CHAPTER 6

[Log Entry: No. 9 / Forest Zone―Transport Crash Site]

SOMETHING REEKED OF BURNING.

　It was quiet, with long stretches of silence punctuated by strains of birdsong.

　Where was I?

　I opened my eyes and looked around as best I could without moving my head. Eventually I made out some kind of rift in the darkness. Beyond it, I saw the bright green hues of surface flora.

　That was when it hit me: it was too quiet. Over the past few hours, I’d grown accustomed to a constant drone filling my ears―the transport’s engines.

　Right. We’d crashed.

　I tried to lift myself up, only to awkwardly flop to one side. One of my arms didn’t seem to be working. When I tried to force it to move, a searing pain ran through my shoulder. It was a bad sign that I’d sustained serious damage.

　Still on my side, I used my functioning arm to pull out my field repair kit. There wasn’t much light to see by, so I had to feel my way through the contents of the kit, visualizing the items one by one. Fortunately, I had a clear memory of how everything was arranged.

　I pulled out an analgesic injector and plunged it into my damaged arm. After a moment, I tested the arm, finding I was able to bear some degree of movement. But even just righting my body left me short of breath.

　I placed my good hand on some twisted, unidentifiable piece of wreckage, using it to pull myself to my feet. I recalled the burning smell I’d noticed on first waking and looked around. Nothing nearby seemed to be on fire. I strained my senses for any hint of danger―any subtle sounds or unusual variations in temperature.

　I didn’t perceive any immediate threats. Or at the very least, I didn’t need to worry about any encroaching flames or impending explosions.

　“Can anyone hear me . . . ?” I ventured.

　The back of my throat felt funny, as if it were swollen or constricted. Had I inhaled a lot of smoke?

　No . . . That didn’t seem to be the case. I was sure about the earlier burning smell, but my surroundings didn’t show any traces of a fire significant enough to impact my respiratory systems. Maybe I was just imagining the feeling in my throat.

　What about my squadmates and the Resistance members? Was everyone all right? I looked around once more, eyes somewhat adjusting to the faint light streaming through the gashes in the transport’s hull. I could tell the ship had come to rest at an uneven angle. In fact, considering the extent of the damage I observed, it seemed nothing short of a miracle that the craft hadn’t blown apart or gone up in flames on impact.

　I heard a faint scraping noise, followed by a hoarse whisper.

　“No. 9,” someone said.

　“No. 22?” I asked. “Is that you?”

　I could see a lone silhouette slowly rising in the dim light of the control room wreckage. There was no doubt. It was No. 22. When he spoke, his voice rasped like mine, and I finally deduced the cause; we must have inhaled particles thrown into the air during the wreck. Not good. I’d have almost preferred smoke. We needed to find our way to the outside and get fresh air as soon as possible.

　“Where are we?” No. 22 asked.

　“Looks like we’ve landed in some kind of . . . forest,” I said. “But that’s about as much detail as I can offer.”

　I’d seen the green of trees through the fissures in the hull and heard the chirping of birds. For all that had gone wrong with our flight attempt, at least we hadn’t crashed into the ocean.

　“Any sign of the others?”

　“No. I . . . haven’t seen anyone else.”

　In all likelihood, the other units had been hurled from the transport on impact. Given the shredded state of the hull, it was certainly possible. The fact that No. 22 and I were still inside was undoubtedly a result of chance. “A little good luck,” as humans might say.

　 “Can you walk?” I asked.

　I held a hand out to him, only for a dull ache to work its way through my arm. The injection would have fully taken effect by now; apparently it had only managed to lessen the pain, not eliminate it completely, a sign that I must have been hurt quite badly . . .

　“Yeah. I think I’m okay,” he replied.

　I felt silly for offering help I couldn’t provide. He extended a hand to me instead.

　“Sorry. Thanks.”

　In the end, we limped along arm in arm, supporting each other’s weight as we found a way out of the transport. True to my initial observations, we had crashed in a dense forest. The transport’s trajectory was marked by a trail of snapped and charred trunks. Smoke still billowed from a few of them. The earlier burning smell, then, had been a mixture of transport debris and smoldering vegetation.

　I peered around, carefully checking the area for anyone collapsed on the ground or flung into the branches of surrounding trees. But I didn’t see any of the others.

　“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” I shouted, then strained my ears for a response.

　None came. I wished No. 21 was with us. He’d always been able to pick up even the faintest black box signals; those were exactly the skills we needed in a situation like this.

　But I made certain not to say the thought aloud. No. 22 was undoubtedly already anxious about his missing twin without my bringing the subject up. In the wreckage of the transport, when he’d asked me about any sign of the others, I knew he was really asking if I’d found No. 21.

　There was a sudden metallic groaning and creaking behind us. No. 22 and I looked at each other.

　“Is . . . is somebody there?” I asked.

　One of the portholes on the transport’s downward-facing side came flying off, frame and all. A figure tumbled out of the breach, clothes torn and hair disheveled. I intuited who it was at once. When he stood up, my breath caught in my chest. A faint alarm rang in a corner of my mind.

　“No. 21!”

　My hand caught the Gunner’s arm. “Don’t.”

　No. 21’s knees jerked spasmodically. I recognized something about the way he stood―there was a clip like this among the video footage I’d watched as part of my Healer training.

　“Wow . . . I feel great. No pain at all,” said No. 21.

　He tilted his head and flexed his right arm. The arm twitched repeatedly, a clear sign of atypical signals being passed to his drive systems; the question now was whether he was aware of what was happening.

　“Why does everything look so . . . red?” he wondered aloud.

　So it had already spread to his sensors. There was no doubt in my mind now.

　“No. 21? What’s wrong?”

　The Scanner turned to look into his twin’s concerned eyes.

　“Huh? Do I . . . kNOw yoU?”

　No. 21 tilted his head further, until it rested on his shoulder at a sickening angle. His glowing red eyes did not blink. They simply continued to stare.

　“Hey! Snap out of it!”

　No. 22 again tried to dash toward his twin. I threw my arms around the Gunner to hold him back.

　“Stop! He’s . . . he’s infected with an enemy logic virus!”

　No. 22 started to say something, but I didn’t hear it―every sound in the vicinity was drowned out by the terrible, maniacal laughter coming from the infected No. 21.

[Log Entry: No. 3 / Forest Zone―1,800 Meters Northwest of Transport Crash Site]

The fight. That was the only thing running through my head. Arrogant little shit. I wanted to crack his skull wide open.

　And I didn’t give a damn if cutting down No. 6 meant I’d be accused of fratricide or endangering the mutiny or whatever. I didn’t have room in my head for that crap. Hell, it was just the way my brain was wired. Nothing much I could do about that.

　“Shit . . . I gotta hurry and . . . find him.”

　Huh? Wait. What was I thinking just now?

　Did I hit my head in the crash or something?

　I remembered a bunch of snapping sounds, right after I was sucked out of the transport, like branches breaking right next to my ears. By the time I made sense of it and realized I was dropping straight into a forest, my body’d already slammed against the ground. Figured I was as good as dead.

　“Where am I?”

　What was I trying to do again? And where was my sword? Oh, yeah. Right here in my hand.

　“No time. I gotta . . . ”

　I’d been looking for something . . . Wait, no. Someone.

　Dammit. Why wouldn’t my head work right?

　“Where . . . am I?”

　I . . . I’d started to say something, hadn’t I? Like, with my voice. No. That didn’t seem right.

　“Got . . . ta . . . hurry . . . ”

　Where was I? What was this place? I saw a forest. Trees. Dark. Light.

　Red.

　 . . . Oh.

　So that’s what was going on.

　I’d finally figured it out. Hell, when things got this bad, even I could catch a clue. Just wished it hadn’t taken me for-goddamned-ever. Was getting kinda fed up with how stupid I was.

　Someone called out to me. “No. 3!”

　I remembered the voice. It belonged to No. 4. Everything came into focus. I remembered it all. Yeah. I’d been searching for No. 4.

　“You . . . ”

　The instant he saw my face, he lost his words. Hmph. No surprise there.

　I looked at my hands. They were shaking and jerking around, but I wasn’t the one moving them.

　“How long?” asked No. 4.

　“Beats me,” I replied.

　Not like it mattered. Who cared when or where I’d been infected? But No. 4 was always focusing on the strangest details, and no wonder―the guy was dumber than a rock.

　Still, I tried to give him an answer. “Guess it must’ve been . . . when No. 21 hacked the console aboard the transport. He was hit with a logic virus and . . . Yeah. I remember some weird noise over the comms.”

　He clicked his tongue and muttered, “That means No. 6, too.”

　What? Why was he talking about No. 6 now? What the hell did that jerk have to do with anything? Oh. Right. He was probably saying No. 6 must’ve caught the virus, too.

　“Look,” he said, “I’m gonna forget about the whole mutiny thing for the moment, seeing as we’ve got a much bigger issue on our hands. I want you to shut down all routines immediately. Get your black box into lockdown mode. If you don’t, the virus is gonna keep eating away at your mind until you lose it for good. Once that happens, the machines’ll have you.”

　Man, he was talking a lot. That was No. 4 for you. But . . . he had a point. Couldn’t stay like this. I should probably . . .

　“Nah,” I decided. “Forget that.”

　I hurled my still-unsteady fist at him, putting all my weight into the blow. Punches were all I got. Couldn’t grip a sword with the way I was shaking.

　“Man, I’ve waited a long time for this. Just you and me, all alone.”

　No enemies. No allies. Mano a mano. But what was with the gloomy look on his face? Ah, hell. He was always like that. Probably thinking about how I was even more useless now than I was before.

　“You’ve been lookin’ down on me since the day we first met,” I spat. “Always outdoin’ me, as an Attacker or a Gunner! And you knew damn well you were better with a sword than those guns. You only backed outta the role ’cause you figured Attacker was the only thing I stood a chance of bein’ decent at.”

　“Gotta have the best people we can get in every role. Makes for a more efficient squad.” He was stone-faced as he said it, his features locked down tight. Looked like he wasn’t ever gonna show his hand. Not even at the bitter end.

　’Cause here he was, still going on about that “best people in every role” crap. Efficiency. Hmph. Did he seriously think I couldn’t see through that bullshit?

　“Like hell that’s what this is about,” I told him. “You felt sorry for me.”

　How was that for accuracy, huh? Knew I’d hit dead center of the target.

　I added, “And I bet you don’t have the first clue how alone that made me feel.”

　I’d believed we were brothers-in-arms. I was never gonna surpass him, but I figured we could at least keep fighting side by side, watching each other’s backs. That was all I’d really wanted. That was what it meant to stand together on the battlefield as squadmates, wasn’t it? But No. 4 had denied me even that.

　My right arm was still shaking. I couldn’t make it stop. I balled my left fist up as tight as I could and punched him again. I couldn’t let my right have all the fun; my left wanted some of the action, too.

　“I just wanted to be treated like an equal! That’s all!”

　“That’s enough, No. 3.”

　There was a dull pop, and the shaking in my arm stopped.

　Finally.

　Now we could settle this. Now we could fight.

　“Whoo! My bODy feels light as a feather . . . ”

　The pain was all gone. I felt great.

　“It’s an early symptom of the infection. Your limiter stops functioning, and you aren’t able to register the load stress on your own frame anymore. If you don’t shut yourself down, the virus’ll move on to your drive systems next.”

　“Sounds pretty nice, actually.”

　It’d be worth it―even if didn’t give me much time.

　“If my limiter’s down,” I said, “that just means I’ll be faster than ever, yeah? I can pump out more power, too. So here’s my chance to be on your level. Hell, if I get to be your equal in a fight for one damn second . . . I don’t think I need another thing outta life.”

　I drew my sword. It felt light. I felt light, like I’d grown a pair of wings or something.

　This feeling. This moment. It was all I’d ever wanted.

　I raised my sword and pointed it at No. 4. “I’m gonna whip your smug ass if it’s the last thing I do!”

　His lips mouthed, “Damn fool.”

　It was the first time he’d ever shown a glimmer of something resembling emotion.

[Log Entry: No. 6 / Forest Zone―900 Meters Southeast of Transport Crash Site]

Enemies. Nothing but enemies in every direction, as far as the eye could see. No matter how many of them we took out, there were always more. That’s how it had always been, from the moment we touched down on our first descent to the surface. We were forever surrounded by enemies.

　But I hadn’t disliked that, y’know? Slice them up, smash them, pound on them until they were a pile of scrap. Repeat ad infinitum. To be honest, I kinda loved it.

　Didn’t care much for the dying part, though.

　When the transport started losing altitude, I felt disappointed; out of all the ways I’d died until then, it seemed like a pretty pathetic way to go. So when I got sucked out of the ship and found that I’d not only survived the fall, but that I’d been thrown right into the middle of a huge machine army, well . . . let’s just say I wasn’t disappointed anymore.

　So many enemies. So many things for me to kill.

　I stabbed, I slashed, I crushed. It was fun. So much fun.

　Why didn’t machines scream when they died, though? That was my only real complaint. Would’ve been nice if they learned to talk like humans, and started crying and screaming and moaning. I liked to imagine hearing them wail “iT hURtS!” or “hELp MeEE!” or “wHY? i HaVEn’t DonE aNYtHinG wROng!” as they looked at me with loathing in their eyes. It’d be a lot better than now, when they just fell apart without a word.

　Huh?

　Did I hear a scream?

　Or was I just hearing what I wanted to hear?

　No. There it was again. It was a voice I knew. One of those Resistance chumps, shouting, “Heeelp!”

　I had to hurry. Had to kiLL any machine that got in my way. I’d beat every last one of them into the ground. I’d crush them! Heh.

　Ah. There they were. The instructor, along with the three Resistance androids. They were surrounded by enemies, fReaking out. Looked like they were backed up to the edge of a cliff. No way out. The machines had these kills in the bag. DaMmit all!

　One of them . . . Cactus, was it? He was the one whose pathetic scream I’d heard, and he was still at it. “Heeeeelp!” The instructor was putting up his best fight, but he diDn’T stand a chance with three useless androids weighing him down. Phlox seemed to be helPinG as beSt he could. And Lotus, well, this encounter was way out of his league. But I’d always known that.

　What was I doing? CoUldn’t stand around watching forever, could I?

　I charged straight into the horde surrounding the four, ripping machines up left and right. Ah, it didn’t get any bEtter than this.

　Except . . . it was over all too fast. What a shame. It was almost like the machines flung themselves onto my naked blade. It didn’t leave me satisfied at all. The machines around here were way too weak.

　“Huh? What just happened?!”

　The three Resistance androids stood with their jaws slack, looking from me to the piles of machine scrap now littering the ground.

　“No. 6 . . . !”

　The instructor managed not to gape moronically, but I wasn’t a fan of the expression he had on his face instead. It was the way people looked when they were relieved to find someone alive and well. That sentimental crap didn’t suit him.

　But I knew how to fix it.

　“Wh . . . ?!”

　Now he was staring in disbelief at my knife lodged in his shoulder. Yeah. That was much better. I liked that look. sUrpRise and pain all miXed up into one. I was glad I’d kept that spare throwing knife around. I hoped he didn’t get the wrong imPreSSion though; it WaSN’t like I’d been holding on to it just for his sake.

　“Mmm . . . Feeling rEAL good.”

　Huh? That was odd. My aRM was tWiTcHiNg.

　“Did I slam it into something?”

　I gave my arm a good hard shake. There. All better.

　But the instructor was still looking at me.

　“No. 6!” he gasped again, this time all gravely concerned or whatever. The heLL was his deal? What a laugh.

　“It’s a logic virus, isn’t it? You’re infected,” he said.

　What of it? Had it seriously taken him this long to figure it out? A little late, yeah?

　Our mutiny had failed. I knew damn well what that meant. Command had sicced their Executioner dog on us. Anything short of a trip to the back half of the world meant we didn’t have a future. And when we’d tried to make the trip, we failed. In other words, we were fucked. We always were. ’Course, our resident genius No. 3 couldn’t even figure that much out.

　I turned my attention back to the instructor. “What makes you think I give a shit?”

　Really, what a riot. But that was enough chitchat. It was time to move on to somEthiNg fun.

　“Let me tell you what’s going to happen next,” I said. “You’re all going to suffer, until eventually I decide to let you die.”

　I swung my blade hard. Put all my strength into it. There was a shriek.

　No. That wasn’t what I was looking for. Not at all what I wanted to hear. Damn Cactus. Old fart. Why couldn’t he shut up? The scream I was after right now wasn’t anything he could give me.

　“No. 6! Stop this!”

　“You want me to stop, huh?”

　We were getting closer: right voice this time, but it wasn’t making the right sounds. I didn’t want an order from the instructor. I wanted a scream. Or he could beg. That would be nice, too. C’mon. How long was he going to make me wait?

　“M Squadron’s done for. How’s that make you feel, sir? All your hard work down the drain.”

　I readied one more hard strike. Had to be careful not to cut the chest or the throat, though. It’d be a real letdown if this ended quick. So I’d aim low. Yeah. His legs. That could be nice.

　Ooh. Look at him go. Quick as lightning. Managed to avoid the slash by a hair. But it cost him his balance―flopped right down on his ass. Real embarrassing, yeah? Mmm. Looked real vulnerable down on the ground like that. This wasn’t half bad.

　“Why?!”

　The shout came from an unexpected direction. Huh? What was Phlox’s problem?

　“If you wanted to kill us, why go to the trouble of rescuing us?!”

　Geez. Looked like we had another wiNNer in the intellect department. And here I’d thought PHloX was the most put-together of the bunch.

　“Haven’t figured it out, huh?” I decided to do him a favor. I’d break it down for him. “I’m doing it because it’s fun.”

　I pivoted away from the instructor, instead bringing my blade down on Phlox. What better way to learn than a hands-on demonstration? The anger filling his face shifted to confusion for a moment, before his features crumpled in pain.

　“How’s it feel? Hurts, right?”

　Hmph. Seemed he wasn’t able to answer my question. He fell and lay there on the ground, not attempting to move in the slightest.

　“I want you to know, that cut was just for you. I aimed it very carefully to cause you the most amount of pain I could.”

　In order to ensure someone experienced pain, care had to be taken to keep them conscious. The tRicK was to avoid any undue damage to the internal units. Better to maximize attention to the skin and muscles. That was where most of the pain receptors were found. Keep cuts shallow and have them extend as long as possible. That aBoUT summed it up.

　Oh, another tip: avoid cLEaN cuts. The more jagged the wound, the more intense the stimulation of the surrounding receptors.

　“When I see someone doubled over in pain or breaking down in tears, that’s pure pleasure for me. I can’t get enough of it.”

　Phlox was facedown. I kicked him over onto his back. This wasn’t going to be any fun if I couldn’t see his pretty mug.

　“I like having power over people. I like looking down on them and laughing at how pathetic they are.”

　I stamped a foot down on his fresh, gaping wound. I bet it hurt. It did, didn’t it? I bet it was pure agony.

　“I want to watch as they lose all hope in the face of overwhelming power. That delicious moment when I can see despair creeping into their eyes.”

　But the damn machines didn’t show anything. It didn’t matter how much you cut them up or crushed them; thEy didn’t let out a single scream. If something didn’t scream when made to suffer, that meaNt it didn’t feel anything.

　Same thing when they were the aggressors―machines didn’t react when androids were in pain, trembling and begging for their lives. They didn’t experience the joy of seeing faces twisted in agony, a mess of tears and snot and blood.

　“And you’re telling me I should throw that all away? Let the machines kill you instead?”

　He honestly thought I’d give that joy up to a bunch of uninspired robots that couldn’t put a damn thought together if their lives depended on it?

　“What a waste! What an absolute waste!”

　I turned to check on Cactus and Lotus. The two were sitting in place, trembling, but I wanted more. I needed to hear them cry. To wail. This fun belongEd to me and me alone!

　“Eeny, meeny, miney . . . moe!”

　I stabbed my index finger up against Cactus’s nose. A wheezing sound escaped his throat. Hmm. Still not quite there.

　Ah. I knew what I could do. I could lop off one of those two little ears. That’d get things moving, wouldn’t it?

　Yeah. That’s exactly what I’d do.

　“Don’t even think about it!”

　Oh, for . . . The instructor couldn’t leave well enough alone, could he? Another couple centimeters and my blade would’ve been peeling Cactus’s ear right off. How did he figure it out, anyway? Were the tHoughts in my head leAkiNg?

　The instructor had thrust his sword at me right as I’d bent down next to Cactus’s head. Had he been waiting for a moment when my guard was relaxed? I mean, they did say that birds of prey were most vulnerable right at the moment when they stooped to strike. Come to think of it, it was the instructor who taught me that.

　Now he was trying to circle around to my left. Did he think he was keeping himself on my weaker side? Hmph. Nice try, but obvious moves like that only worked on the training ground. Real fights were a whole different game.

　“I know your secret, sir.”

　I slid my sword against his, disarming him. His blade went spinning off to the side. Then I swung low to sweep his feet out from under him. Too easy. What a laugh.

　“You’re not actually a YoRHa unit. You’re just a plain old android, reinforced a bit for extra strength.”

　He was down, but he still reached one hand out, straining for his fallen sword. Mmm. Struggling in vain. Good stuff. I’d have to give him a little reward for pleasing me. I thrust my blade through the back of his right hand, pinning it to the ground. Now he didn’t have to do anything but lie there like a good little instructor.

　“It all comes down to whether or not you’ve got a black box. That lovely little high-output reactor core? That’s the mark of a YoRHa. Makes all the difference in the world, y’know?”

　Now it was time to really enjoy myself . . .

　Unfortunately, there was another unwelcome interruption. One measly bullet grazed the side of my neck. It didn’t have a chance in hell of properly hitting me, and it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference even if it did. Against YoRHa models, Resistance weapons might as well have been loaded with training rounds.

　DaMn Phlox. How was he still moving?

　“C’mon,” I said. “Now you’re just getting on my nerves. You don’t aCtUaLLy think some pathetic Resistance android is going to take on a YoRHa model and win, do you?”

　He was weak, and he was slow. He couldn’t evade my attacks, which meant I could hit him as many times as I wanted. Why, I cOuld evEn . . . retrace the wound I gave him earlier, running my blade along precisely the same path to deepen the cut. See? Just like that.

　Ah. Now he was making a nIcE face for me. All scrunched up, wet with sweat and tears and snot and drool.

　Next, how about the heel of my boot on his nice rosy cheek? I was doing this for his sake, to be nice. He couldn’t breathe very well with his teeth clenched tight like that. He needed to open his mouth to let the air in. Yeah. Just like that. Deep breath out.

　“Cut it ooooout!”

　Ugh. The annoying old fart had spoiled another beautiful moment. Here Phlox was, making such a preTty sound for me, and Cactus had to drown it out with his yelling. Maybe I needed to shut the captain up first.

　I turned, only to find something entirely unexpected. Machines, right in the middle of my playtime. Hadn’t I killed these things already? I was sure of it, but they seemed to have bounced right back up off the ground.

　Someone shouted, “Fire!”

　And then bullets were flying at me from every direction at once. After a moment, I recognized the voice as Lotus’s. So the machines had to be some kind of trick he’d worked up. But before I could address that issue, I needed to do something about these bullets. Unlike the pathetic toys the Resistance carried, the guns that the machines were armed with packed a punch, and they shot plenty fast.

　I deflected the bullets with my sword, sending them right back at the machines. It took a moment, but I finally managed to destroy them again.

　What a chore.

　When it was over, I turned back to face the Resistance androids. “A bunch of hacked machines all programmed to fire on me at once, huh? Nice tRIck.”

　Lotus stood stock-still, eyes wide as saucers.

　“Yes, well, I . . . wasn’t expecting that. Did you just . . . erm . . . knock every bullet out of the air?”

　“Not quiTe,” I sneered. “A few of them managed to hit me.”

　SomEthing warm trickled down from my forehead to my cheek. Dammit. Getting shot by the machines hurt.

　“Guess I better pay back the favor.”

　I brought my sword down for a quick swipe at Lotus, who was still standing stiff as a board. I was hoping maybe he’d shriek or turn away or run in circles or something. But he just took the blow and flopped down to the ground. C’mon. Really? I’d barely scratched the guy. I was being so careful to avoid any vitals.

　“Hey. Get up. I haven’t killed you yet.”

　I grabbed him by his face and lifted it up near my own. It was so puny. I could’ve crushed it right there.

　“Hmm. What kinda pain do you deserve for ruining my perfect features?”

　His skull creaked and groaned between my fingers. If I flexed them a little bit harder, maybe his brain unit would come splurting out one side. But if I did that, it’d all be over in an instant.

　“How about I sever your arms and legs, and keep you alive to watch? But not all at once. I bet we’ll have more fun if I hack away at each of them one centimeter at a time.”

　Yeah. That sounded good. I’d start with his right hand. To an engineer like him, nothing would be more terrifying than the thought of losing his dominant hand.

　“Lotus!”

　“I am getting really sick of you, old man. Wait your turn!”

　I gave Cactus a light kick, but he went flying off nearly two meters. How weak couLD you get?

　“How . . . how . . . dare you mess with my men! Graaah!”

　The hell? Suddenly he was breaking out this hotheaded crap. It reminded me of No. 3 and all his irritating stupidity.

　Next, Cactus started slamming his fiSTs against me. Even the lacK of efficiency reminded me of M Squadron’s resident moron. But this was even worse, really―the Resistance captain wasn’t hurting me at all.

　“You just don’t know when to stop, do you?”

　I kicked him once more. This time, he flew about three meters.

　But he still struggled back to his feet. This was exactly the kind of tHing I hated about idiots like him and No. 3.

　The captain screamed as he rushed in again. “How . . . how . . . ”

　“Huh?” he paused in confusion. “I don’t hurt at all. And . . . why’s the world gone all red?”

　Phlox’s eyes widened. It was likE he was so surprised, he forgot all about his pain. Ugh. And here he’d been making such a nIcE face for me. Now he was calling out all grief-stricken or whatever. “Cap! No! Don’t tell me you’re . . . !”

　I mean, it was grief, at least. Kinda nice in its oWN way.

　Cactus started going on about his arm. “It’s . . . it’s nOt dOinG what I tell it to . . . ! Hee hee. Ah ha ha!”

　His head tilted to one side, and his entire body began to tremble.

　“Seriously?” I smirked. “You let yourself get infected, old man? How laME! How totaLLy pAtheTic!”

　What a laugh. Here he was, planning to go down in a blaZE of glory, and it turned out he’d been infected with a virus. He was laUGhing like some kind of lUNaTiC as he fired. Man. How stupid could you get?

　“No! Cap!”

　Phlox sounded like he was about to burst into tears. The old man continued spraying bullets at random and laughing.

　On second thought, maybe it wasn’t so random. Cactus was aiming for Phlox and Lotus, backing them up to the edge of the sheer drop. Hmm. Maybe Cactus wasn’t so bad now that he was infected.

　But hang on. That rifle he was firing . . . To a YoRHa unit, it was about as effective as a toy, but it hit plenty hard enough to kill old models. Did he realize what he was doing?

　“Cap! Please! Get a hold of―”

　Aw, jeez. Cactus hit ’em both. Phlox and Lotus got whacked by their now-infected captain and went tumbling headfirst off the side of the cliff.

　I guessed he was probably coming for me next. Except . . . The hell? Now he had his barrel aimed at himself. What was he trying to accomplish? It didn’t make any sense. What kind of infected android felt guilt?

　Damn. He shot himself. He actually did it. One blast straight to his throat.

　He wobbled for a moment, then fell off the side of the cliff to join his two dead comrades. I GueSSed he must’ve retained some tiny sliver of consciousness right up to the end.

　It was absurd. I couldn’t hold back the laughter.

　“Hah! Imagine that. Losing your mind to a virus, going after your comrades, then offing yourself. All nice and tiDy, like some kind of cleaning dRoNE. Doesn’t get any more convenient than THaT!”

　Ah, how funny. But at the same time, what a loss. The three Resistance members had finished themselves off. Hmph. Those kills were supposed to be mine. Now where was I going to get my fun?

　“Well, instructor, looks like it’s just you and me,” I mused.

　I turned back to face him. At some point, he’d gotten his hand free. He must’ve managed to pull my sword out. Heh. He was trying pretty hard. But I sure wished he could have doNe it when I was watching. Why keep all that eXCruCiaTing worK a secret? Oh well. We’d just have to make up for it now.

　“We’re going to have a real good time together.”

　At long last, I had him all to myself.

[Log Entry: No. 2 / Forest Zone―1,200 Meters Northeast of Transport Crash Site]

It was the second time I’d been dragged back from the depths of darkness to the waking world. The first was when I was pulled comatose from the escape pod. It hadn’t been particularly bright in the cave, but it had been plenty noisy.

　This time―my second experience―was comparatively quiet. And it was a lot brighter. When I opened my eyes, I saw the sky; it seemed I was supine on the ground. Some manner of dark shadow blotted out one portion of blue. No, not a shadow . . . something green. Vegetation of some kind. When my eyes managed to focus, I realized it was a tree with huge, spreading branches.

　I had a vague memory of the transport losing altitude fast, ultimately crashing into the Forest Zone. A huge gash had formed in the hull―probably because we’d been foolish enough to start fighting onboard. I must’ve been sucked outside, sent plummeting to the ground alone.

　I attempted some gradual movement in my arms and legs. Considering the height of the fall, my injuries seemed trivial. I sat up. The movement left me a little dizzy, but it wasn’t anything debilitating. A few minutes would be enough to recover and have myself restored to normal.

　I soon confirmed that my auditory processes were functioning fine, too. It was kind of a disappointment, actually. It might’ve been nice to go without hearing for a while, just so I could shut out one particularly unwelcome sound: my SSU seemed very excited by my return to consciousness and was beeping nonstop.

　I blearily told it, “SSU. Knock it off. I hear you.”

　“Alert: Eight hours thirty-six minutes have elapsed since scheduled mission completion time. Proposal: Eliminate YoRHa Experimental M Squadron immediately.”

　“You just can’t let that go, can you? Have you been paying any attention to what’s been going on?”

　Was Command out of their minds? Surely they had to be aware of the attempted mutiny. And then there was the transport’s crash landing―at this point, it was unclear if any of the squadron’s members were alive. But they were still hassling me about carrying out my mission? It was absurd.

　“Alert: Refusal to comply with direct orders issued by Command will be punished with black box overload and consequent disposal of unit No. 2 Type E.”

　Seriously? Straight to death? I hoped that wasn’t a joke, because I wasn’t laughing. If it was a real threat, it seemed a little harsh, if you asked me. Though I didn’t doubt they’d follow through with it.

　“Proposal: Eliminate YoRHa Experimental M Squadron immediately.”

　Great. So Command had come up with a joke in the worst possible taste, and now I got to listen to my SSU deliver the terrible punchline over and over. It was completely twisted. Everything was falling apart.

　“Someone up there’s got a real sadistic sense of humor . . . ”

　A dry, rasping sound tickled its way up my throat. I’d thought this comedy couldn’t get any lower, but apparently we’d bottomed out and looped right back around to hilarious, because now I was laughing. Me. The jester at the center of the whole damn farce.

　“SSU, provide last-known coordinates. I’ll start my search for the squadron members.”

　I looked down at my palms. The tape on my right wrist was smeared with dirt and starting to come undone. I softly touched it with my left hand, then set off walking through the forest.

[Log Entry: No. 4 / Forest Zone―1,800 Meters Northwest of Transport Crash Site]

I’d faced the sharp edge of No. 3’s sword plenty of times, both up on the Bunker and here on the surface. I knew all his techniques, inside and out. I knew all his bad habits, too. In fact, on balance, I probably had a better read on the next move he’d make in any given fight than he did himself.

　But right now, I wasn’t able to read anything. He still brought his blade crashing down with all his might, but the openings I expected to see after weren’t there. I tried faking a few stumbles, but he wasn’t taking the bait.

　You’ve got a bad habit of letting your attention wander every time you finish something off.

　You can’t afford to hesitate when you go in for the kill.

　How many times had I leveled those remarks at him? Now here I was, mulling over my own words. This was a No. 3 with focus and precision, who guarded every opening and pressed every opportunity he saw.

　I twisted away one moment too slow, and his blade connected with my gun, knocking it from my grip. Unlike every other time we’d fought, No. 3 continued to press, rather than celebrating his small victory. I realized I might not find the moment I needed to draw my backup weapon.

　“C’mon! Quit playin’ around and fight me for real!” he spat, backing up and lifting his sword overhead in a high guard. It was a solid stance. He looked ready for anything I might throw at him.

　No. 3 glowered at me. “Forget the gun. Draw steel.”

　I’d lost count of the number of times we’d practiced close combat, sword versus pistol. It was thanks to all that experience that I knew I had to switch weapons or risk defeat. My handguns weren’t going to cut it against the new No. 3.

　So I drew my sword.

　When No. 3 saw, he grinned from ear to ear. He looked utterly ecstatic. I understood then how badly he wanted this, and it stirred in me a sadness more terrible than I could bear.

　“You really are a damn fool,” I told him.

　All this time, I’d believed we were fighting the same foe―that we stood on the fields of battle both facing the same way. We were supposed to be brothers-in-arms. So why was he pointing his blade at me now, lips curled with delight? Was this what he’d always truly desired?

　“Nothin’ I hate more,” he said, “than hearin’ you talk like you already got the fight in the bag.”

　He gave a roar, and his monstrous blade gleamed as it swept in. I lifted my sword to parry and succeeded, but it was like holding back a falling boulder. How was he putting so much force into the blow? His sword was huge, but not that huge.

　The last time we’d fought sword on sword, we’d been training on the Bunker. It was before I got reassigned to the Gunner role, when both of us were still Attackers.

　At the time, the ratio of wins had been in my favor. But that was only because I was careful about keeping my weaknesses with a sword hidden. I figured that once No. 3 learned to recognize his own shortcomings and developed the skills to compensate for them, we’d find ourselves on even footing in short order. But no matter how many times I tried to point him in the right direction, he refused to listen.

　As it turned out, my evaluation was spot-on. With his flaws and bad habits ironed out, No. 3 was a tough opponent. No matter where I tried to strike, he was ready to block the blow. And his attacks were coming in from directions I hadn’t even considered. We locked blades, jumped back, then instantly covered the distance to strike again. It was a perfectly even match.

　A different kind of smile touched No. 3’s lips. I’d only seen it once before, though the memory stayed with me. It was a day not long after we rolled off the production line, when we sparred for the first time. As our swords crossed, he’d had a look of pure delight on his face. No misgivings. No doubts. Just uncomplicated joy in the fight.

　I wouldn’t have guessed that the second time I’d ever see that smile, we’d be fighting to the death. Irony if I’d ever known it.

　But his pleasure, along with our even match, soon dissipated. The virus continued to creep its way through No. 3’s systems. He let slip a laugh that was more insanity than joy, and the hand gripping his sword began to tremble. His drive systems were beginning to fail. The end was near.

　The next blow I parried deflected his sword to one side. I went in for a strike. It connected, sending No. 3 flying backward, sword still gripped tight in his hand.

　But it wasn’t the end. He stood back up, a creepy smile plastered to his face, his shoulders twitching. I swiped at his feet, knocking him down before he could lift his sword. He managed to stand again, so I knocked him down once more. He lay still only a moment before defiantly struggling to his feet a third time.

　I’d cut him up something fierce. His internal units were showing through the gashes on his chest and abdomen. But he was still trying to fight, a faint grin lingering on his face. His sensors would be completely shot by now. Maybe he didn’t even register the feel of my blade against his skin anymore.

　“Why?!” I shouted. His consciousness was probably long gone, but I couldn’t hold back the question. “Why didn’t you infect me?!”

　I drove my blade into his right shoulder with all my strength. His huge sword went clattering to the ground, and his right arm fell limp at his side, its muscles severed.

　He remained on his feet and tried to stagger toward me. A few unsteady steps revealed the truth: walking was now beyond his battered body. He fell to his knees, for what was probably the last time.

　“You could’ve easily given me the virus,” I cried. “It’s inside you! Fighting in close like this, all you had to do was reach out!”

　I wasn’t expecting an answer. To be honest, I didn’t need one. All I really wanted was―

　“What . . . kind of victory . . . would that be?”

　He lifted his head and looked into my eyes. There was a different kind of smile on his lips now. Softer.

　So he’d been clinging to consciousness after all. That would explain how stubborn he’d been about getting to his feet no matter how many times I knocked him down.

　“Yeah. Guess so . . . ” I offered.

　The virus had spread to every part of his body, but he still clung tenaciously to his mind. He could have given in. He had to have known it’d be easier that way. ’Course, I guessed easy was never what No. 3 was after.

　His eyes, still locked on mine, continued to glow hellfire red. But I didn’t see madness in them anymore.

　“ . . . I got a favor to ask,” he said.

　Consider it done, I wanted to reply. But I couldn’t get the words out.

　He deserved an answer. We’d lived with far too few words between us. It was why we’d believed we understood each other, when in truth we hadn’t known a damn thing.

　I swallowed and tried again.

　“Consider it done.”

　As No. 3’s eyelids fell shut, I gently slid my blade straight through his heart.

[Log Entry: No. 9 / Forest Zone―Transport Crash Site]

No. 21 was weaving unsteadily from side to side. This, too, was a textbook symptom of logic virus infection: degradation of motor functions.

　“Whoo! I’m feeling good! So good, No. 9!”

　I heard a rifle report. No. 21’s body went flying backward.

　“I’m sorry,” No. 22 whispered, finger still trembling on the trigger.

　I knew the two had been together since they rolled off the line. I couldn’t begin to imagine how difficult this was for No. 22. Here he was, forced to take out his twin with his own two hands.

　But he wasn’t afforded any time to dwell on the fact. No. 21 rose back to his feet and started shambling toward us again.

　Apparently, the rifle shot hadn’t been enough to keep him down. I’d seen the round hit and watched as No. 21 was thrown backward on impact. In fact, I could see the charred hole in his uniform now.

　Conflicted as No. 22 was, he was a Gunner. He didn’t miss.

　So the reason this wasn’t over had to be the infection. It must have deadened the Scanner’s sense of pain―yet another classic symptom of a logic virus.

　“It doesn’t hurt!” No. 21 exclaimed. “It doesn’t hurt at all, No. 22!”

　He tilted his head in apparent surprise.

　“Huh?” he continued. “No. 22. Right. That’s your name. The twin model manufactured with me.”

　The Scanner gave a sinister grin. “But you failed your aptitude tests. You couldn’t cut it as an Attacker and ended up as a Gunner instead. Ah, poor, poor No. 22.”

　His comment reminded me of something that had nagged at me before, not long after we all first met. We were on the Bunker, talking. No. 22 had introduced himself to No. 6 as a Gunner. It confused me at the time, since I was certain I’d heard before that he was an Attacker, but I filed it away as my own failure to properly record information.

　Apparently, I’d been correct all along.

　No. 21 pointed a finger at his twin and erupted in shrill laughter.

　“I always pitied you, you know? So frail. So vulnerable. No. 22, the little crybaby, too weak to survive without my protection.”

　I turned to No. 22 and pleaded, “No! Don’t listen to him!”

　I didn’t want him to hear those words.

　“That’s not No. 21!” I cried. “He’s not himself anymore!”

　But the Gunner didn’t pay any attention to my warnings. He let out a bloodcurdling cry, firing wildly in No. 21’s direction.

　I thought he might go on like that, riddling his twin with bullets until every internal unit had been shredded into tiny fragments. No. 21 had stopped his awkward shambling―he’d taken several direct hits already, easily enough to incapacitate him under normal circumstances. But suddenly he began weaving and dodging, skillfully evading his twin’s continued fire. I took it as a sign that his combat instincts were somehow still intact, in spite the fact that the infection would have now spread to the majority of his body.

　“N . . . Num . . . b-b-b . . . r Twen . . . twenty-two . . . ” he stammered.

　He was losing his speech.

　No. 22 kept firing, as if now doing it merely to drown out the words. The bullets tore into No. 21, but he continued to stumble forward.

　“LeT’S bE . . . tOgETher . . . ”

　As his infected twin drew near, No. 22 began to back away. He tripped and fell to the ground.

　“wON’t yoU . . . cOMe wITh mE . . . ?”

　The Gunner struggled to get back to his feet, but No. 21 was closing in. I had to do something, before I lost another friend to the infection.

　“Hey! No. 21!” I yelled.

　As the Scanner swiveled his head in my direction, I barreled in from the side and dropkicked him with all the force I could muster. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just knew I had to keep him away from No. 22.

　“Stay away! He’s trying to infect you!”

　I drew my sword. I wasn’t well-suited to close combat. But under normal circumstances, neither was No. 21―that was why I figured I might have a shot. I had to take No. 21 down. I refused to let him cause his twin any more pain.

　No. 22’s the only combat model here, and he’s non-functional. I’m telling you, there isn’t a combat strategy in existence that would give a single Healer and a single Scanner a fighting chance against these odds.

　I could practically hear No. 21’s voice, repeating the words he’d said that day in the trench, and I realized that day wasn’t nearly as long ago as it felt . . .

　You just concentrate on bracing and firing. I’ll worry about the aiming.

　He’d always been the one to take our hands and lead the way―me, with my difficulties in combat, and No. 22, with his somewhat timid disposition. Among the M002 units, No. 21 was the de facto leader, and he was someone I’d always felt I could rely on.

　Now here I was, swinging my sword at my comrade and close friend―or what was left of him, at any rate. I figured he might evade my awkward attack, but just as my blade sliced toward him, he seemed to falter.

　I realized that No. 22 must have fired again, hitting his twin in the leg to ensure my blow landed. It was a perfectly aimed shot―just the kind of precision he had always excelled at.

　In my mind, I offered another apology to No. 22. I’d meant to save him from further anguish. But it turned out this was another task I was too weak to manage by myself.

　At the very least, then, I’d try to bring the fight to a swift end. No. 22 continued firing, further slowing his infected twin’s movements. With each shot, I struck yet again.

　I wasn’t sure how many times we repeated that awful loop, but finally, No. 21 collapsed to the ground. I heard a long, high-pitched beeping sound―it was the alarm meant to indicate that his heart had stopped. My breath was so ragged and heavy, it nearly drowned the sound out. I felt like my chest unit might collapse in on itself.

　“Why . . . ? Why did it have to be like this . . . ?” I murmured.

　Behind me, No. 22 was sobbing. Neither of us liked combat, but the anguish and pain we felt now came from something far worse than that aversion. I knew No. 22 would be hurting even more than I was―the situation was far more bitter for him. But there was nothing I could do about it.

　No. 21 often claimed, playfully, that he and No. 22 were two halves of a whole. If that were true, No. 22 had just lost his other half. I had no idea how to console him.

　I was still standing there, unmoving and useless, when the unimaginable occurred.

　No. 21 sprang back to his feet.

　“How . . . ?”

　How is this possible? I wanted to ask. He should have been dead.

　I’d heard once that among the machine lifeforms, some units exhibited an extraordinary capacity for self-recovery, and sometimes even were able to resuscitate themselves, given enough time. With the virus having spread through his entire system, No. 21 was essentially one of the machines now. Had the infection increased his ability to regenerate, too?

　“Look out!” I shouted.

　But he had already closed in on his twin. No. 22 bore the full brunt of the blow, flying through the air and then slamming down onto the ground. It happened almost instantly. There was no way he could have avoided it.

　No. 21 looked around in confusion.

　“Huh? No. 22? WheRe’d yOu Go . . . ?”

　He seemed unable to parse the fact that his attack had sent No. 22 hurtling away. In fact, he seemed unable to spot No. 22 now, writhing in pain in the dirt and grass. His sensors must have been barely functional.

　“comE bAck . . . ! i’M So loNEly . . . ”

　No. 21 continued to look about himself, an uncertain frown on his face. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he began shuddering unpredictably.

　The sight was disturbing in the extreme. Still, to me, he somehow had the appearance of a sobbing child unable to find his way home.

　“WheRe . . . arE you, N . . . num . . . bER twEn . . . ty-tWo . . . ?”

　Eventually, he located his twin and began shambling over. No. 22, still in pain from the earlier attack, was unable to move. I jumped between them, ready to protect the Gunner at all costs.

　“Don’t!” he protested. “You have to . . . You have to get away, No. 9.”

　“nOOoooO!”

　I held up my sword. My legs trembled. The aches radiating throughout my body reminded me of my own injuries, and I understood why No. 22 had insisted I get away. But . . .

　“It’s my responsibility to keep the squadron safe,” I said. “I won’t run, no matter what.”

　 I leveled my blade at No. 21. But I never got a chance to strike. Before I managed to take my first step, he’d already closed the gap between us. His speed was astounding. I found myself rolling across the ground, unaware of what exactly had happened―not even of what part of me he’d hit.

　But I did know I was in pain. It was a tight, strangling sensation. I found it hard to draw breath.

　No. 21 stood above me with the eyes of a beast ready to claim the life of its prey.

　I had to keep fighting. I had to hurry. He’d kill me if I didn’t. But my sword was gone. He must have knocked it from my grip when he rushed me.

　I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing for the fatal blow sure to come. After an unbearable pause, it still hadn’t arrived.

　Trembling, I opened my eyes and looked up. No. 21’s face was contorted in pain, his body frozen in place. I saw a spray of red coming from his back, and the final ripples of a shock wave dissipating behind him. Who had unleashed the attack?

　I slow lifted myself up and saw my savior standing before me, sword unsheathed.

　“No. 2?”

[Log Entry: No. 6 / Forest Zone―900 Meters Southeast of Transport Crash Site]

ReD. So much rED. So pREtty. So fUn.

　“Sir! Sir! Hey, sir!”

　What a spoilsport. Here I was, calling for him to respond, and he wouldn’t say a word.

　Oh. Wait. Maybe he couldn’t respond. Maybe his jaw was clenched too tight to move.

　“Are you listening, Instructor, sir?”

　Yeah. See, it wasn’t LikE I wanted an actual answer. This might be even bettER, in a way, watching him start to say something but falter, unable to get the words out, face twisted in agony.

　“Do you get it now? I adore this kind of play.”

　I admired the many strokes, the many dozens of strokes, my sword had drawn across his flesh. I’d sliced him up real good. His skin hung in tatters from his cowering frame.

　Did he want me to make him hurt more? He did, didn’t he.

　“Just to be clear, this iSN’t the virus talking.”

　He might’ve wanted to believe my actions were a result of the infection. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

　“I’ve always adored this.”

　Wasting machines on the battlefield was fun, of course. But what really got me going was the sight of my comrades squirming in pain and agony. There were a few other things on my bucket list: I wanted to snap No. 21’s pretty little fingers. I wanted to make No. 22 cry until his voice gave out. I’d had those fantasies for a long time. I just hadn’t spoken of them.

　“See? I was right, wasn’t I? You did believe it was the virus making me act this way. Making me violent.”

　Bzzt! Wrong answer. Better luck next time. I mean, I could see why he might have thought so. Logic viruses were weapons, after all. Their whole point was to get androids to eliminate each other.

　So what I wanted to know, then, was why the hell the guys in R&D thought it was a good idea to outfit me with a personality that made me act like one of the enemy’s weapons.

　I’d heard people with certain . . . predilections like mine had existed among humans, too. Maybe that was about as much thought as they’d put into the decision. Who knew?

　 “I think I would’ve done this whether I was infected or not, y’know? I’ve always wanted an intimate moment alone with you . . . Oops. I mean, a moment alone to torment you.”

　I sure wished he’d respond. Just a word or two would be nice. Something like, “Stop this!” And then I could tell him, “Now, now. Don’t forget the magic word. You have to ask me nicely.” He needed to learn some manners; I’d teach him how to address me properly. And then, I’d carve him up some more.

　“C’mon. Order me around like you used to. Or are you just being quiet because you haven’t had enough yet? Is that it, sir?”

　His legs were already so sliced up, I was out of pLaces to cut. His arms, too. I’d have to move on to his face next. So that begged the question: which should I stab out first, his right eye or his left?

　There was a rush of movement. The instructor thrust his sword at me. My eyes went wide.

　“You’re still able to move?!”

　It took me a moment to regain my composure―not that I’d lost it for long. Whew. That was unexpected. Still, the instructor’s attack was poinNtlEss. He’d managed to lodge his blade in my left arm. Thanks to the virus, it didn’t hurt. Hell, I hardly felt it go in. And it wasn’t like damage to my non-dominant arm was going to interfere with my sword strikes.

　“Pathetic. You do realize that isn’t evEN gonna slow me down, right?”

　Was he still trying to struggle in vain? Had I not sliced up his sword arm thoroughly enough? Right. Well, I’d just have to do him the favor of roughing it up a little m―

　“SSU. Initiate scan.”

　“Huh?”

　I felt something course through my body, wriggling and crawling as it made its way through my system. What had he done to me?

　“ . . . the hell . . . is this . . . ?!”

　“I’ve instructed my SSU to run a full-body scan on you, using my sword as a conduit.”

　His weapon? So he hadn’t aimed to kill? Any hit woRked for him, as long as it connected?

　After another moment of experiencing the tingling sensation, I figured it out. This was that diagnostic tHInG he’d done the day we first received our . . .

　No. Wait. Something was different this time.

　“My . . . my body isn’t . . . !”

　I tried to move my limbs, but they wouldn’t budge. Back at base camp, thE diagnostic had tickled. It made me feel goOD. But THiS time felt different; I didn’t like iT.

　“Forgive the delay,” the instructor said. “I needed some time to reprogram the routine.”

　He’d collapsed back onto the ground. Clearly the attack had required all the strength he had left. He let out a deep sigh―it almost sounded like he was relieved.

　What the hell was he talking about?

　“I had to improvise a little,” the instructor continued. “It’s now configured to overload your black box.”

　My SSU began a countdown. “Ten seconds to detonation.”

　Shit. He was telling the truth.

　“Why would yOu do that?! The explosion will―”

　Kill you, too, I meant to say, but my words were cut off by the SSU. “Seven seconds . . . ”

　If my black box detonated, the blast radius would be enormous. There would be no escape.

　“Don’t worry. When I see that a student of mine is struggling, I stay with him until we fix the problem.”

　“Three seconds to detonation.”

　“Make it stop! Make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stooooop!”

　My cries did nothing to halt the countdown.

　Everything went white.

[Log Entry: No. 2 / Forest Zone―Transport Crash Site]

“No. 2?”

　His voice rasped and trembled as he called my name. I didn’t need to look No. 9 over to know how badly he’d been injured.

　“Hello, No. 9.”

　Those blows were meant to be delivered by my sword. I was supposed to be the one to make him draw his last breath.

　“It’s No. 21! He’s―”

　Infected, he clearly meant to finish, but I cut him off.

　“Answer me one question.”

　I sensed movement at my back. The infected Scanner was struggling to his feet. It seemed I’d have to use more deadly force if I was going to keep him down.

　“If I were infected by a virus and lost my mind . . . If I became your enemy . . . ” I began.

　No. 21 rushed at me with a bloodcurdling scream.

　I turned to parry the blow, which was far more powerful than I would have expected from a Scanner model. His limiter must have been forced offline as the infection progressed.

　I stepped forward, quickly covering the space between us, my sword held parallel to the ground to deliver a rapid strike. I slashed him once, and again, then zeroed in on his neck: that would be the quickest way to disable him. My blade again found flesh, and his vital fluids cascaded from the wound. But he was still moving. I hacked at his neck again―two, then three more blows just above the clavicle. I finished with a shock wave, sending him flying back.

　“Ngraaaaah! It hurts! YOu’rE hUrtInG mEeeEEEeeEee . . . !”

　No. 21 fell to the ground, writhing and groaning. His senses were dulled, but that didn’t mean he was completely impervious to pain. I’d have to do what I could to stimulate his receptors to the greatest extent possible. The goal was to divert resources: more time spent processing the pain meant slower movements―at least slightly―and, more importantly, reduced focus.

　For the moment, No. 21 remained unable to stand. I watched, hoping he might stay down for good, praying I’d done enough damage for him to simply black out and cease functioning. I needed to avoid a drawn-out fight―it wasn’t about saving myself the trouble so much as minimizing the chance of the virus spreading to No. 9 and No. 22.

　I was getting a crash course in how powerful infected units were; their strength was truly off the charts. Faced with a long encounter, there was a small but ever-looming possibility that I’d fail to defend the two M002 units―that I wouldn’t be able to keep No. 9 safe.

　I didn’t want to think about what would come after that. I drowned out my thoughts by shouting at the top of my lungs.

　“No. 9! If I lost my mind, would you kill me?”

　His face crumpled. Though his eyes were hidden by his visor, I suspected they were filled with tears. I hated having to ask something so cruel.

　“Why would you . . . ? I could never. I . . . I’d refuse. I’d find a way to help you. I swear it.”

　I was sorry for making him cry. But I needed to hear those words.

　I silently thanked him. Aloud, I simply replied, “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

　It was enough. It was all I needed.

　After a moment, I added, “I hope . . . you never change. I hope that kindness always stays with you.”

　I smiled at him. It was the first genuine smile I’d ever given anyone. I realized it would also probably be my last. But if I’d never crossed paths with No. 9―if I’d never come to know him―my life would have ended without being able to have even that.

　No. 21 pulled himself to his feet yet again, screaming with rage. It seemed that draining his vital fluids wasn’t going to be enough; his body must have adapted to replenish any portion lost at an alarming rate.

　“kiLL . . . KiLL! nUmbEr twO . . . mUst dIE!”

　He leaped toward me, his movements those of a wild beast. He was fast. I stepped into the attack; this time, I aimed for his gut. I would’ve preferred to go straight for his chest, but he wasn’t going to give me the opening.

　I slashed low across his torso. If fluid loss wasn’t going to keep him down, I’d destroy his abdominal unit. I doubted he’d manage self-recovery for that as quickly.

　“gEt OUt oF my wAY!” he screamed.

　I shifted to stabbing, darting thrusts into his stomach every chance I got. But he still wouldn’t stop.

　“NuuUmmBBBeR twOOO! AgRRaAAAah!”

　His hands clamped onto my sword arm to keep me from skewering his chest. I reached out with my left hand, grabbed his neck, and squeezed.

　“Stop!” No. 9 cried. “Don’t touch him! The virus . . . It’ll spread!”

　I was well aware of the danger of direct contact. But I couldn’t allow this to drag on any longer. And to be honest, I no longer cared. My decision to keep No. 9 safe meant a direct violation of my orders. Whether I died here in the forest or not, my fate was already sealed.

　Still, I knew exactly what to tell him.

　“It’ll be all right. I’m a Type D, remember? I’m resistant to viruses.”

　He never doubted a word I said to him. He would still believe me now.

　No. 21 struggled to break free. I tightened my grip on his neck, and his hands moved to my left arm, clamping down so tight I wondered if he might crush it. An awful, wrenching, high-pitched sound came from my arm. Searing pain ran up its length, straight into my brain. But I did not let go. It would all be over soon.

　I heard someone screaming, and realized it was me.

　There was a dull snap. My left arm was broken, the pain so intense I had trouble drawing breath. No. 21 twisted his body in attempt to flee, and for the briefest moment, I saw my chance. His guard was down. My sword plunged straight into his chest.

　“NgrAAaaaAAAah!!”

　He swiveled back and clung to me as he screamed. Was he planning to self-destruct? The full force of the explosion would tear us all apart, unless . . . I could get him over the side of the cliff before us.

　No. 22 yelled, “Look out!” as I threw his twin away from me with all my might.

　As No. 21 flew backward through the air, I saw his eyes move, and for just a single moment, they connected with those of No. 22. Despite the red glow of his pupils, his gaze in that moment seemed quiet. Serene. All trace of the madness gripping him vanished, and, though it might’ve been just my imagination, he seemed to manage a faint smile right as he slipped over the edge.

　It was all over as soon as I’d processed it. No. 21’s body exploded in a pillar of flame, the roar and heat of the blast sweeping over us like a great wave.

　I was hurled to the ground, clinging desperately to a consciousness that wanted to slip away. I heard No. 22’s wail of anguish. I turned, wanting to see whether No. 9 had found safe cover, but it was hard for me to make out anything at all.

　Finally, the flames subsided, and the dust thrown up by the explosion began to settle. Relative silence returned to our portion of the forest. No. 22 continued to sob quietly, and I looked around once more to find No. 9. He was slowly sitting up and didn’t seem to have sustained any injuries from No. 21’s self-destruction. Relief flowed through me.

　I didn’t have time to waste lying on the ground. I began to lever myself upright, too, when the awful truth sank in: despite my slow, labored movements, I was completely free of pain.

　I needed to hurry. There was one last thing I needed to see done.

　“No. 2?! Are you all―”

　“Stay back!”

　I held up a hand to stop No. 9, who had begun rushing toward me.

　I stood up. Good. It seemed I still retained ambulatory control.

　“Don’t come near me,” I told him.

　My drive systems were hanging on by a thread, but the only overt sign so far was my broken left arm, which occasionally twitched of its own accord.

　“No! It’s not true! It can’t be . . . !”

　He seemed to be on the verge of tears.

　Once more, I was sorry. I would have given anything to allow him to go on smiling.

　“You said it yourself,” he sniffled. “You’re a Type D model. You’re outfitted with a barrier to deflect any kind of virus thrown at you . . . ”

　Since he was unable to do so, I smiled for him. “You’re so kind, No. 9. So gentle. But you’re too naïve. You can’t go on believing everything you’re told.”

　I hoped he could see the sincerity in my smile. I hoped it might lessen his sorrow as we made our way through this.

　“I want you to know the truth about me. I’m a safeguard. I exist as a solution in case any YoRHa unit tries to betray Command. My real designation is No. 2 Type E. An Executioner model.”

　I watched the fine muscles of his throat work as he swallowed convulsively.

　“I was created to kill you all. I was meant to be your assassin.”

　“Th . . . that can’t be right . . . Tell me that’s not true.”

　I couldn’t see his eyes under the visor, but I imagined them wide with surprise. Good. Better that than sadness.

　“I have to admit . . . I envy you, No. 9.”

　There wasn’t much time left. The infection was spreading through my systems at an alarming rate. The virus I’d contracted from No. 21 must have been some kind of new variant.

　“Instead of fighting enemies, you get to spend your time helping your allies. I envy the person you are, too . . . your straightforward, pure nature.”

　My chest felt tight. But I had to get the words out. I had to let him know how I felt.

　“Me, on the other hand . . . From the moment I came into existence, all I’ve done is learn how to kill. I’ve lived my life telling nothing but lies. That’s why, when I see you, I . . . ”

　My cheeks were wet. Was . . . was I crying? It seemed the tightness in my chest wasn’t from the virus alone.

　“When I’m with you, I feel like maybe my soul could be saved . . . ”

　I remembered the way he’d wrapped the tape around my hand, explaining how he was trying to help me recover. Afterward, I’d felt like that hand, long sullied, had somehow been purified. It had pained me to think of dirtying it once more.

　“SSU!” he shouted. “Halt internal clock for the processor in No. 2’s black box. Proceed with virus inactivation and elimination from―”

　It wouldn’t help. Inside me, I could feel how rapidly the infection was spreading. I knew how bad it was, and so did he. Even the SSU understood the futility of the request, replying with a simple “Unable to comply.”

　I checked my systems. Yes. I’d apparently lost 67% of myself to the virus. That sounded about right.

　“Shut up! Just do what I say!”

　I hadn’t known he was able to raise his voice in anger. Here I was at the bitter end, still learning new things about him.

　“Corruption of unit No. 2 black box at 78% and rising. Loss of consciousness in two minutes. Proposal: Destroy YoRHa unit No. 2 Type E immediately.”

　No. 9 screamed in fury at the tinny voice. He tore the SSU from his arm and threw it to the ground.

　I understood that feeling. How many times had I wished to do the same to mine? The devices certainly were annoying. I would have laughed if I could.

　“Ah, No. 9. You really are naïve. But it makes me happy to know how strongly you feel.”

　“I’m not letting you die!”

　He seemed intent on treating me, even though he knew it was futile.

　If anything, it was exactly like him to try.

　“No. 22,” I called. “Take care of No. 9 for me.”

　I reversed my grip on my sword and brought the tip to my chest. I knew I should do it now, while No. 9 was still far enough away.

　“Goodbye, No. 9,” I said.

　The world was stained red, but the only thing in my eyes was him.

[Log Entry: No. 4 / Forest Zone―Northwest of Transport Crash Site]

I continued on through the forest in search of the transport. I’d lost No. 3, but that didn’t change the fact that there were things that I needed to get done. If anything, his death made them all the more pressing.

　I was heading southeast, coaxing my exhausted legs along. I estimated I had about 800 meters left to go. I wondered where No. 6 and No. 21 had landed, and whether they were alive or dead.

　Guess it must’ve been . . . when No. 21 hacked the console aboard the transport. He was hit with a logic virus and . . . Yeah. I remember some weird noise over the comms.

　That was what No. 3 had said. So if the two were in fact alive, they’d be infected, too. I’d have to fight them.

　If so, the next question was whether I could take down two more YoRHa units in my current state. The wounds I’d sustained while fighting No. 3 were more serious than I wanted to admit. If a few of those strikes had landed a little to one side or another, they could’ve spelled my doom.

　And aside from the sword wounds, there was my own mounting fatigue. Every joint in my body cried out in pain. I’d pushed myself too hard. But if I’d put in any less effort, I wouldn’t have survived to be standing here thinking about it. Victories didn’t come much closer than that.

　Here’s my chance to be on your level. Hell, if I get to be your equal in a fight for one damn second . . . I don’t think I need another thing outta life.

　In the end, No. 3 got what he wanted. This pain was proof enough of his strength. Damn fool. I wished he could’ve been here to enjoy it . . .

　And what about the squadron’s other members? With our Scanner infected, those of us left on the surface would have a tough time finding each other.

　With that, a thought occurred to me: I could turn on my distress beacon. The Bunker would be able to pick up the squadron’s black box signals. They were too stingy to ever send us backup, but maybe they’d at least consider relaying my squadmates’ coordinates.

　A gust of wind carried with it the stench of burning: I must’ve been downwind from the remains of the transport. Turned out I’d picked the right direction to walk in, after all. But thanks to the densely packed trees, I still didn’t have visuals on the crash.

　The forest would be one hell of a place to run into machines . . .

　I’d just had the thought when I caught a bit of movement out of the corner of one eye. Nearly stopped my heart.

　It turned out to be Cactus. The captain was sitting against the base of a broken tree. I started to call out to him but caught myself. Something seemed off. I drew my sword instead.

　His arm was twisted at an odd angle and twitching unpredictably―not exactly things you’d see from an android operating normally. Worse, his buddies Phlox and Lotus were on the ground next to him, unmoving. Had he taken them down? Had he been infected by a virus?

　He noticed me and panicked, throwing both arms into the air.

　“Whoa! No! No, no, no! This isn’t what it looks like!”

　His right arm continued to shake.

　“It’s not a virus!” he exclaimed. “We went over the side of a cliff! The fall messed up my arm.”

　If that was true, then how was he going to explain the two corpses?

　He seemed to notice the shift in my gaze and began furiously shaking his head.

　“They’re not dead! Honest! They’re just unconscious from being hit with a few training rounds.”

　I looked at them more closely. It took a moment to see, but the chests of the two fallen Resistance members were rising and falling evenly. They were breathing comfortably. In fact, it seemed Lotus was even snoring. Huh.

　I looked back at Cactus. His eyes were their normal color.

　“Shot them with training rounds, you said?”

　“Things were looking bad. I had to pretend I was infected. A coward’s gotta do what a coward’s gotta do, y’know?”

　He didn’t offer to tell me who or what had necessitated the ploy. I didn’t ask. Phlox and Lotus were recovering, apparently in pretty good shape. The fact that they were safe said enough for me.

　“Well, damn.”

　With this latest source of tension defused, fatigue suddenly hit me. I leaned against one of the great sentinels of the forest and felt like I might slide right down to the dirt and just rest for a spell. I hadn’t noticed until now, but I’d apparently been on edge for too long. I was mystified by how relieved I was to see Cactus and his friends safe and sound.

　Cactus asked, “Where’s your buddy? Y’know, the other big guy. No. 3.”

　I shook my head in silence. The captain understood not to press any further. He simply parroted my earlier comment. “Well, damn.”

　It was quiet. The wind through the trees continued to carry the reek of burning. We sat for a while like that, not speaking, until Cactus finally mumbled, “Looks like we managed to survive . . . ”

　Not too long ago, it might’ve been something any of us would’ve said with a smile. Speaking for myself, at least, survival had been the goal. I’d thought endlessly about how No. 3 and I could improve our tactics on the battlefield . . . Because better tactics meant a better chance of both of us making it out alive.

　But No. 3 was dead now, and I’d been the one to kill him.

　I grunted a reply. “Looks like.”

　It was just as Cactus said. We’d managed to survive.

　I looked up at the sky, allowing myself to have a sentimental moment, but a burst of noise came in over the comms to ruin it.

　“This is the Bunker. YoRHa M Squadron, do you read me?”

　It was an operator. Well, I’d be damned. Sometimes pigs did fly. I didn’t know how things worked for other squadrons, but in our case, direct contact from the Bunker was all but unheard of. Everything we got came relayed via our instructor.

　So if the Bunker was contacting us directly now, that probably meant . . .

　“This is YoRHa M Squadron, Gunner No. 4. I read you. Go ahead.”

　“Whew! Am I glad to hear you. We’re sending backup your way. I don’t know what’s going on, but we can’t get through to the M Squadron instructor.”

　The operator all but finished my thought for me. Either the instructor had met his end in the crash, or he’d sustained serious injuries and ceased functioning. And given that the instructor wasn’t a YoRHa model . . . Well, for him, “ceased functioning” was just a fancy term for “dead.”

　The operator interrupted my grim musings. “Oh! 2B? Yes, ma’am. We’ve confirmed approximate coordinates for M Squadron just now.”

　Apparently, she’d patched someone else in on the call.

　“Understood.” The new voice was that of a female unit. I didn’t recognize it.

　“Commencing support operation,” the stranger continued.

　And then the operator was gone, and I was on a direct line with this mystery android.

　“M Squadron No. 4, do you read?” she asked.

　“Loud and clear.”

　“This is YoRHa Squadron No. 2 Type B. I’m headed in your direction to provide support. What is your current status?”

　“No. 2 Type . . . B, you said?”

　I couldn’t help but query the designation. I’d never heard of a Type B before.

　“It’s a newly introduced all-purpose model, meant to supersede the Attacker and Gunner roles.”

　An all-purpose model, huh? I figured the “B” must’ve stood for “Battle.” Sounded like the Attacker and Gunner designations had just become obsolete.

　Always outdoin’ me, as an Attacker or a Gunner!

　He’d spat the words out at me like a cobra spits venom. No. 3 had been almost obsessed with the two designations we’d been forced to split. And now neither of them meant a damn thing.

　What the hell had he died for, then?

　“Sounds like your whole squad’s up for reassignment,” the stranger said.

　He’d died for nothing. That was what. Hell, not a single thing we did meant anything at all, not anything we’d done since the beginning, and not anything we could do in the future.

　Reassignment? That didn’t mean jack shit. It didn’t matter where they put us. Nothing made a damn bit of difference.

　I mumbled to myself, “Well, there it is. Our squadron’s a failure . . . ”

　The comm link was still open. Somewhere in the background of my awareness, I could hear her demanding that I relay my present coordinates, then after a few seconds, demanding again. I stayed silent on the line. Not that it’d cause her much grief. The Bunker could pinpoint our location and send the info her way easily enough.

　In the end, nothing would have changed. It wouldn’t have mattered if No. 3 had survived or if I’d died. The fact that any of us had been alive at all didn’t change a damn thing about the world.

　I cut the transmission and pulled the visor from my eyes. Still leaning against that great big tree, I skimmed my gaze up the trunk, all the way to the top.

　The sky sure was blue. Damn pretty color.

[Log Entry: No. 9 / Forest Zone―Transport Crash Site]

For some time after No. 2 self-destructed, I found myself unable to move. I didn’t want to think. If No. 22 hadn’t been with me, I might’ve sat there forever and refused to leave.

　But No. 22 had sustained some heavy injuries in the fight with his twin. He needed attention. That was what convinced me to stand back up.

　Once I was beside him, my hands going through the familiar movements of my tasks, I started to feel a little better.

　“Somebody’s sending out a distress signal,” No. 22 said, peering at his SSU. “It’s a YoRHa code.”

　So there was at least one more of us still alive. If that was the case, I needed to go provide help. That was my job, after all. As long as I was still alive, I’d go on treating everyone’s injuries―even if M Squadron itself was no more.

　“Can you get a fix on the source?” I asked.

　Maybe they weren’t far away. Maybe they were close enough to be within visual range, and we just hadn’t noticed. I took a casual glance around, not really expecting to be so lucky, when a glimmer caught my eye. Something on the ground was reflecting the sunlight.

　“What’s that?” I wondered aloud.

　I didn’t really have any sense of what I might find, but before I knew it, I was on my feet, walking over to pick whatever it was up.

　“It’s . . . it’s No. 2’s SSU . . . ”

　It must’ve flown off his wrist when he detonated. Or maybe he’d lost it during the fight with No. 21. I didn’t know which, but in any case, I was impressed to find the SSU without a scratch on it, considering the intensity of the earlier events.

　As I held it, I thought of the wrist it was meant to rest on. No. 2’s hands were slender yet very strong. But those hands and their owner were gone now. All that remained was the SSU, miraculously unharmed.

　“SSU,” I ordered. “Delete all data pertaining to No. 2.”

　When I issued the command, No. 22 looked at me with surprise.

　“This is for the best,” I said.

　As long as No. 2’s data remained on the server, Command could always try to salvage him. But would that make him happy? He’d been in such torment over his mission. I didn’t think he’d want to be revived only to have to live as an assassin once again.

　The order, however, went unexecuted.

　“Unable to comply,” replied the SSU.

　It was hard for me to swallow what the device said next.

　“All experimental data is to be reported to the Council of Humanity. Deletion of specified data cannot proceed without direct approval from Bunker Command.”

　And there was more. The SSU’s preprogrammed response continued. “Project conclusions are as follow: Application of Attacker, Gunner, and Healer systems to be reevaluated. New dedicated support unit to be implemented upon completion of development. Future YoRHa combat androids to be manufactured with a primary emphasis on female models; despite improved attack strength, male models determined to exhibit poor organizational cohesiveness. Following final field operation for Experimental M Squadron, all assigned units are to undergo a full reformat.”

　A reformat? As in, they were going to wipe our consciousness data?

　That meant the lives we’d led were to be blotted out entirely―even mine and No. 22’s and that of whoever was sending the distress signal. The three of us had managed to survive only to face extinction. In effect, this was no different from the countless annihilations we’d suffered before.

　And this time nobody would be coming back. Not even me.

　In a way, I guessed it meant I would finally join that inner circle of squadmates from which I’d long been excluded.

　“All male-type YoRHa models are to be repurposed as Scanners. The Type E model will not be allowed to return to the Bunker until all project objectives have been completed.”

　Its answer finally complete, the SSU fell silent, and for a while afterward, I stayed quiet, too. Until this point, I’d lived oblivious to the truth. I hadn’t doubted anything―not the training I’d received on the Bunker, and certainly not the words of our instructor. I’d entertained some vague reservations about the way Command went about things, but those had never, I realized, bloomed into true doubt.

　“He was right . . . We really were just guinea pigs . . . ” No. 22’s voice was choked up.

　An enemy logic virus had spelled the end for No. 21. But ultimately, it didn’t matter. Had the infection never occurred, he would have eventually been snuffed out along with the rest of us. It was only a matter of time. We were test subjects, lab rats to be sacrificed once the experiment had run its course.

　You really are naïve, No. 2 had said.

　What had he been feeling when he said those words, shouldering the lonely burden of truth?

　No. 2’s SSU beeped, as if acknowledging my silent question.

　“No. 9?”

　I gulped. It was No. 2’s voice. You’re alive?! Where are you?! I wanted to shout, but something told me to hold back.

　“I hope you’re the one listening. This message was meant for you.”

　Ah. It was a recording. He wasn’t alive. This was just a file containing the sound of his voice. All the same, I wondered where and when he’d found the time to record it.

　“I’ve been lying to you since the beginning,” the recording continued. “It looks like I’ll end up paying for that with my life. But I want you to know I’m not lonely. Not even a little bit.”

　“No. 2 . . . ” I whispered.

　“There’s a question that’s been bugging me for a long time. It’s about our souls. As we die and get remade, over and over, I wonder where they go. What happens to them?”

　Our souls? I’d never stopped to think about anything like that. I’d been so wrapped up in saving everyone, in bringing them back to life, I didn’t have time for much else. That was why No. 2’s earlier revelation had caught me so off guard.

　I really was naïve, wasn’t I?

　“Anyway . . . No. 9, I’m sure you’ve made a copy of my data to keep inside yourself. I’d like you to delete it, please.”

　My hand flew to my chest. He’d seen right through me. He must have sensed that I’d try to keep a secret copy of him to carry with me.

　When I told the SSU to erase his data from the server, it was because I hadn’t wanted him to be revived and forced to live as an assassin again. But the local copy was for me; I wasn’t going to let Command get ahold of it. I’d intended to carry it with me in the hope that someday, somehow, I might find a way to see him again―not as a Type E, but just as No. 2, the person I knew.

　“You don’t need to hang on to it,” the recording continued. “I have a feeling we’ll be able to see each other again soon enough. So, until then . . . Goodbye, No. 9.”

　Did he truly think so? Would the two of us be reunited someday, even without my saved copy?

　It occurred to me that in all likelihood, I would soon be wiped from existence, too. I supposed holding onto his data for as long as I lived didn’t really mean much if I wasn’t going to live long in the first place. So I decided to trust him. I decided to trust in him, that someday we might be able to see each other again.

　“Look,” No. 22 spoke up. “It’s the sun.”

　I looked up at the sky. At some point during the turmoil, the wind had finished driving the clouds away. We now stood under a vast expanse of blue overhead, bathed in the brilliant light of the sun.

　I wished he could have seen it, too.

　I would have liked to take his hand and go walking together through this world of light.

　“No. 2 . . . ” I whispered again.

　His voice had already fallen silent, the recording finished. He was gone, though my yearning to see him was not. I believed that someday, the two of us might be together once more. And when that happened, maybe we’d find ourselves somewhere bright and warm, just like the place where I now stood.

　I quietly tightened my grip around the SSU he’d left behind.