The din of battle died away, replaced by a fleeting silence.
A sharp tang of scorched metal and ozone pricked my nostrils. Like a dying ember, the wreckage of the prosthetic crackled and popped.
As if to confirm the stillness, a vibration like the low thrum of rotors echoed from the floors above. Soon after, the backup unit arrived, descending along the rigging fixed to the elevator shaft.
It was the Seventh Tactical Control Division—the Mobility-Specialized Unit, specifically. They were clad in black bulletproof gear, their white affiliation insignia catching what little light remained. In the shadows, their equipment gave off a dull, oily luster.
"...Arrival. Perimeter is clear," a short report crackled over the comms.
The squad immediately fanned out across the floor. One of the younger members whistled as he looked down at the black prosthetic wreckage.
"For the Captain to take on that form... I guess the target was a real monster," he remarked.
He likely meant it as light banter, but his voice was tight with tension. It was no wonder; opportunities to see Roselia truly "get serious" were few and far between.
The soldier cautiously approached the bisected remains of the giant prosthetic and shone a hand-light over the cross-section. After confirming the central core was scorched beyond recognition, he let out a slow breath.
"...Target neutralized. No heat signatures in the vicinity. We’ll focus our investigation on this floor, but several of us will proceed with you as escorts."
Instead of pupils, glowing red sensors scanned the room, licking across the walls. The artificial light reflected faintly, cutting through the frigid air. The rest of the team dispersed, beginning their sweep with terminals and documents in hand. The rhythmic thud of combat boots on the metal floor echoed through the hall.
Roselia gave them a brief glance before exhaling a soft sigh. "Alright, then. Let’s head downstairs."
She took a jacket offered by one of her subordinates, rolled her shoulders to loosen them, and threw it on. It was a perfect fit for her current physique. Her frame after the purge was lithe; without the heavy armor, she looked remarkably slim.
"...U-Um, are you going to be okay?" Cecily asked timidly. Worry was written plainly across her face.
I couldn't blame her. Until a few minutes ago, Roselia had looked like an armored heavy tank. Now, she was the image of a standard female-type prosthetic. I wouldn't go so far as to call her fragile, but the contrast was jarring.
Roselia chuckled and waved a hand dismissively. "No need to worry. Even in this state, I won't be losing to any run-of-the-mill augmented soldiers."
She slapped her palms together with a sharp crack.
"Well, she’s stuck like that until we can find a way to replenish her generator," I added.
As I spoke, I kept an eye on the damaged sections of her prosthetic. I could reattach the exterior plates using my Repair skill—I could restore her silhouette at the very least and provide a small energy boost—but I couldn't bring her back to peak condition here. She used a special medium for her systems, which made them difficult to top off on the fly.
Her current state was a mobility-specialized light configuration. While she couldn't pull off those instantaneous bursts of high-output combat anymore, it was a balanced form. There wasn't much cause for concern.
As if reading my thoughts, Roselia smirked. "It’s fine. I’m used to it. Even with a lighter body, you can count on me."
Her expression was surprisingly soft for someone who had just finished a life-or-death struggle. Amidst the smell of sweat and hot metal, she looked almost proud.
"Now then—" She cracked her neck and glanced around. "The main event should be further ahead. Let’s move."
"Yeah," I replied shortly.
Cecily nodded, visibly trying to suppress her nerves.
Leaving the scorched prosthetic behind, we headed for the stairs. The metal fragments scattered across the floor clinked under our boots. Roselia’s back looked smaller now, but her presence was as reliable as ever.
For a while after that, the enemy's response was sluggish.
The fierce resistance on the upper floors felt like a fever dream. The soldiers who did appear were sporadic, jumping out almost as an afterthought. The reactions shown by my Speech Bubbles were sparse; every time I fired, the only sound that followed was the lingering, lonely echo of a bullet hitting metal.
It was monotonous work, but the silence was far more unsettling than a direct assault. The calm before the storm.
Before I knew it, we had bypassed the ground floor and descended into the bowels of the building—the underground facility. Every step we took on the metal stairs reverberated with an oppressive weight.
The air was heavy. It felt as though a different density of atmosphere was clinging to the back of my throat.
"...The air feels wrong down here," Cecily whispered. Her voice was swallowed by the darkness almost instantly.
"Usually, the big secrets are kept at the very top or the very bottom," I muttered.
Roselia shrugged. "Usually, yeah. But the world is only interesting because that 'usually' tends to be right."
Her tone was half-joking, half-serious. We didn't let our guard down as we pressed on.
Eventually, we reached the end of the stairs and stopped, the sight before us stealing the breath from our lungs.
It was vast.
The space was so massive it was hard to believe we were underground. Enormous steel pillars towered along the walls, supporting a ceiling that vanished into the shadows. This wasn't just a research lab.
It looked like an athletic field or a training ground, but there were signs that "living things" had been processed here. When I swept my light across the walls, I saw reddish-black stains—old, dried blood caked onto the surfaces.
Bullet holes were everywhere. The marks where rounds had gouged the walls remained unpatched, leaving charred cracks in the concrete.
"...What a distasteful playground," Roselia whispered. There was no fear in her voice, only the cold detachment of a professional seeing a grim reality for what it was.
I snorted. The air was thick with the scent of iron and burnt oil—the stench of blood residue that refused to fade.
At the far end of the plaza, a room protruded from the wall on an elevated level. It was fronted by thick bulletproof glass—an observation room. From there, someone had spent hours looking down at whatever horrors had taken place in this square.
"Is that where we're going?" Roselia asked, pointing slightly.
Right then, a sound echoed from the darkness ahead.
Tap. Tap.
The sound of bare feet hitting the dry metal floor. Slowly, a figure emerged into the dim light.
Hair like spun silver swayed, catching the faint illumination of the facility. Her movements were fluid, graceful—and then I saw her face.
"Ah...!"
Behind me, Cecily gasped. I slowly leveled my gaze at the newcomer.
Standing there was a woman with Cecily's exact face.
In terms of physical structure, "that side" should have looked more human, but it didn't. Those shimmering silver threads of hair swayed unsteadily, appearing almost inorganic. The temperature in her eyes was chillingly cold.
"...You’re early, Repairman."
The voice was quiet, yet it resonated in my ears. I kept my eyes fixed on the "her" in front of me and slowly raised the muzzle of my gun.
The silver hair caught the light. In the gloom, the shadow smiled.