I stared at that familiar face in silence for a long time.
I studied it intently, from directly head-on.
Under the artificial skin that had regained its luster, it looked as if a faint flush of life was beginning to take root. Despite being cold and motionless, it possessed a strange sense of "being alive."
—As I thought, they look exactly alike.
The line of the profile with its closed eyes.
The shape of the lips.
The way the outer corners of the eyebrows turned slightly downward.
Cecily Rainburg. Lucia’s younger sister.
The memory of looking down at her as she slept in her bed slowly resurfaced. Though the hair color was different, the features were an almost perfect match. Its sculptural perfection was eerie—unnatural, even.
But why?
I thought back to the Speech Bubbles I had seen in Cordeaux’s office. If those had been Cecily’s "voice"...
It was a ridiculous thought. I knew that better than anyone. Yet, as absurd as it was, it brought a strange sense of conviction.
The chip. It was the only suspicious variable left.
But was it even possible for a personality to transfer into a scrap of metal only a few centimeters long?
Certainly, there were those with full-body prosthetics—people who chose to mechanize their entire forms. The Doctor was one of them. They were people who kept their brains intact while converting every other regulatory organ into a prosthetic.
However, that was a "conversion," not a "transfer." The brain remained the essential command center; the machine was merely an extension of it.
Backup data was no different. What was saved was memory—nothing more than a record. It wasn't a "heart."
No matter how high-performance a prosthetic might be, it couldn't summon a personality back from the dead. Even if you copied the data, what played back inside the new container was a recording, not a person. To put it in human terms: reprinting a diary doesn't multiply the author.
"...And yet."
The "her" in front of me certainly harbored something. Whether it was an illusion or just a coincidence, I couldn't let it go.
As I stared—
Suddenly, two holographic Speech Bubbles appeared at the exact same time.
『Where is this』
『Where is this』
Identical wording. Perfect synchronization. Up until now, I’d seen bubbles appear in rapid succession, but this was the first time they had overlapped.
"...Are there two of them?"
The moment the thought crossed my mind, a chill ran down my neck. If one of them was Cecily, then the other—
Ring, ring, ring.
A ringtone suddenly shattered the silence of the car. My heart skipped a beat. Looking down, I saw my communication terminal flashing. I was currently emitting jamming waves, but the device was set to allow calls through the internal line.
I saw the name on the display and let out a sigh.
"...Roselia, huh."
I answered the call.
『Yo! Everything's ready on my end, so come over whenever you're set!』
A voice brimming with energy pierced my ears. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was indeed about that time.
"Got it. I'm on my way. Your place has an underground garage, right? You mentioned it was a complete-isolation type."
『Hmm? Yeah, it is. It's a pain if people start sticking trackers or junk on my chassis. ...What about it?』
Her voice sounded suspicious.
"Nothing. I was just wondering if I could park in there. It’s a favor."
『...Well, I don't mind. Did something happen?』
"No, things have just been dangerous lately."
I kept my answer vague. Given her personality, she wasn't the type to sweat the small stuff; it wouldn't be an issue.
『...Hmph. Fine. Just be careful on your way here.』
The call disconnected. Typical.
Exhaling, I turned my gaze back to the passenger seat. Beneath the towel blanket, the restored face of "her" remained in a quiet slumber. The Speech Bubbles were gone.
Silence returned. But I felt as though the very density of the air had shifted.
"...Is it you, Cecily? Or is it—"
I tossed the question into the silence of the car, knowing it wouldn't reach anyone. The heartbeat of the crimson engine slowly climbed in RPMs. I stepped on the accelerator and drove the car out into the streets where the neons danced.
Once I cleared the Upper District and turned off the main thoroughfare, the surrounding clamor vanished as if it had been a lie.
A pocket of silence nestled between the skyscrapers—that was where Roselia Kleinhardt’s manor stood. It wasn't exactly a palatial estate, but it had "room." In the high-class residential districts of the Upper District, there weren't many individuals who could claim a private lot of this size.
Even from outside the walls, I could tell the security network was layered two or three deep. It was a merciless defense system, the kind designed to incinerate any intruder on sight.
I chuckled softly to myself. Considering Roselia was an elite member of the Seventh Tactical Control Division—Sector 7—this level of paranoia was only natural. It was even more expected if you actually knew her. The perfection of her security felt less like neurosis and more like an extension of an occupational hazard.
When I pulled up to the gate, an inorganic mechanical voice rang out.
《ID confirmed. Commencing biometric authentication.》
I rolled down the window and leaned out to let it scan my face. A red laser traced a line from my forehead to the tip of my chin, followed by a palm print scan. With a brief electronic beep, the gates slid open.
I tapped the accelerator and proceeded slowly into the grounds. Orderly rows of trees lined the path, and several recessed lights were visible in the ground, likely sensor-activated to light the way at night. I noted that a few of them were actually shock-type anti-personnel mines.
There was no sign of another living soul. Perhaps due to the perfect automation, the place had an inorganic, artificial atmosphere. It felt less like a home where someone lived and more like a hangar for a weapon.
Eventually, the manor came into view. The exterior walls featured sharp lines and a rugged design plated in ceramic materials. In one corner, the entrance to the underground garage stood open like a waiting mouth.
The shutter had been left up—a sign of welcome. I slid the car inside, and the shutter behind me immediately began to hiss shut. In its place, the ceiling lights flickered on one by one.
"...It's huge."
The words escaped me involuntarily. Light reflected off the polished concrete floor. There were two armored vehicles and one air car for city use, yet there was still enough space to park several more. It didn't feel like a rich person's collection; it felt like what happened when a "field-first soldier" came into money.
I parked in an empty stall and killed the engine. As the low vibration died away, the silence felt almost lonely. Just to be safe, I checked the passenger seat.
"She"—the restored head—remained silent. No Speech Bubbles appeared.
I had already performed a few "preventative measures." I’d applied energy interference and signal dampeners to ensure her internal mechanisms wouldn't boot up unexpectedly. Then, I’d placed her inside a bio-box for transport.
It was a smaller version of the suspended-animation containers the Doctor used—the kind usually reserved for transporting cloned organs. It was a high-end model that kept its contents in a semi-floating state rather than submerged in culture fluid.
"...Alright."
Taking a breath, I climbed out of the car. The garage air was dry, carrying the faint, sharp scent of ozone. The white glare of the artificial lights reflected off the metal walls with sterile precision.
I looked around and saw two doors. Just as I was debating which path to take, the door on the right slid open with a hiss of hydraulics.
"Yo! Glad you could make it, Repairman!"
The voice was deep, echoing from the literal bottom of her lungs. Seeing her, I couldn't help but give a wry smile.
Standing beyond the door was a tall woman with red hair tied up high. She stood more than a head taller than me. Her tanned skin contrasted sharply with the golden chrome prosthetics of her limbs, which caught the light with a brilliant gleam. The metal armor hummed with a heavy, weighted sound as it moved in sync with her muscles.
"...You're as flashy as ever."
"Damn right. Sector 7 is always combat-ready."
With a smirk, Roselia Kleinhardt lightly clapped her metal right hand against her left. A heavy clank rang through the garage.
She had a prosthetic replacement rate of nearly one hundred percent. She was a woman who had lost her four limbs in an accident and replaced them with combat-grade prosthetics. The fact that she laughed and called them "upgrades" rather than "losses" was the mark of a true battle maniac.
"Well, no point talking out here. Come in. I’ve got things to consult you about, but I’m also curious about what’s in there."
She gestured with her chin toward the box I was carrying. She only gave it a passing glance, but I knew she’d likely already checked the contents with a sensor scan.
"Well then, pardon the intrusion."
I trusted Roselia, but I had no idea where this conversation was going to go. I followed her inside, the heavy thud of her metal footsteps leading the way as I shifted the weight of the box on my shoulder.