FLASHBACK

“THIRTY SECONDS . . . ”

The countdown had begun.

Looking back on it all now, time limits had always been a big part of my life. From the day I rolled off the line, through my training and assessments, and through my missions and duties afterward, time had always been relentlessly counting down. Maybe it had to be that way. Maybe it was because I was always meant to be an instructor.

And you want me for the job?

　That’s how I’d responded when Commander White promoted me to the position. I was confused, to be honest. I knew about the project’s previous experimental squadron, and rumors about the formation of a new one had been circulating around the Bunker for some time. The female-type YoRHa androids had proved to be a huge success. The next squadron was to be composed entirely of male-type models, and we were all excited to see what they could do.

　The army’s most cutting-edge weapons, YoRHa units had demonstrated an unprecedented degree of combat proficiency. Operating costs were soaring, but so were hopes. We still needed to prove their viability in actual combat, but once that data was in hand and we’d ramped up to full-scale production, we believed the YoRHa models might prove to be the key element we needed to turn the tide of war.

　Monumental expectations would rest on the shoulders of this new squadron. And the person they tapped to lead it was me? It seemed improbable. Something about the situation didn’t sit right in my gut.

　Why the hesitation? I certainly hope this isn’t because of a lack of confidence. There was a hint of mockery in Commander White’s tone, which I remember feeling a little perturbed by.

　I can assure you, that is not the case, I said firmly, shaking my head.

　The squadron is composed entirely of the new models, she said, and despite your enhancements, you’re certainly no YoRHa unit. I suppose it’s reasonable to feel ambivalent about guiding students with capabilities far exceeding your own. However, I would remind you that it’s not particularly unusual for students to surpass their mentors. It happened frequently enough in the schools that existed in human civilization.

　I was well aware of the fact. My hesitance was due to something else―namely, why I in particular had been chosen.

　Rest assured, the commander added, you won’t be expected to engage in combat. The only ones fighting will be the YoRHa units. Just stand there on the back lines and look dignified.

　 In fact, it’s rather important that you don’t fight. In any case, the enemies will be well out of your league. We wouldn’t go so far as to prohibit you from engaging in a battle at all, but just be aware that we’re expecting you to keep intervention to a minimum.

　I’d never heard the commander talk to this extent before. So maybe it was the flood of information she was providing that made me forget to ask one more crucial question: why was she not taking charge of this new squadron?

　The previous experimental squadron―the one composed entirely of female androids―had been led by Commander White herself. If, for example, her choices as squadron leader had led to failure, I might have been understood the decision to place the next squadron in someone else’s hands. But the previous one had been a resounding success. So why fix something that wasn’t broken?

　In the end, I didn’t ask, and found myself accepting the post.

　Commander White nodded her approval. Very good. You are hereby assigned sole responsibility for YoRHa Experimental M Squadron.

　What do you mean, “sole responsibility”?

　Exactly as it sounds. I will of course retain final authority, and all missions will be issued directly by me, but beyond that, the squadron is entirely in your hands. Surely that’s a more preferable arrangement than my hovering over your shoulder, evaluating every decision you make?

　That’s very considerate of you, ma’am.

　It did occur to me at the time that she might be trying to distance herself from M Squadron. Rumors were floating around that Commander White vocally opposed the plans for a squadron of male-type androids, and that ultimately, her concerns were rebuffed by the Council. Perhaps that was the reason why she preferred not to lead the squadron herself.

　But in the end, rumors were just rumors. It was impossible to say whether the stories I’d heard had been exaggerated, or whether they were true at all, so I placed little faith in them. I figured I should just be grateful that Commander White had promised not to meddle in my new daily affairs.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized her non-involvement was a means of self-defense.

“Twenty-five seconds . . . ”

As soon as the countdown began over the loudspeakers in the shooting booth, No. 3’s accuracy noticeably decreased. He began firing as rapidly as he could, his finger pulling nonstop on the trigger.

　The rules of the test stated that all rounds had to be fired within the given time limit, including those in the spare magazines scattered across the booth’s countertop. Given that requirement, No. 3’s reaction was understandable. He’d decided to sacrifice his hit rate in exchange for speed, concentrating on getting all his shots fired instead of worrying about target accuracy. It wasn’t necessarily a wrong decision, but it wasn’t a right one either.

　On the surface, the test appeared challenging but doable, given sufficient effort. The reality was that the time allotted to each shooter would be just shy of what they would need. In other words, the number of rounds provided―extrapolated based on previous test results―was intentionally a little more than what the examinee could physically fire off in time.

　In fact, the test had little to do with measuring shooting proficiency. It was a way for me to better understand my students, by presenting them with an unachievable goal. I wanted to see how long it would take them to realize they weren’t going to make the time limit, and what course of action they’d choose once the truth became apparent.

　No. 4 quickly perceived the problem. Figuring it out really only required a calm and logical analysis of three things: the number of shots fired in the first few seconds, the total remaining rounds, and the time limit.

　If I or another assessor had been with them during the test, the examinees probably would have stopped once they realized what was happening, in order to express their confusion to us and ask us what to do. So I made sure that each unit would be completely alone for the duration of the test, on the pretense of eliminating any potential distractions.

　What would my students do when faced with an impossible task, with no one to turn to for answers or advice?

　No. 4’s solution was to fire off as many rounds as he could at his normal rate, while preserving―and, in fact, slightly improving―his accuracy. He’d probably interpreted the test as an assessment of what he would do when surrounded by more enemies than he could handle. It was a conclusion that precisely fit his nature.

　When his time ran out, his unfired rounds numbered almost exactly as I’d predicted. Every shot he fired had hit its target.

　In contrast, No. 3’s target accuracy dipped below 30%―but in the end, his unfired rounds numbered fewer than I had estimated. When his time expired, he slammed his fists down on the counter repeatedly, shouting, Dammit! I was this close! Just a few seconds more! He was so preoccupied with the frustration of failure, the idea that the task could be impossible hadn’t even crossed his mind. That, in turn, precisely fit No. 3’s nature.

　I posed the same challenge to the other members in the following days. The results were varied, a reflection of the diverse personalities filling the squadron’s roster.

　The moment No. 21 saw the number of rounds provided, he concluded that the task could not be completed given the time constraint and his own skill level with a gun. He didn’t even pick the weapon up. He assumed there must have been some kind of mistake and exited the firearms training area.

　No. 6, like No. 4, realized the problem within the first few seconds. But he differed from No. 4 in his reaction: instead of trying to adapt to the situation, he gave up. But he didn’t walk away like No. 21, either. He carried on for the remaining time, shooting languidly, the expression on his face making it clear that he just couldn’t give a damn.

　When No. 22 took the test, he began looking slightly confused about halfway through but soldiered on, keeping up his rate of fire until the timer ran out. Most likely, he had begun to suspect the task was impossible but lacked confidence in his own conclusion.

　No. 9 appeared to notice the issue approximately halfway through the exam, as No. 22 had. However, he responded quite differently. He grew anxious, pulling the trigger as rapidly as he could, undoubtedly believing that if he tried hard enough, he might just make it through. But lacking the combat skill of No. 3, he failed to display an unexpected increase in speed. His performance was well in line with what I’d anticipated.

I had wanted to know how each of my students would react when faced with an impossible task. After the tests were complete, I knew. However, I’d failed to apply that knowledge. If only I’d . . .

　No. Best leave it be.

　After all, hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

　Actually, come to think of it, that had been right around the time when No. 4 requested reassignment.

　He claimed it was a matter of “having the best people we can get in every role.” And he wasn’t wrong: he would make a far more capable Gunner than No. 3. But I accepted his request mostly because it was what he wanted, and I didn’t see any particular reason to deny him.

　I thought that would be the end of it, but the decision seemed to make waves among his fellow squad members. Some time later, No. 21 came to me, eyes bright with curiosity, to ask, Is it true that No. 4 switched roles from Attacker to Gunner?

　I was taken aback. I’d known that Scanners were naturally curious, but I hadn’t thought No. 21 would take an interest in something that seemed so minor. No. 4’s reassignment was not a matter of secrecy, and No. 4 himself hadn’t asked me to keep the matter private, so I told No. 21 the truth.

　That slightly odd turn of events aside, No. 3 and No. 4 were progressing through their training right on schedule. Suddenly, I found myself concerned about the other M001 unit, who was lagging far behind.

　I’d been informed since the beginning that because of the special nature of No. 2’s duties, he would likely require significantly more time than the rest to complete his training and calibrations.

　And I was aware of his true designation: No. 2 Type E. I knew that his real purpose was to destroy other YoRHa androids. I’d been told it was a safety measure, to prevent the dissemination of YoRHa model specs if one were to be incapacitated on the battlefield and seized by the enemy.

　But when it came to No. 2’s training, although I was nominally his instructor, I found it quite difficult to observe his development. Command kept me informed of the general progress of his training and calibrations, but I soon learned that there was a great deal of red tape to clear before my superiors were going to allow me to observe him in action. Everything about him was top secret.

　Ultimately, I contrived a plan to make use of his atmospheric entry test. Given the costs of operation, usage time for the descent training units was always strictly managed. All I had to do was be present in the hangar immediately before or after No. 2’s scheduled testing window; I’d run in to him for certain.

　No. 2. When I called out to him in the hangar, he quietly turned to face me, exhibiting no outward sign of surprise. He proceeded to salute me, his expression flat and revealing nothing. In a reversal of what I’d intended, I was the one to be caught off guard by my orchestrated encounter.

　No. 2’s model had the form and features of an adolescent boy, just like all the M002 squad members. At the same time, there was something very different about him, though I’d have been hard-pressed to say exactly what it was.

　Unnerved, I simply ended the encounter by saying, Ah, it’s nothing important. Carry on.

　He bowed once, spun away from me, then dashed to the flight unit and deftly hopped inside. The silence and absolute precision with which he moved was another surprise. His was the grace of an assassin.

　To be honest, when I’d first read the report on him, I wondered if he was up to the task. A Scanner or Healer like No. 21 or No. 9 would pose little trouble for him, I assumed, but I had my doubts about whether he’d be able to overpower the squadron’s Attackers and Gunners. I knew his frame was reinforced beyond the specs of the standard YoRHa models, but that didn’t change the fact that there was a considerable difference in size between No. 2 and androids with adult male frames. As No. 3 and No. 4’s instructor, I’d witnessed the incredible physical capabilities of the two larger M001 units.

　It was a needless worry. I could tell immediately that No. 2 was far more powerful than the others, just by the way he’d stood before me. I suspected that the delays in his calibrations were caused by the difficulty of concealing that degree of strength. And, of course, No. 2 would have needed additional time to familiarize himself with the duties and behavior of his Type D cover.

　The Executioner model itself was no secret: the fact that such androids existed was common knowledge. But when deployed alongside a predetermined group of potential targets, the designation was typically concealed so as to prevent unnecessary alarm.

　Thus, the fact that No. 2 had been assigned as a Type E rather than a Type D was telling: his targets were decided, the fate of Experimental M Squadron sealed. The only reward that awaited M Squadron at the conclusion of the experiment was disposal. Death at the Executioner’s hands was to be their cruel end.

“Twenty seconds . . . ”

The memory of another particular countdown haunted me even now.

We’re not gonna make it, No. 22 had cried, voice shaking so badly I could hear it over the comms. He was nearly shrieking, which wasn’t surprising―reports from the front lines were rarely issued in calm tones. No. 3 tended to bellow, No. 6 and No. 21 tended to be sullen. Even the ever-cool No. 4 would hurry his words.

　Silence followed No. 22’s despairing cry, and just after that came a distant sound like an earthquake tremor. The Goliath had self-destructed. Mission complete.

　The operation had called for the elimination of a massive enemy discovered near the coast; our plan was to hack it and force it into self-destruct mode. That was about the only viable option we had against that particular target. Small-arms fire tended to not even scratch machines of that size.

　However, we’d been left with far less time than anticipated, a span of mere seconds from triggering the Goliath’s self-destruct mode to ignition. No. 21, in charge of the hack, and his escorts, No. 22 and No. 3, had all been caught in the blast.

　Some 340 seconds prior to the explosion, No. 6, who had also been assigned to the vanguard, was rerouted to stop the enemy’s approaching reinforcements. He died keeping them at bay.

　When No. 9 arrived on-site to recover the bodies, guarded by No. 4, I immediately opened a comm channel to Command.

　Commander, permission to discuss my earlier report?

　She cut me off with a curt, Denied.

　Though I referred to it as a report, the contents were more like an outright protest. I’d gone on at length, detailing the absurdity of our latest orders and demanding that the mission be called off.

　The squadron’s missions cannot be altered.

　But Commander, it went exactly like the previous operation. The entire squad―

　Was annihilated? Yes, we know. The present outcome falls within acceptable parameters.

　We’re allowing them to suffer in vain? Sending them into battles they can’t win, forcing them to fight like animals desperate for their lives―you’re telling me that’s all part of the plan?

　This wasn’t a training exercise. The squadron wasn’t being tested in the safety of a shooting range. They were on a field of death, staring down hordes of deadly machine lifeforms.

　The commander was growing impatient with me. I hope you haven’t forgotten the purpose of the experiment, Instructor. M Squadron endures so that all future YoRHa squadrons might flourish. The sacrifices made by these six units will save hundreds, if not thousands of android lives. It’s unfortunate, yes, but it is unavoidable―in fact, it is prudent.

　My six, then, were the subjects of a stress test―a proof of concept. The Council wanted to know how bad circumstances could get before the male YoRHa androids failed to deliver. A thorough understanding of the razor-thin line separating victory from defeat would enable them to utilize future units in the most efficient manner possible.

　I was being told it was a necessary evil. This was the gamut we had to run to ensure that our immense investment delivered practical results. I understood the logic. When the sacrifice of Experimental M Squadron was weighed against the great number of YoRHa units likely to be produced over time, it was evident which way the scale would tip.

　But for me, knowing the ill-fated six firsthand, it was not an easy argument to swallow.

　I countered with, If you refuse to allow us to abort or withdraw, then at least provide us with backup.

　Denied. Don’t you understand? Outside support would render the entire experiment meaningless.

　But . . .

　It is the will of the Council.

　And that was that. Once the Council of Humanity’s name was invoked, there was no further room for argument. Its decisions were absolute, never to be overturned.

　There’s one other matter, Instructor. No. 2 has completed his calibrations. He’ll be descending to the surface within the next few days. Expect further details from me soon. Over and out.

　Commander! I haven’t finished―

　But the transmission had already been cut.

Over the following days, I persisted, stubbornly attempting to contact the commander. Each time, I was rebuffed, and before the operator cut the connection, she gave the same short response. The commander wishes to remind you that sole responsibility for M Squadron rests in your hands, Instructor.

　I finally understood what the commander truly meant by “sole responsibility,” and what she had been so desperate to avoid.

　Still, I refused to give up. I sent numerous messages to the commander, denouncing the harsh conditions the squadron was forced to endure. I wrote of the members’ lowered morale and the unavoidable toll on their mental states. I shared how the squadron Scanner, tasked with devising our operational strategy―and thus by far the most versed in enemy numbers and likely outcomes―had begun frequently asking me to submit requests to have missions reconsidered. The list went on.

　All of my messages went unanswered.

“Fifteen seconds . . . ”

I remembered No. 4’s transmission in the Mountain Zone with surprising clarity. Perhaps it stuck with me because it marked the point of no return―both for Experimental M Squadron, and for me.

Fifteen seconds to breech.

　His report issued from the fray was terse. Extrapolating from the few words, I knew he meant fifteen seconds until they finished clearing all the machines and proceeded to blast their way inside the cave.

　We’d been fortunate; the enemies in the immediate vicinity were weak and easy to deal with. Thanks to that, the mission could continue despite the minor injuries sustained early on in the trench by No. 21 and No. 22.

　The rescue operation in the Mountain Zone was something of a departure from the stress tests we’d gone through thus far. Of course, the squad members weren’t aware of that fact. I simply said that we had information regarding a soldier from a local base stranded in enemy territory, and that M Squadron had been asked to perform the extraction.

　This time, Command wasn’t trying to evaluate how dire a situation the squad could handle. The real purpose of this mission was to rendezvous with No. 2. I’d been informed that the distress signal emanating from the cave was that of No. 2’s escape pod. The story of the local soldier was merely a pretense.

　No. 2, after launching from the Bunker, was intercepted by the enemy upon atmospheric entry. He was forced to board an escape pod for an emergency descent, but he got unlucky: it would have been difficult for the pod to touch down any deeper in enemy territory.

　Escape pods were standard equipped with sensors and programs to locate the best possible landing site―i.e., whatever location in range that showed the least amount of enemy activity. But the equipment aboard No. 2’s pod seemed to have malfunctioned. Or perhaps the enemy attack on his craft had been so intense that he was forced to abort the scan and manually enter a trajectory.

　However, the most curious detail came after touchdown: the escape pod seemed to have moved from its landing site. A follow-up scan showed the pod inexplicably located inside a cave several dozen meters away from where it had come down. Since the pod possessed no means for overland travel, we concluded that someone, or something, had carried it inside the cave. Unfortunately, the cave was surrounded by enemy signatures―hardly a safe location.

　Recovering No. 2 was going to be dangerous. To make things even worse, it seemed the machine lifeforms in the Mountain Zone were particularly adept at learning: soon after we commenced the operation, a horde of enemies launched a surprise attack on our back line, where No. 9 was supposed to be well out of harm’s way. If No. 3 and No. 4 hadn’t sensed something unusual happening and gone rushing back to help, the squadron could have suffered a debilitating blow.

　Once the situation was under control, we began our approach to the cave.

　I issued my orders. No. 6, I want you in front to secure us a route in. No. 22 will provide cover. No. 9 and No. 21, stay close behind them.

　They responded in unison. Understood, sir!

　No. 6 rushed forward with swift, easy movements.

　In contrast, No. 22’s feet still dragged slightly with each step, and No. 21 looked a bit unsteady as he ran alongside No. 9. They’d been the ones to get hit in the earlier surprise attack.

　Still, they soldiered on, determined to complete their mission, unaware of the YoRHa android they were soon to meet and the sinister role he was meant to play. How would they have reacted if they knew that the one they’d been injured trying to save was the Executioner meant to seal their fate?

　I recalled how No. 6 had mumbled, It’d save us all a lot of trouble if this “distressed party” could just kick the bucket.

　Little did he know, the implications went far beyond that. No. 2’s death would have saved M Squadron’s lives―but only for a little while. I assumed that a copy of No. 2’s consciousness data was retained on the Bunker’s server. So even if he were to die, Command would need only to shove his data into a new body and send it to the surface. M Squadron would enjoy a few more moments of life, but the outcome would not change.

I hadn’t anticipated that our arrival at the cave would be quickly followed by an enemy bombardment, or that we would find ourselves face-to-face with actual local soldiers. But despite the string of surprises, No. 2 was successfully recovered, the true mission objective achieved.

　No. 3, No. 6, and No. 21 were wary of the seventh member of the squad and the unusual timing of his arrival. No. 4 and No. 22 adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Only No. 9 welcomed him without any trace of reserve.

　As for me . . . I did not want No. 2 with us. Though I was his direct superior in theory, he had his own orders to follow and operated under a separate chain of command.

　You’re not authorized to know when my mission is scheduled to begin.

　His words to me were icy. He clearly wanted nothing to do with me. It bothered me, and maybe that was what fueled my immature decision to shoot back.

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

　I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. I regretted them because I knew they embodied my own desire: I wanted No. 2 to grow attached to his squadmates because then he would be unable to kill them. I wanted him to grow attached because I had grown attached. I was their instructor, and they were my students. It was meant to be a transient relationship, but in our short time together, they’d become important to me.

　Their disposal was a decision that had been in place since the beginning. To put it coarsely, our relationship was that of lab animals and their caretaker. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything for them.

　Yet I did.

　I did not want to see them killed. I wanted them to go on, to flourish after the experiment as an ordinary squad, one of many among YoRHa’s forces. I wanted them to finally know fulfillment, dispatched on missions appropriate to their number and abilities―missions that, if difficult, were in no way impossible. The six had their faults and idiosyncrasies, but I felt certain that utilized properly as a squad, they would astound us with the victories they achieved.

　Once I’d reached that conclusion, I understood what their survival meant to me.

　I again tried to visualize the moral scale: six units on one side, hundreds or thousands on the other. On paper, M Squadron was an insignificant handful, dwarfed in importance next to the multitudes of YoRHa soldiers yet to come. But the units making up that handful were my students. To me, the faceless, nameless thousands could never compare.

　Perhaps the ability to dispassionately weigh the fate of six units before one’s eyes against that of thousands unseen was the mark of a leader suited to stand at the top. Commander White would be able to do that. But for me, it was impossible.

　That wasn’t to suggest I was any better of a leader on the ground: to the squadron members, I was just a puppet relaying orders from Command. No matter how much they pressed me to have missions aborted or reinforcements called in, I did nothing. There was nothing I could do. So, to them, it made no real difference whether I was there or not.

　At the cave, we encountered another leader: Cactus. And while he appeared to be as ineffectual as I was, in time I would find that there could be no leader more diametrically opposite to me than he was.

　At first, I’d thought he was the laziest and most incompetent officer I’d ever laid eyes on. Anything remotely technical, he dumped on Lotus, and any time there was need for tactics or decision-making, he relied completely and unabashedly on Phlox. He did even less for his men than I did for mine.

　That, I reasoned, was the sorry face of the deserter―the rot that dereliction wrought on a man who had fought many long years for the Resistance’s cause. So I was disgusted that he was going around still calling himself a captain.

　But when I looked more closely, I realized I was wrong. Though Cactus and I appeared to serve no purpose to our men, our contributions as leaders were vastly different. Phlox and Lotus seemed to relax simply knowing that Cactus was nearby. It didn’t matter whether he did anything in particular; just his presence was enough to put the other two at ease. And I’d learned firsthand how difficult it was to ease the minds of those in your charge.

　And I believed―though this was mere speculation on my part―that if faced with the choice between the few and the unknown thousands, Cactus would not hesitate in the slightest. He would choose the few that he’d come to know. This, too, was the mark of a leader.

　In fact, I’d complimented him on it once, telling him, Attentiveness like that is the mark of a fine leader.

　The comment brought a vaguely uncomfortable expression to Cactus’s face. I wasn’t sure why, but maybe it revealed how oblivious he was to his own effect on his men.

　Where Cactus could easily choose, I had failed: I was unable to commit myself either to the few before me or the unknown thousands.

　That particular failure aside, were there other ways I could have done more for my men? Could I have been more attentive to the directions in which my students were heading?

　Surely I could have foreseen the danger of Scanner No. 21’s persistence as he labored to devise a perfect strategy. In his constant search for data, it was inevitable that he’d finally overreach and stumble upon something he wasn’t meant to see. Or maybe I could have predicted his incipient rebellion. When No. 21 believed a task was impossible, he walked away from it, refusing to participate any longer; did that not indicate a tendency to disobey orders he disagreed with? I’d witnessed this during my shooting range assessment, yet I let it pass unaddressed.

　If only I’d paid more attention to him. If only I’d recognized the danger in time. I couldn’t help but dwell on such regrets, though doing so could never change the fact that I’d failed to stop him.

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

　He’d said it decisively, without the slightest shift in his usual demeanor or tone.

　And that wasn’t all. No. 21 had realized the truth about No. 2, as well.

　It looks like your time’s finally come, he’d said. We had to fight eventually, right? That’s right. I know all about you.

　Even if I’d somehow been able to prevent the mutiny, the squadron’s end would have been much the same: androids killing androids. Squadmates killing squadmates. The transport could have flown true, headed straight for base camp rather than the other side of the world, and the only difference would have been who wound up killing who.

　No. 2 had tried to act even before we stepped aboard the transport. As our three-man team circled toward the runway and waiting ship, No. 2 had constantly positioned himself so that No. 9 stayed in his field of vision.

　He’d intended to kill No. 9 before takeoff, and then board the transport as if nothing had happened. If questioned by the others about No. 9’s absence, he could have claimed the Healer was wounded, taken to rest and recover in one of the ship’s berths. Then, for the remainder of the flight, he’d have carefully stalked the rest of the squadron, taking them down methodically, one by one. That, I felt certain, was the essence of his plan.

　The only thing he’d failed to account for was my reaction. I was expected to look on in silence as No. 2 carried out his mission, not uttering a word when he crept into No. 9’s shadow.

　Instead, I’d shouted. And not just that―caught up in the moment, I’d inadvertently drawn my weapon.

　I was a fool, unable to choose, unable to act decisively. Yet there I was, meddling in others’ duties.

　No. 2 was able to sheathe his sword before the Healer whirled around. We resumed our dash toward the carrier, No. 2’s façade of innocence still effective enough to keep No. 9 from suspecting anything. I, however, felt no sense of relief; I knew I’d only postponed the inevitable, and that No. 2 was already watching for his next opportunity.

The mutiny plotted by No. 21, No. 3, and No. 6 ended in failure. None of the other squadron members willingly joined in, and the transport, their critical means of escape, had ultimately crashed.

　Still, my duty was not over―not after the mutiny attempt failed, not after M Squadron had collapsed into chaos, and not even after I was thrown from the plummeting transport to land deep in the forest, uncertain whether any of my students had survived.

　I was alive, and so were the three Resistance members who had joined our flight from the Mountain Zone.

　And we’d found ourselves right in the middle of a large group of hostile machines.

　Cactus, Phlox, and Lotus hadn’t meant to get involved in any of it. They’d come across No. 2’s escape pod by chance and were dragged into our struggle as a result. Aside from their status as deserters, they were free from blame, and they’d certainly done nothing to deserve the situation in which they’d found themselves. Thus, I had a responsibility to see the three of them to safety.

　To abandon my fellow androids was unthinkable, and more importantly, I felt responsible for the trio’s plight. The transport had crashed because of my students’ disgraceful conduct.

　I fought, defending Cactus, Phlox, and Lotus at my back. But the enemy’s numbers were great, and we were at a significant disadvantage in terms of location: the sheer drop of a cliff was just behind us. Soon, we found ourselves surrounded and pressed right up to the edge.

　But an unexpected deliverance changed our fortune. No. 6 appeared, broke the enemy line, and then singlehandedly exterminated every machine in sight.

　Except it wasn’t a deliverance. No. 6, as it turned out, had not come to save us.

　On approach, he hurled a throwing knife at me and began to laugh aloud. His eyes were stained red with the telltale glow of a logic virus infection.

　Let me tell you what’s going to happen next, No. 6 had said. You’re all going to suffer, until eventually I decide to let you die.

　No. 6 was powerful to begin with; his skill in close combat was exceptional. Once the virus forcibly deactivated his limiter, there would be no stopping him.

　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?

　It was true. I didn’t have a hope of besting him physically. All of No. 6’s combat data was there in my mind, and so I knew every habit and shortcoming he exhibited in a fight, but he still effortlessly disarmed me and knocked me to the ground. That was when I learned what it truly meant to guide a student with capabilities far exceeding one’s own: it was to know impotence and despair.

　No. 6 had whirled away, his bloodthirsty blade again trained on the three Resistance members. Phlox put up a fight, and even Lotus managed a clever counterattack using the scattered remains of the machine lifeforms. But they could not stop No. 6.

　In the end, Cactus was infected, and he turned his weapon on Phlox and Lotus. Though his consciousness was gone, his sense of duty as a captain seemed to remain; sensing what he’d done to his men, he then turned the gun on himself, firing and sending himself plummeting over the cliff’s edge.

　The pain of having involved those three innocents and inadvertently sentencing them to death tormented me far worse than any wound No. 6 could inflict.

　But I knew that if the infection was allowed to progress, my student would continue to cause other androids harm.

　Well, Instructor, looks like it’s just you and me.

　I had to stop him, no matter the cost. But how?

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

　How could I ever hope to overpower No. 6?

. . .

When I came to, he was shouting for my attention. I must have blacked out for a while, probably due to massive loss of vital fluids. Or perhaps my AI had been overloaded by the nonstop pain. My sensors were struggling to cope with the sustained, intense stimulation, and if the onslaught lasted much longer, I assumed my mental capacities would fail well before my physical ones did.

　“Sir! Sir! Hey, sir!”

　He was laughing―the laughter of madness―as he continued to slash at every inch of my flesh. I found myself in too much pain to move, much less resist. He’d obviously devoted a lot of attention toward figuring out how to deliver his attacks so as to inflict the greatest possible degree of agony.

　“Are you listening, Instructor, sir?”

　I had to do something. I had to stop him. No. 6 had been outfitted with an aggressive, brutal nature―an attempt to boost his effectiveness as an Attacker. Once he was finished with me, he would continue to seek out new targets. He would butcher his comrades until his body was physically wrecked and unable to function.

　I couldn’t bear the thought of more victims. But my mind was sluggish. I wanted to focus on the moment, but I kept meandering over events of the past. My consciousness must have been starting to slip.

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

　I recalled him standing somewhere else, smiling and announcing that there was “plenty of other stuff” he could handle, too. That must have been when he introduced himself to M001 on arrival at base camp.

　“Just to be clear, this iSN’t the virus talking. I’ve always adored this.”

　Yes, I imagined so. No. 6 had revealed his unusual predilections quite some time ago. That, too, was when we were still at base camp, shortly after I’d presented the squadron with their Support System units.

　No. 6 had raised his hand. That diagnostic you initiated. It tickled. Felt kinda good even. Permission to have that run that on me again, sir? Maybe we could do it in private this time?

　The diagnostic.

　The Support System . . .

　A sudden idea began to coalesce through the haze blanketing my mind, but before I could grab hold of it, a searing pain coursed through the left half of my body. He’d cut me again. I was still feeling the strikes, though I had little sense of where in particular they were landing.

　But I couldn’t give in. Not yet. I had to stay conscious. The first inkling of an idea had been nearly in reach―some way to stop No. 6. What was it?

　“I think I would’ve done this whether I was infected or not, y’know?”

　It was somewhere among the words he’d spoken . . . Something he’d said that triggered something my brain . . .

　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?

　The reactor core. The SSU. The diagnostic routine.

　That was it.

　Could I pull the plan off in my current state, and without No. 6 noticing? I didn’t know. But it was the only option I had left, so I had to try.

　I began to reprogram the routine . . .

　No. 6 suddenly bent over me and peered into my face. Had he already seen through me?

　“I’ve always wanted an intimate moment alone with you . . . Oops. I mean, a moment alone to torment you.”

　No. Thank goodness. The only thing on his mind was what kind of pain he could deliver next. He was a child completely absorbed in a new toy.

　“C’mon. Order me around like you used to.”

　How was my sword arm? It seemed to be responding, if just barely. I carefully reached for my weapon, making sure No. 6’s eyes were focused elsewhere.

　“Or are you just being quiet because you haven’t had enough yet? Is that it, sir?”

　I thrust my sword at him, pretending to put all my effort into the physical attack itself. It was difficult to summon enough strength, but the blade managed to lodge in his left arm.

　No. 6 grinned, mocking my efforts. “Pathetic. You do realize that isn’t evEN gonna slow me down, right?”

　Yes. He was right. And it didn’t matter. I only needed a conduit. I yelled out for my SSU to initiate the scan.

　“Huh?” No. 6’s brow furrowed with suspicion, but I knew his expression would quickly change.

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

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

　He froze. The program was designed to serve as a virus scan and lent itself well to the initial rewrites, which would keep him locked in place.

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

　Relief flooded my body. My muscles, long tensed, suddenly went slack. I sighed, which caused a strangling pain in my chest, but it didn’t matter. I had to hang on only a little while longer, and then all the pain would be gone.

　“I had to improvise a little,” I told him. “It’s now configured to overload your black box.”

“Ten seconds to detonation.”

His face was twisted in consternation, all traces of his haughty attitude now gone. After No. 21, No. 6 was the quickest thinker of the bunch―he’d have swiftly worked out what I’d done and how I’d done it.

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

　Of course it would kill me, too. I had no intention of being the only one in the squadron to go on living.

“Seven seconds to detonation.”

Derived from the cores of machine lifeforms, the black boxes were as destructive as they were powerful; an overloaded core created an enormous explosion. Fortunately, we were 900 meters away from the transport’s crash site. I didn’t have to be concerned about any of the other squad members getting caught in the blast.

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

　All I wanted was to faithfully discharge my duty.

　 . . . No.

　I wanted to act like a proper instructor. At least for once. At least at the end. That was all.

“Three seconds to detonation.”

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

　His face went stiff. Though he’d experienced death on the battlefield many times before, the death that awaited him now was different. There would be no return. He would never live again. His consciousness, his memories, and everything about him would vanish for all eternity. I understood why he would be afraid.

　Summoning my last bit of strength, I extended my hand to him. But he was just out of reach. I’d wanted to reassure him, to place a comforting palm on his shoulder. Instead, being there with him at the end was the best I could do.

　Finally, I’d been able to make my choice. I did not choose the unknown thousands. I chose the six that I knew. It was the first and final thing I could do for my beloved students.

The voice of the SSU marked the end of my last countdown.