The chaos below felt like a lie.
I emerged from the cacophony of the level where iron and greed bled together, and the moment the elevator doors slid open, it felt as if all the sound in the world had been snuffed out.
White.
That was the only word for it.
An Alabaster Corridor stretched out before me. The walls and ceiling were as smooth as polished glass; the only proof of the space’s existence was the rhythm of my boots striking the floor.
It was an inorganic silence. There were no windows, no doors, and no decorations. Just white. I couldn't tell if I was in a high-end testing facility or a chapel designed to grate on a man's nerves. I walked alone through the sterile void, which could have passed for either.
At the far end stood a single electronic door—a featureless slab of silver. As I approached, it gave a soft pssh of escaping air and slid aside.
The first thing I saw was a circular table in the center of the room. Its sleek glass surface caught the light, gleaming with a dull luster. Thirteen chairs were arranged around it, but only one was occupied.
The figure sat with his arms crossed, head bowed, perfectly still.
Silence.
Then, perhaps reacting to the sound of my footsteps, he slowly raised his head.
—Whirr.
A faint mechanical hum. The sound of metal grinding against metal vibrated through the air. A single point of red light bored into me.
His entire head was a cylindrical prosthetic structure. Deep within a vertical groove in the center, a monocular eye glowed crimson. It was a gaze devoid of emotion—the light of a pure machine.
The fingers resting on the table were an old-fashioned Pressure-driven Type. In an era where Smooth Joints and lightweight composites were the standard, they were practically museum pieces. The screech of iron against iron shivered through the air with every creak.
In terms of prosthetic generations, he was a "Legacy" from several cycles ago. Whether he was too stubborn to upgrade or there was another reason, I couldn't say.
But that "stubborn man" was the most senior executive within Eradicata. No one knew his real name. He was a legendary Full-body Prosthetic user rumored to have been active for over a century.
His name was Junkhead.
As I took a step forward, his Mono-eye flickered. It was the equivalent of a smile.
"...Still using that ancient model, I see," I said.
The mechanical head tilted slightly at my remark.
"I prefer the term 'rugged and sturdy.' The latest models are far too deli-cate."
His voice was a low rasp, like a saw on sheet metal. His pronunciation was jagged, punctuated by bursts of static like a blown speaker.
I shrugged, and the red Mono-eye flared bright for a split second. Not many people realized that was his version of a chuckle. I felt the tension in the room ease slightly.
"So, why call for the 'Missing Number'?"
I pulled out a chair and sat down without waiting for an invitation. Usually, seating order was strictly enforced here, but I didn't care. This wasn't a formal board meeting; it was a private audience.
As I leaned back into the seat with a heavy thud, Junkhead looked at me. His Mono-eye pulsed once, and his mechanical voice echoed through the room.
"...Hmph. I apologize for summoning you under the pre-tense of a request. How-ever... this is not a Repair job."
The metallic words echoed dully against the white walls.
Well, I’d expected that. A repair job significant enough to drag me back here was nearly impossible. Eradicata had plenty of talented Techs, and if there was something they couldn't fix, the organization would usually prefer to make it "disappear" rather than call me. They were realists, after all.
Which meant this meeting wasn't going to be a simple chat.
Taking my silence as a cue to continue, Junkhead spoke again. A drive motor gave a sharp creak, followed by more distorted audio.
"It was only recently, but... I believe you were quite busy 'up there,' were you not?"
I knew it. He was talking about the Upper District—the mess with Vira Corp and the chips. I hadn't gone out of my way to hide it. Information tended to filter down to the Underworld eventually.
"Well, no matter. We were pleased to hear of your success. Especially 'The Second' and 'The Thirteenth.'"
Names I didn't want to hear. One was the superior who had looked after me; the other was the junior who had replaced me. Their obnoxious laughter echoed in the back of my mind.
I grimaced, and Junkhead’s shoulder plates—or rather, his upper torso armor—shook slightly.
"Heh... heh. Rest easy. Those two are currently 'The Outside' on another matter. They were quite disappointed to miss you."
Outside the city, then. Good. I wasn't in the mood for a messy reunion.
"Now... to the matter at hand."
Junkhead’s voice dropped an octave. His mechanical fingers made a sharp click against the glass tabletop.
"This is somewhat related to your activities 'up there'... I want you to see this."
He pressed a switch concealed beneath the table.
—Grind...
The wall behind him began to slide open, and a pale blue light spilled into the room. It wasn't just a lamp.
Deep within the wall sat nearly a dozen transparent capsules. The glass tubes were filled with a blue, luminescent solution. Tiny bubbles drifted upward, refracting the faint light throughout the room.
And floating inside them...
Were humans.
They ranged from young girls to women in their early twenties. Their ages and facial features varied slightly, but they were clearly all the same model. They had slender limbs and skin so pale it was almost translucent. Their heads were shaved smooth, but a single, surgical line ran horizontally across their craniums.
Eyelashes fluttered behind closed lids, swaying with the current of the liquid. Their mouths hung slightly open, releasing small, periodic bubbles. Submerged in that cold solution, it was impossible to tell if they were alive or dead.
I felt the temperature in the room drop. My own heart began to thud in my ears, though my pulse remained steady.
"...That's a morbid collection," I muttered.
Junkhead didn't acknowledge the comment, continuing in his flat, mechanical tone.
"You recognize them, don't you? These are the Cecily Rainburg Clones—duplicates of the woman you encountered during the recent incident."
His inorganic voice hung in the air of the vast room.
Specks of light drifted through the blue solution. Each time they moved, the girls' limbs swayed, creating the unsettling illusion that they were watching me.
In the crushing silence, the only sounds were the rising bubbles in the capsules and the whir of Junkhead’s ancient internal drives.