As we moved deeper into the tunnel, I could feel the familiar "living world" gradually fading away behind us.
At first, the walls and floors were kept in relatively good condition. It gave the impression that regular maintenance was still being performed. But after we had walked for a while, the passage began to grow cluttered with discarded supply crates and crumpled pieces of rail.
Even the lighting had been neglected; several units were burnt out, casting long, ribbon-like shadows across our path. With every step I took, the soles of my boots kicked up thick clouds of dust. A dry, stale scent clung to the inside of my mouth, making me want to click my tongue in irritation.
"The boundaries between sectors are connected by several tunnels like this," Junkhead said, walking in the lead. He turned only his mono-eye back toward us. "There are a few other routes, but this one has the highest 'probability' of still being intact. When gambling, it is best to place your bets where the winning numbers appear most often, is it not?"
"I’d be happy if it were just a matter of luck," I replied.
I looked up at the ceiling. Rust, accumulated over decades, bled across the joints of the old structural reinforcements. The era when people regularly traveled through this place was surely a thing of the distant past.
We walked for what felt like a long time. The humidity began to rise, and the air grew heavy. Just as the atmosphere turned stifling, a massive "wall" appeared ahead of us.
It was a gargantuan shutter, easily dozens of meters high. Constructed from a mix of concrete and steel plating, it looked like the gate to some outdated fortress. Its surface was marred by countless scratches and the remains of peeling warning signs. The paint had faded so badly that it was obvious the door had been "asleep" for many years.
"Now then, it has been decades... I wonder if it still functions."
Junkhead walked briskly toward a small control room off to the side. Through the frosted glass, I watched his metallic fingers tinker with an ancient console.
We waited for several seconds.
...Nothing happened.
He tried again, this time striking the panel with a bit of brute force. Still, there was no response.
"Hmm... Not even the power is engaging properly." Junkhead shrugged as he stepped back out. "Good grief. I shall leave the rest to you, 'Repairman'."
"Yeah, yeah."
I gave a half-hearted sigh and swapped places with him, entering the control room. Inside, the air was a stale cocktail of oil, dust, and the scent of machinery that hadn't seen a human soul in ages. Old breakers lined the walls next to yellowed monitors. Spare cables and backup units lay discarded on the floor. At the very least, there were more than enough spare parts.
"Alright, let's get to work," I muttered to myself.
I placed my hands on the shutter's control panel and steadied my breathing. I activated my "Repair" skill.
At the edge of my vision, the machine's internal structure and its points of damage flickered into view like a blueprint. I saw severed wires, loose connectors, and blown capacitors. Mentally, I sifted through the surrounding junk for usable components, visualizing them sliding into their "rightful places" within the circuit. It felt like watching a broken puzzle reassemble itself in reverse.
A few seconds later, a single lamp on the old console flickered to life.
"...Good."
Once the power system was restored, the monitors hummed to life. The hollow startup chime of an ancient operating system echoed through the cramped room.
"Good, good. Excellent work as always." Junkhead, who had been peering in from the doorway, stepped toward the panel with an air of satisfaction. "Now then, shall we open it?"
Junkhead tapped out a series of commands. A heavy, mechanical groan rumbled from the base of the shutter.
Clang... Clang...
The massive block of concrete began to rise, scraping against the ground with agonizing slowness. Decades of accumulated dust billowed into the air, filling the tunnel with a thin, gritty haze.
"Ugh... Seriously, could it be any more dusty?" Kaya grumbled, waving her hands to clear the air and brushing the grit from her shoulders.
Lucia coughed softly, pressing a handkerchief to her mouth. "Why did they build such a massive shutter in the first place?"
Junkhead answered Kaya’s complaint with a casual tone. "Ah, in times of crisis, there are occasions where one must 'dispose of an entire sector,' are there not? It was built for that eventuality."
"Purging an entire sector... Just how dangerous was the stuff they were making that they’d even consider that?" Kaya muttered, sounding half-exasperated and half-disturbed.
Junkhead didn't answer. He simply let out a dry, rattling chuckle. The sound reflected inside his metallic skull, making it sound even more unsettling.
What lay beyond the shutter was a different kind of space entirely. The ceiling was lower, making the area feel much wider. Old pipes lined the walls, interspersed with observation windows. The floor bore the marks of old rails and half-collapsed scaffolding. It didn't look like a functional factory; it looked like the ruins of a facility where something had once been manufactured.
"...A research sector?"
I spotted discarded terminals near the floor and used specimen capsules. There were shards of broken glass and boxes overflowing with old lab coats. Though everything had faded over the years, there were heavy traces that something had been "produced" here.
"Hmm, this shouldn't have been here," Junkhead said, tilting his head. "Did the Order build this? ...No, it looks far too old for that."
He was right. The design of the equipment was different from the high-tech machinery Junkhead usually handled. It was at least one generation older.
Just to be safe, I expanded the range of my Speech Bubbles skill to scan the building for thoughts.
...Nothing.
It seemed there were no living humans in this section.
"We might find some answers here. Shall we investigate?" Junkhead suggested. I nodded.
As we stepped into the research wing, a chill brushed against my skin. The air had a peculiar smell—a mix of old metal, chemicals, and a hint of mold. It reminded me of a hospital.
Old-generation diagnostic equipment lined the walls. The casings were cracked and the ports were choked with dust, but I could guess their age from the manufacturer names and model numbers etched into the panels.
"...Hoh, this takes me back. The specs are from roughly thirty to forty years ago, I'd say." Junkhead began to explain with a hint of amusement as he ran a hand over the machinery. "The sensors are crude compared to modern ones... but for its time, this was top-of-the-line. They certainly didn't spare any expense."
I didn't care much for the machines themselves, but the sheer cost of setting up a facility like this told its own story.
"U-Um... what are those?" Lucia asked, pointing toward a corner.
I turned my head and saw dozens of identical, cylindrical machines lined up in neat rows.
Old-model clone pods.
Even I recognized them instantly.
"............"
My feet moved toward them of their own accord. I peered into the pods one by one, but they were all empty. The coolant had long since been drained, leaving the interiors dry and brittle. Even so, the faint scratches on the inner glass suggested that "someone" had once been kept inside.
"...It looks like the Order has been making clones for a very long time," I muttered to myself.
I looked over at Kaya. Her face was deathly pale. Her usual playful expression had vanished, and all the color had drained from her lips.
"Are you okay? You look sick."
When I spoke, Kaya flinched, her shoulders trembling. She forced a strained smile.
"...Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, I’m just going to go get some fresh air."
Without another word, she walked quickly away from the rows of pods.
"Wait, Kaya-san!" Lucia started to follow her, but Junkhead reached out and lightly caught her shoulder.
"Now, now. There are no immediate threats nearby. She will be fine on her own for a moment."
His tone was mild, but his voice held a strange, knowing edge.
"...Wouldn't you agree, 'Repairman'?"
He looked back at me. The glow of his mono-eye pulsed slowly in the dim laboratory.
I gave a small nod and silently activated my skill. I pushed the display range of the Speech Bubbles out past the walls of the building.
Near where Kaya was standing—just outside—a thought that did not belong to her drifted into my mind.
(God, grant me salvation... God, grant me a body once more...)
It was a monotonous, broken prayer.
"...Yeah, you're right. Everything seems fine."
I gave that answer aloud, but in my mind, my suspicions about Kaya only grew stronger. Junkhead’s mono-eye flickered faintly in response to my words.
"...Nothing's wrong at all."
I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the cold glass of a pod and whispered the words under my breath. Slowly, I forced my clenched fist to relax.