders from you,” I sneered.

　Ugh. He really pissed me off. Was there anything worse than being ordered around by the biggest dimwit ever? I’d figured out what was going on with my own two eyes, and I understood the situation far better than he ever would.

　I drew my sword and leapt into the hallway. Time to mow down every machine stupid enough to head for the control room. No time for clean, thorough kills. Right now, it was a matter of quantity. Keep the machines out, no matter what.

　I wrenched open the emergency hatch to hurl partially incapacitated enemies out onto the runway. Get them off the transport. That was enough. Not like any of them would be able to follow us once we were in the air.

　The whine of the transport’s engines rose to an earsplitting roar.

　Dammit. I had to hurry.

　Black shouted over the intercom, “Initiating emergency takeoff procedures! Everyone hang on tight!”

　I kicked the last bucket of bolts out the hatch, then sealed it shut. A little close for comfort, but I’d made it.

　About a microsecond into my sigh of relief, I realized I was sliding backward along the deck. I grabbed hold of a handrail before I slammed into some unforgiving surface. I stayed like that, holding on for dear life as gravity relinquished its hold on my body.

[Log Entry: No. 2 / Heavy Transport―Cargo Bay]

My SSU had started up with its infernal beeping again. I was ready to whack the thing with my opposite hand. I only held back because hitting it wasn’t going to do much good.

　I knew why it wouldn’t shut up. This was its way of pressing me to act. Hurry up and eliminate the YoRHa Experimental M Squadron. Yeah, so maybe two full hours had passed since takeoff, but it wasn’t like I’d forgotten my mission.

　The hell was I supposed to do? The opportunity hadn’t presented itself. There hadn’t been a single decent moment to strike since we got in the air.

　The best opportunity of the day had been back on the runway, during that final dash to the transport. No Attackers. No Gunners. There couldn’t have been a more ideal moment to sever the squadron’s lifeline. But Black had spoiled my chance. If I’d begun the executions at the airfield, he might have lost his opportunity to get out of enemy territory, so it was probably his “subtle” way of requesting that my mission wait until after we’d secured the craft. That wouldn’t have been a big deal, if not for the dearth of opportunity following.

　We sprinted down the runway and got ourselves onboard, but the only thing waiting for me was a fight with a whole bunch of machines. It was a confusing mess, and I’d learned just how much of a pain in the ass it was to fight as a “Type D.”

　When things finally quieted down, we were already taking off. A short while after that, we’d finished our climb and leveled off. For a while, we watched the skies just to be certain the enemy really hadn’t been able to pursue us. By the time we were finally satisfied there was no threat and the tension aboard the craft began to ease, two hours had passed. I slipped out of the control room, and that was when the SSU started its obnoxious beeping. Once again, the thing had been waiting for a moment when I was alone.

　I had to admit, the current conditions looked promising. For the next while, most of us were free to do as we pleased, and plenty of squad members were probably wandering around or resting in the cargo bay, trying to relax a bit after spending the past several hours on edge.

　If most of the squad members were on their own, it’d make short work for me. It would be a trivial task to kill them one by one―most of them would probably fall dead before they realized I was there. And here in the transport, I’d have no trouble hiding the bodies. There were plenty of dark corners and empty containers in the cargo bay.

　“No. 2? Is something wrong?”

　Without warning, No. 9 called out to me from behind. I hurriedly silenced the beeping alarm.

　“Huh? No, I’m fine.”

　“Is it your wrist? Has it started to ache?”

　“What? Oh . . . yeah. I almost forgot about it.”

　No. 9 must have misinterpreted my motion to quiet the SSU as a gesture toward my injured wrist.

　“It’s doing all right. Feels better than ever, in fact.”

　“I’m so glad to hear that.”

　And he did sound glad, from the bottom of his heart. Why would something like this make him happy? Aside from the fact that happiness was the last thing he should be feeling right now. The hand he’d been caring for would soon be the one to strike him down. In tending to me, he’d only sharpened the blade that would end his own life.

　“Weren’t there some injuries when we were at the airfield? I’m sure the other squad members need your attention more than this little sprain of mine.”

　“I’ve already finished attending to everyone.”

　He smiled. Just a hint of pride shone in his eyes.

　“No. 21 was hit the hardest today. He’s recovering now. The instructor’s sitting with him.”

　He had no idea I was about to undo all of his hard work, and that his labors to treat the squad were in vain. As the Healer, he would have to be the first to die.

　“No. 2? Are you sure you’re okay?”

　I searched for something to say, unable to bear his expression of concern. I wanted to change the subject. I wanted to talk about anything other than me.

　“Hey, so . . . do you ever think about what you might wanna do in the future? You know, when the war’s over?” I asked.

　Great. Of all the topics in the world, I had to land on that. The sudden question seemed to take No. 9 off guard. Of course it would.

　His eyes widened for a moment, and then he laughed.

　“What do you mean, ‘when the war’s over’? It’s been going on for thousands of years. What makes you think it’ll end soon?”

　I didn’t. Not really. It was just a meaningless question that somehow found its way out of my mouth as I scrambled for something to say.

　But I ran with it, adding, “Just hypothetically.”

　The war was like my mission. Unyielding. Unchanging. There was as much a chance of it ending tomorrow as there was of me ever seeing release from my duty.

　“Hmm . . . Well, let me think . . .”

　He was actually trying to give me a straight answer. No. 9 took everything seriously, even inane little questions like this one. So sincere. So kind. I almost felt as if I . . .

　“Travel,” No. 9 concluded. “I guess I’d want to see the world . . . Take in some beautiful sights for a change, you know?”

　Travel? Why? M Squadron had been dispatched to all sorts of locations. At least, that’s what I’d gathered from the reports. But he wanted to spend his precious time journeying around the world? It didn’t make sense.

　Apparently, my skepticism was obvious. No. 9 followed up with, “I guess that must sound kind of odd to you, huh?” The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, as if he was trying to form another smile. But this time, he wasn’t quite able to accomplish it.

　It wasn’t like him. What was troubling him?

　He explained. “The squad’s been ordered to lots of different destinations on the surface, but in the end, all we see are ugly, torn-up battlefields. So, what I meant was, I think I’d like to see some of the beautiful places the world has to offer.”

　His voice was cheerful, as if trying to push away the reality of those ugly, torn-up battlefields he’d been forced to observe. He always carried himself like that―bright, happy―even though I knew his outlook on life was anything but. Alone, far from the front lines, he understood better than anyone the plight into which M Squadron had been thrust.

　My question, then, was unintentionally cruel. I was sorry I’d asked it, and I wished I could ask for his forgiveness.

　“Just imagine. The islands in the south, or canyons with walls of red rock,” No. 9 continued. “Oh! And I’d like to see the ruins of the old world, too. The remains of what humanity built.”

　He turned and looked out the window, trying to make it seem casual. Beyond the glass, there was a brief break in the clouds, and we saw something glittering far below. What was it?

　“Look, No. 2!” he exclaimed. “It’s the sea!”

　Ah. Light from the sun reflecting off the surface of the water. I realized it was the first time I’d looked down upon the ocean from on high. The last time I was thousands of meters up in the sky, I’d been encased in a descending escape pod, all my processes suspended.

　No. 9 continued to gaze out the window as if fixed in place. I wanted to stand beside him. I wanted to look out across the ocean together, to murmur to each other about the beauty we saw, pointing at the things we noticed each time the clouds parted, and laughing together at nothing in particular.

　. . . Where the hell were these thoughts coming from?

　My right hand brushed against the hilt of my sword. The moment I felt the familiar contours and material of the grip, my chest grew tight. Uncomfortably so. My heart was beating rapidly, though it had no reason to do so. My hands were slick with sweat.

　What was going on?

　My hand curled around the grip, but my fingers lacked their usual strength. I tried again, forcing them this time. My chest continued to tighten, to an unbearable degree, so I allowed my sweat-soaked hand to loosen.

　Were my internals acting up?

　No. That wasn’t it.

　I knew what this was.

　“It sure is beautiful down there,” No. 9 said. “I hope maybe someday I can stretch out on a beach, listen to the waves, and enjoy a good book.”

　“Yeah. Sounds nice . . .”

　But his dream would go unrealized. The war could end tomorrow, and I’d still have to rip away every desire he’d ever had. It was my duty.

　I had to get on with it. I needed to hurry. Further delays would not be tolerated. I needed to end No. 9’s life now, while he stood before me, back exposed.

　“What is the meaning of this, No. 21?!”

　A shout from Black suddenly echoed from beyond the far bulkhead. I quickly took my hand off my sword. No. 9 whirled around in surprise, and I was glad I’d reacted in time. He hadn’t seen me beginning to unsheathe the blade.

　“Let’s go see what it is,” he said.

　I nodded and followed him. My opportunity had been foiled by Black once again. But this time, I felt no strain of irritation. If anything, I was relieved.

　It perplexed me.

[Log Entry: No. 21 / Heavy Transport―Control Room]

The instructor had noticed far sooner than I expected. He’d picked up on the slight discrepancy in the flight course just moments after we leveled off and switched to autopilot.

　“Looks like we’ve got . . . some kind of error in the program,” he’d said.

　He hadn’t mentioned a word at takeoff, simply leaving me to pilot in peace. I’d begun to hope my adjustments might slip past his notice until we were closing in on our destination. But he wasn’t nearly that dull.

　“Let’s shift to manual control and run a scan for problems in the autopilot,” he suggested.

　“No need to do that, sir.” I glanced at No. 3 and No. 6 as I spoke. “It’s not an error. The course is intentional. This transport won’t be taking us to base camp.”

　The instructor looked puzzled. I shoved him away from the console, catching him completely off guard. He offered little resistance as he staggered backward, then recovered himself and shouted, “What is the meaning of this, No. 21?!”

　No. 3 and No. 6 both unsheathed their weapons and circled around to the front of the console to keep him away.

　I looked the instructor in the eyes. “I’ll say it once more. This transport will not be taking us to base camp.”

　Concern was on the faces of all three Resistance members, sitting against one wall. They didn’t quite seem to comprehend what was happening, but they’d sensed the danger in the air. Not that it mattered. Their inferior strength made them a non-issue. I’d let them live, so long as they didn’t get in my way.

　“The hell’s going on?” No. 4 asked, guns drawn. Unlike the Resistance members, I was certain he’d grasped the situation immediately. But he didn’t fire. He was probably just being careful―positioned as I was, an unlucky shot could damage the console and impair the transport’s flight. It was the kind of caution I’d expect from No. 4.

　“YoRHa Experimental M Squadron is an elite force, providing decisive victories in any location to which it is dispatched, paving the way for the Army of Humanity to win the war. That’s what they told us, right?”

　Considering we’d been designed as an improvement over the already successful female-type models, it stood to reason that M Squadron’s achievements should be even greater. In fact, we’d been told that we had to do better.

　“But the reality is that we’ve suffered defeat on every battlefield we set foot on. We lost our lives over and over. It didn’t matter what we tried. Victory always eluded us.”

　I’d first grown suspicious of that fact ages ago. But for a long time, I’d lacked the certainty I needed to act.

　As the Scanner, I was tasked with devising the ideal strategy for each and every mission. My focus on the facts showed me how reckless our operations really were. So I’d begun asking to have requests forwarded to Command to call off the operations. I hadn’t simply proposed retreat once or twice; I’d asked constantly. But my requests were routinely and thoroughly denied.

　Each time we relived the nightmare of annihilation, I took the blame upon myself: we’d lost because my strategy had been flawed. I figured I needed to gather more information to do better the next time. Soon, I was referencing every piece of data I could get my hands on, looking for that one elusive key that would keep us alive. I knew it had to exist.

　In truth, it never had. Not in the beginning, not now, not ever.

　“And that’s how it was always supposed to be,” I continued. “We were supposed to fail. That’s what they were anticipating.”

　“What’s the point of sending us in just to fail?”

　No. 4 asked the question. No. 3, standing beside him, was the one to answer.

　“It’s a stress test. A proof of concept. They wanna see how bad things can get before the male-type YoRHa models stop bein’ able to win.”

　Precisely. They’d intentionally sent us into situations where success was impossible.

　In the deepest corners of the main server, I’d stumbled across that truth. I dove in hoping to find a means to ensure our survival. I hadn’t asked for authorization; I was too pressed for time and couldn’t wait for Command approval. And the haul from my little hacking experiment just happened to be an unbearably cruel truth.

　The instructor spoke up. “That’s not true! Command had the highest expectations for us. We’re the most advanced squadron there is. The best of the best. We’ve got the capabilities to achieve victory even under the harshest conditions . . .”

　Expectations? Capabilities? That was one way to word it. Had Command believed they could string us along forever with their sweet lies? How asinine. I wanted to laugh in their faces.

　“It makes no difference!” I replied. “It doesn’t change the facts!”

　There was nobody here stupid enough to believe those lies anymore―nobody except maybe No. 3. In fact, that was why I’d gone to him first, blowing the truth wide open to see how he’d react. I wished the instructor had been there to see the Attacker’s face the moment he realized everything he’d been taught was a lie.

　“We were their immortal squadron. As long as that didn’t change, they could continue throwing us into battles with the odds stacked against us. We’d just go on dying, again and again . . .”

　Once killed, we could be brought right back. It didn’t matter how many times we died―at least not to Command. They’d shut their eyes to the patent truth of the pain and fear those deaths would bring us.

　“Guinea pigs. That’s all we were to them. They sent us to die, and they weren’t going to stop until we managed to produce a victory.”

　And maybe not even then. Maybe Command would have had us go on until they decided the experiment was no longer valuable.

　“Instructor Black,” I said, “allow me to express my thanks. I should let you know that when I was inside the server I read through the messages you exchanged with Command. I’m sorry I intruded on your privacy, but it was a relief to know how hard you fought for us each time Command issued orders for the next cruel, senseless mission.”

　Among all the deceit, that had been one happy surprise. I’d assumed the instructor simply abided by whatever Command dictated, but he’d been better than that. He had scrupulously passed along every request we made to have missions aborted or reinforcements sent in, knowing full well those requests would be ignored.

　“We would be happy to have you along with us, sir, if you so choose.”

　I could have arranged to have him killed during the earlier confusion. The battle at the airfield had certainly been chaotic enough to facilitate it. But I wanted this opportunity to ascertain the instructor’s intentions. It was also a small token of gratitude for his arguments on our behalf, to the limited extent he’d been able to make them.

　“I cannot.”

　A pity. I’d suspected as much. I’d owed him the courtesy of asking, though, and now my debt was paid.

　The instructor was out. It was decided.

　No. 3 extended his left hand to No. 4, the right still clutching his sword.

　“C’mon. Join us.”

　“And go where? There’s nowhere to run.”

　He dismissed No. 3’s invitation, then turned to look at me and No. 6. The poor fool knew nothing. Yet he still believed he might convince us to abandon our plan.

　No. 6 started laughing. It was a slow, throaty chuckle. He knew where we could run. The fact that I offered us a future was the only reason he was onboard with my plan.

　“Think, you idiot. The other half of the earth. The nightlands―a whole vast expanse that never sees the sun. If we make it there, we’ll be well beyond the Bunker’s reach.”

　No. 4 would know as well as we did that YoRHa Squadron Command had no jurisdiction over the nightlands; they’d have no authority to pursue us.

　“We’re the best of the best. The newest, most powerful combat androids ever produced. There’s no one else out there to stop us.”

　I didn’t know what types of androids oversaw the other side of the world. But I’d never heard anything to suggest they were any sort of cutting-edge models. What I did know was that they had their hands full operating the dragoons. They wouldn’t have the time or the manpower to waste on tracking down a handful of deserters.

　The instructor leveled his gaze at me. “You’ll never get away with it.”

　“Sorry, sir, but I’m not asking for your opinion. This is a mutiny. The squadron’s members get to decide for themselves.”

　My eyes met No. 22’s. He was the third to learn of my plan, after I’d spoken with No. 3 and No. 6. He’d always been timid. Just hearing the word “mutiny” had caused him to tremble, and in the end, I hadn’t been able to get a clear answer out of him.

　“Let’s go, No. 22,” I said. “Together.”

　His gaze wavered. I couldn’t fathom why he would hesitate. If he found the decision too frightening, I was more than happy to make it for him. All he had to do was nod.

　“What’s going on?! What happened?!”

　No. 9 and No. 2 burst into the control room. They must have heard the instructor shouting from the other side of the bulkhead. No. 2 appeared calm, but No. 9 glanced about the room with obvious unease.

　“Perfect timing,” I said. “No. 9, we’re going to be taking a little trip to the far side of the earth.”

　“What?”

　“Real sorry, but I’m gonna have to insist you come along. We wouldn’t be able to back up our data without our precious Healer.”

　Now I’d forced No. 22’s hand. With all of the other members of M002 spoken for, he could no longer refuse. I knew he lacked the resolve to be the only one to stay behind.

　No. 9 still hadn’t grasped what was happening. No. 6―his movements swift as ever―slipped behind the Healer to apprehend him. It happened so quickly, No. 9 didn’t have a chance to resist.

　“Mmm,” hummed No. 6. “You smell delicious.”

　He buried his face in No. 9’s hair. The Attacker’s weird behavior continued to baffle me, but I’d known that when it came time, he was the one most suited to securing No. 9 quickly and without any fuss.

　“Get your hands off No. 9.”

　No. 4 aimed his guns at No. 6.

　“Lower your weapons,” No. 3 warned. “You know damn well a Gunner doesn’t have a chance against an Attacker at close range.”

　Now it was a question of whether No. 4 would heed his companion’s advice. He was stubborn. Inflexible. But if we had to deal with him, we would.

　Ultimately, I was more worried about the other, much bigger threat in the room.

　I turned to look at No. 2.

　“It looks like your time’s finally come. We had to fight eventually, right?”

　No. 2 drew his sword smoothly and without the slightest noise. No. 22 shouted something to me, but I ignored him. I was focused solely on No. 2, my eyes locked with his.

　“That’s right,” I said. “I know all about you.”

　There, in the depths of the server, I’d scoured every classified document I could find. Among them was a description of a killer, a YoRHa model designed for the express purpose of eliminating its peers. That was my introduction to the seventh member of our squad―our final “comrade,” who in truth was to be our assassin.

　Even his name, No. 2 Type D, was a lie. His real designation was Type E. Not our Defender, but our Executioner. And he’d arrived under explicit orders to slay all members of M Squadron.

　“Your true designation, and your mission, too,” I added. “Everything.”

　 And with that, the battle was on. No. 2 sprinted toward me, blade held ready. I’d anticipated that he would first target No. 9; perhaps he’d opted for new tactics when he saw the Healer guarded by No. 6.

　So if not the squad’s beating heart, then at least its calculating mind. A wise move.

　I pivoted, avoiding No. 2’s slash. Although I lacked the combat power of my peers, my capacity to evade attacks was nothing to scoff at. A Scanner running recon on the front lines needed to be able to look out for his own skin as he navigated the thick of battle.

　I prepared to avoid a follow-up strike, but No. 2 instead ducked low to the ground, just as No. 3’s giant blade whistled through the air where his head had been. The attack came from his blind spot, but the Executioner evaded it easily. No. 3’s blade, failing to connect with its intended target, continued on in a great arc. It seemed to move in slow motion; I realized we were all powerless to stop it. Finally, it lodged with a sickening crunch into one of the control room’s walls.

　 A piercing alarm filled the room, along with a booming message from the autopilot system.

　“Hull breach detected. Cabin pressure falling. Initiating automated descent.”

　The transport shuddered violently.

　Phlox shouted, “Lotus! Take the helm!”

　I couldn’t have said whether Lotus responded. No. 2’s blade came swiftly. I saw it bearing down on me, understanding all too well the death it would soon bring.

　There was a loud clang.

　“Heh! Not bad for a scrawny lookin’ shrimp.”

　No. 3 had saved me yet again. His blade caught No. 2’s at the last moment. Without a word, the Executioner shifted to address the renewed threat. There was a whirlwind of steel. I heard No. 9 call out, pleading with No. 2 to stop. No. 4, sensing an opening, barreled straight for the Healer.

　“Like hell you will! No. 9’s not going anywhere!” No. 6 sensed it, too, and soon he and the Gunner were exchanging blows.

　I drew my own sword and slashed at No. 4. I had no delusions about overpowering a model specialized for combat, but I could at least help No. 6.

　Behind me, I heard the shrill clangs and scrapes of No. 2 and No. 3’s swords. Similar noises came from No. 6 and No. 4 as they continued to fight right before my eyes.

　Where was No. 22? I scanned the room and found him standing stiff as a board against one wall. I saw his lips move slightly.

　Stop it.

　Stop it? How? It had to be done. Surely he understood that.

　I opened my mouth to call him over, when suddenly, No. 6 slipped by me, aiming his sword at No. 2’s exposed back. No. 4 made to follow, but he was no match for No. 6’s speed.

　No. 6 slashed once, and I saw No. 2’s shoulders jerk in pain. A raucous laugh erupted from No. 6 as he prepared to follow with a killing blow. But the second strike did not find the Executioner’s flesh: between No. 2 and the Attacker’s blade leapt none other than our precious Healer.

　“No. 9!” I screamed.

　He crumpled to the ground, but only for a moment. He managed to sit back up, his face twisted in pain. I felt weak with relief. He was hurt, but the injury wasn’t serious.

　My relief soon gave way to rage. How could he do something so foolish?! Had it been some kind of gut reaction, made before he’d had time to think?

　No. 3 exploded in anger, “Dammit, No. 6! Stick to your own fight!”

　No. 6 paid the outburst no mind. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. His lips curled into a malevolent smile as he declared, “Strikes from behind. Two against one. They’re the tactics of cowards, and I absolutely adore them.”

　He turned his blade on No. 3. I couldn’t believe it. Was he in his right mind? But No. 3 showed no trace of hesitation. He raised his sword confidently, as if the two had been on opposing sides from the start.

　Why the hell were No. 3 and No. 6 going at each other? It made no sense.

　“Stop!”

　But no one was listening to my attempts to restore order. The battle had devolved into a free-for-all. No. 2 jumped in among the Attackers’ exchanged blows, and No. 4 was there, too, kicking and flailing. And then No. 6 turned away from No. 3 and was rushing back toward No. 9. No. 4 slammed into the Healer, hurtling him to safety.

　This was bad. At this rate, we’d fail once again.

　No. 6’s sword carved a deep gash in the floor where No. 9 had been standing. Another piercing alarm filled the control room. This was the same blade that had sent countless machines to their graves with ease. Against it, the transport’s bulkheads and decks may as well have been made of paper.

　“Critical fuel loss detected,” the system announced. “Aircraft stability controls reduced to fifteen percent capacity.”

　The transport jerked violently. I caught a glimpse of Lotus wrestling the control stick with everything he had. But the craft continued to shudder. We were still falling.

　“Altitude decreasing. One hundred twenty meters.”

　Cactus and Phlox ran to assist Lotus.

　“One hundred ten meters . . . One hundred meters . . .”

　I could feel our descent quicken. The entire craft jerked and shuddered unpredictably, yet the melee inside the control room raged on. One portion of the airframe began to groan and creak.

　“Eighty meters . . . Sixty meters . . .”

　Not one of them stayed their swords. They were fools to the last.

　“Forty meters . . .”

　“Twenty meters . . .”

　And with that final automated announcement, the world went dark and silent.