Glory to Mankind (Nier Automata) ch 22

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Do not panic. Do not get overwhelmed. Focus on assisting. Focus on assisting. Do not freak out.

YoRHa Model 64B recited the mantra silently as the doors to the Bunker slid open with a soft hiss. Beyond them stood them—their gods, the creators they had fought and bled for as long as their circuits could remember. Humanity. Purpose made flesh.

Her systems flared as her optics adjusted to the sight. The crowd poured out, a river of fragile bodies. Men, women, children—faces etched with exhaustion, fear, and something deeper. Something she couldn't name. She had imagined this moment countless times, envisioned a parade of radiant beings, larger than life, commanding awe with every step.

But this... this was not what she expected.

A woman shuffled past, her gaze hollow, her hands clutching a child who clung to her leg as though it were the last solid thing in the world. Nearby, an older man dragged a suitcase that wobbled on a broken wheel. His trembling hands betrayed the weight of not just the bag, but everything else he carried. The air was thick—not with celebration, but with something that made 64B's processors falter.

She scanned their faces, her emotional subroutines flagging the same observation again and again: fear, exhaustion, despair. They were so small. So fragile.

"64B," snapped 22B, her squadmate's voice sharp but steady, pulling her back. "Focus. Keep them moving. We're here to assist."

"Y-yes," 64B stammered, straightening. Her black-and-white YoRHa uniform fluttered lightly in the artificial breeze of the loading bay. She forced herself to focus on the task, scanning the crowd for anyone in need of help.

Her visor highlighted three figures in the flow—two elders and a boy. The man, Roy Fernandez, 64. The woman, Estrelita Fernandez, 62. The boy, their grandson, Pepito. Refugees from the fall of Manila. Their files blinked in her vision: Parents deceased. Sole guardians: grandparents.

Roy strained under a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, one hand dragging a battered suitcase. Beside him, Estrelita struggled to carry an oversized backpack. The boy clung to her hand, his wide eyes darting nervously.

Target locked. Assistance required.

64B moved toward them, her heeled boots clicking softly against the metal ramp. She stopped just short of the family, her voice calm but clear. "Excuse me. May I assist you with your belongings?"

Roy turned, startled. His gaze flicked over her—at first wary, then confused. "Hindi na kailangan, miss," he said in a hoarse voice, shaking his head. "Kaya ko ito."

The words triggered her auto-translator. No need, miss. I can manage.

"It's no trouble," she replied, switching to his dialect with seamless precision. Her tone was polite but firm. "I'm designed to assist. Please, allow me."

Before he could protest, 64B stepped forward and gently but firmly took the duffel bag from his shoulder. The motion was effortless—graceful, even—but the strength behind it was undeniable. The strain that had bent the man's frame vanished the moment she took the weight.

Roy blinked. "Diyos ko," he muttered under his breath, stunned. 

'My god!' the translator worked.

"Whoa," Pepito whispered, his voice tinged with awe. "Strong!"

64B turned to the boy, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Indeed," she said softly. "I was built for tasks like this."

Estrelita, still clutching the backpack, hesitated. "But you're so small," she said, her voice filled with wonder. "You look like a… like a toy!"

64B crouched down, lifting the battered suitcase in one hand while slipping the duffel bag over her shoulder. She extended her other hand toward the backpack Estrelita was struggling with. "May I?" she asked.

The older woman nodded, still stunned, and 64B took the backpack with ease. Now burdened with all the family's belongings, she straightened. The combined weight registered as negligible in her systems.

Estrelita stared at her, wide-eyed. "You're really strong," she whispered again, as if the words carried a deeper meaning.

"I may look delicate," 64B replied, a trace of humor in her voice, "but appearances can be deceiving." She gestured toward the transport. "Please, continue. I'll carry these for you."

They resumed walking, 64B following close behind. Her sensors scanned the area instinctively, even though the area was secure. The boy kept glancing back at her, his curiosity bubbling over.

"Are you a robot?" he finally asked, his voice small but eager.

"I am an android," she corrected gently. "A YoRHa combat model, to be precise."

"Android!" His eyes lit up. "Like Android 18 from Dragon Ball Z?"

64B paused for a fraction of a second, her systems flagging the reference. She had no data on this "Android 18" or Dragon Ball Z, but she nodded nonetheless. "Yes. Like Android 18."

Pepito's grin widened. "That's so cool!"

"Pepito," Estrelita chided, flustered. "Let her work!"

64B shook her head. "It's fine," she said, glancing at the boy. His excitement sparked something faint and warm in her circuits. She couldn't define it, but it felt… right.

When they reached the transport, she carefully set the family's belongings down by their assigned seats. Roy sank into his chair with a weary sigh, his expression softening. "Thank you," he said quietly, his voice steadier now. "I don't have anything to pay you with, but… thank you."

64B inclined her head. "It was my honor to assist. Please, have a safe flight."

She turned to leave, but a small voice stopped her. "Wait!" Pepito called, running up to her. He held out a crumpled piece of candy, wrapped in shiny blue foil. "Here," he said, his face earnest. "You helped us, so you should have it. It's my favorite."

64B stared at the candy, her glowing blue eyes flicking between it and the boy's face. Her scanners identified it instantly: Hard sugar confection. Nutritional value negligible. Purpose: recreational consumption.

"For me?" she asked softly.

Pepito nodded, beaming. "Yeah. You're really strong. And really nice, too."

64B reached out, her fingers brushing his as she took the candy. The foil crinkled softly in her grip. "Thank you," she said, her voice quieter than usual. She stared at the candy for a moment, then added, "This means a great deal to me."

In more ways than one.

The boy grinned. "You're welcome!" He turned to move back but stopped. 

"Will we see you again?" he asked.

"If it comes down to it, then perhaps," 64B replied. She did not know if she was going to be able to what with her being so busy. 

"Well!" Estrelita smiled. "We will try to contact you once we settle in our new home. You will always be welcome, okay?"

"Darling," Roy warned. "Perhaps she will be busy? Do not distract her." 

"I do not mind," 64B promised. "If I ever get the chance, I will visit." 

And that was a promise.

64B straightened, her sensors registered the warmth in their tone and the sincerity in their expressions. It was illogical, unnecessary even, but as she turned back toward her post...

She held that candy a little bit tighter. 

+++

She stood at the command station, watching with anticipation as the first transports docked. A subtle hum vibrated through the Bunker's walls as the massive carriers latched onto the station's clamps, unloading precious cargo: humanity itself.

White's voice cut through the controlled chaos. "Team 1, move to refill and refuel. Quickly now. Let's keep it moving."

"Engineer Team," came another voice, "Transport 4 reports unstable wings. Assist immediately."

"What do you mean the clamps aren't ready yet?" someone else barked in frustration. "We've got transports stacking up! Move it, now!"

It had been a week of relentless preparation, yet trouble always seemed to find a way to rear its head. White had expected as much—war didn't pause for logistics—but YoRHa's ability to adapt and react was what set them apart. She would not tolerate failure. Not here. Not now.

The Bunker buzzed with activity. But that was sure to be changed soon as a secondary Bunker was currently being established somewhere else. With humanity now inhabiting Space Station 13 and YoRHa being the closest in terms of security, it was only natural as a cost saving measure for the Station to house YoRHa as well, maybe perhaps even turn it into their newest headquarters. The humans would need the best security and they were that. Already, a few of her Operators were already in Station 13, making sure that the renovations went well. 

If Smith thought that he was was safe from her, he was dead wrong.

"Steady on," White muttered to herself as she surveyed the room. Her gaze flicked to 60, who was monitoring the evacuation from a nearby terminal. "How goes the operation?"

"We're at fifty percent completion, ma'am," 60 reported, her voice as cheery as ever. "Further transports are moving into position as we speak."

That was progress. The more humans they got off the ground, the less anxious White felt about their safety. Soon, she told herself. Soon, this would all be over. And maybe—just maybe—the tension that had coiled in her chest since this mission began would finally release.

But such thoughts had to wait.

"Commander! We have a situation!" Operator 210's face appeared in her vision. her voice sharp and urgent.

White turned on instinct, her heart rate spiking for a fraction of a second. "Report," she demanded, her tone clipped.

She prided herself on her composure—on her ability to remain calm under pressure. But when humanity was involved, when their fragile lives hung in the balance, cracks had a way of forming in her otherwise ironclad demeanor. Jesus Christ, she thought bitterly. I'm supposed to be better at this.

210 hesitated just long enough for White's nerves to fray further. "We're receiving reports from Terminal 5," the Operator said finally. "A girl… she's crying."

White blinked. For a moment, she thought she'd misheard. "Crying?" she echoed.

"Yes, Commander," 210 confirmed, her tone as professional as ever. "YoRHa androids on-site are unsure how to handle the situation. They're requesting guidance. How should we proceed?"

White exhaled slowly, allowing her initial tension to dissipate. Her mind, however, remained restless. She could organize an invasion in her sleep. She knew the exact number of troops under her command, the power output of the Bunker's orbital cannon, and how to coordinate strikes with ruthless efficiency. But calming a crying child?

She frowned, glancing back at 210. "Do you have any suggestions?"

210 paused, her expression remaining neutral. "I… have conducted research on child interaction protocols. I believe I may know what to do."

White raised an eyebrow. "Are you volunteering?"

"Yes, ma'am," 210 replied without hesitation.

White nodded. "Very well. Go and report back once the situation is resolved."

21O nodded as her face vanished, another voice cut through the room. "Commander! We have a situation!"

White's composure wavered for a moment. Jesus Christ, she thought, barely stopping herself from groaning aloud. What now?

She turned sharply, her eyes narrowing. "What is it this time?" she demanded, her patience wearing thin.

The Operator shivered.

Her eyes narrowed. "...What?"

+++

"Someone replace me until I return," 210 said, her voice precise and sharp as she stood from her terminal.

An android immediately slid into her seat, no words exchanged, the handoff as seamless as machinery. Efficiency was their nature, after all.

"Pod!" she called, already moving. A Tactical Support Unit emerged from the shadows of the command center.

"Tactical Support Unit 120, ready to assist," it intoned, its voice a low mechanical hum. 210 nodded once, briskly, and strode toward the lift, her boots ringing against the alloy floor. The command center's faint chatter faded behind her as the doors closed.

As the lift descended, her thoughts surged, unbidden. Family. The word had lodged itself in her mind like a splinter ever since 9S had casually brought it up. He had spoken about it almost wistfully, marveling at how humans formed these bonds, these clusters of purpose. At the time, 210 had dismissed it as irrelevant—a curiosity with no bearing on their mission. But later… it lingered.

She had researched it. Deeply. The mother, the father, the children—a structure of roles, endlessly varied yet somehow universal. But the more she studied, the more the simplicity unraveled. What if there was no father? What if the mother was absent? What of families that defied the archetypes altogether? The data spiraled, tangled. And yet, through it all, one thought persisted: I want to understand.

The lift shuddered to a halt. The doors hissed open, revealing the bustling corridors of Space Station 13. The YoRHa outpost at its heart thrummed with purpose, androids and humans alike brushing past each other in a symphony of controlled chaos. But 210 moved through it all with singular focus, her visor marking Terminal 5 ahead.

The crowd thinned as she approached. Then she saw her: a child, small and curled in on herself, sitting on a bench. Her arms clutched her knees, her face buried, but the soft sound of muffled sobs carried to 210's auditory sensors. Two YoRHa androids stood nearby, their postures rigid, uncertain. One of them looked up as 210 approached, relief flickering across their face.

"210," the android greeted quickly. "We've been trying to calm her, but…" She gestured helplessly to the crying girl. "We're not equipped for this."

"I'll handle it," 210 replied, her tone clipped but steady. She stepped forward, her gaze locking on the child.

The girl didn't notice her at first. She was trembling, her small shoulders shaking with each quiet sob. 210 crouched, lowering herself to eye level. For a moment, she hesitated. What was protocol here? Words? Actions? Both? Her research offered fragments, but no certainty.

"Hello," she said, her voice soft but firm. "My name is 210. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

The child lifted her head slightly, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and wide, frightened eyes. "M-my dad," she stammered between sobs. "He's not here. I don't know where he is."

210's processors immediately flagged the situation. She turned to 120. "Scan her."

The girl flinched, shrinking back. "I don't like it. It's scary."

"He," 210 corrected gently. "120 is a 'he.'"

The girl blinked, startled. "Oh. He?" Her voice wavered. "I'm sorry, 120-san."

"Apology accepted," 120 replied flatly. "Commencing scan."

The Tactical Support Unit's sensors flickered briefly. "Identified: Akemi Masaki. Seven years old. Cross-referencing evacuation logs… Error detected. Passenger Takeo Masaki assigned to separate transport."

210's frown deepened. A clerical mistake. She straightened, her focus narrowing. "Stay with her," she instructed the nearby androids. "No one disturbs her."

Turning aside, she stood. "120," she said softly. "Contact command." 

"Connected."

She glanced up. "Operator 210 to Command. Confirm location of passenger Takeo Masaki, separated from Akemi Masaki during evacuation."

The reply came after a pause. "Passenger Takeo Masaki is aboard Transport 7. ETA: two hours."

Two hours. Longer than she'd hoped, but not insurmountable. She turned back to the girl, who was watching her with wide, red-rimmed eyes.

"I'll stay with you until your father arrives," she said simply, lowering herself to sit beside her on the bench.

"You… you're not leaving?" the girl asked, her voice trembling.

"No," 210 replied. "You don't need to be afraid."

The girl sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She hesitated, then leaned slightly toward 210, her small form inching closer.

210 remained still, her processors churning. She had no guidance for this moment, no directive to follow. Her research into "mothers" had outlined their roles in detail—comfort, care, protection—but the execution was proving far more complex. 

After a moment, she spoke. "Would you like to talk about something? Or… perhaps play a game?"

This was a good distraction, no?

The girl blinked, surprised. "A game?"

"Yes. I've read that games can be comforting." 210 paused, her tone softening. "Do you know one?"

The girl thought for a moment, then nodded. "Do you know I spy?"

"I spy," 210 echoed. Her processors flagged the term. "Yes. I understand it. Would you like to begin?"

A faint smile tugged at the girl's lips. "Okay."

Akemi wiped her nose on her sleeve, her lips curving into a small smile. "I spy with my little eye… something… silver."

210's head tilted slightly as her optical sensors scanned the immediate area. "Silver. The bench," she said, her voice steady.

Akemi giggled. "Nope! Not the bench."

120, hovering nearby, rotated its sleek frame toward the child. "Query: Is it me?"

Akemi blinked, then grinned. "Yes! It's you, 120-san!" She pointed at him. "You're all silvery and shiny!"

"Observation: This unit is composed of an aluminum-titanium alloy, polished to reduce microfractures," 120 droned. "Shiny is an oversimplification."

Akemi giggled again, the sound small but genuine. "Then you're shiny and smart!"

If he had been designed for facial expressions, one might have registered as confusion—or pride. "Acknowledgment: Thank you."

210 watched the exchange, silently processing. "It is your turn, 120," she said after a moment.

"My turn?" 120's optic sensors flickered faintly. "Clarification: This unit participates now?"

"Yes," Akemi said, bouncing a little in her seat. "It's your turn!"

After a pause, 120's soft hum of machinery filled the air. "Statement: I spy… something… metallic."

Akemi's shoulders slumped. "That's everything here!" she exclaimed, gesturing around the bustling corridor. "You have to pick something tricky!"

"Revision: I spy with my little eye… something round and metallic," 120 corrected.

Akemi squinted, her small face scrunching in concentration. She looked around, her gaze darting across the corridor. Finally, her eyes lit up. "The light fixtures! They're round and shiny!"

120's sensors flickered again. "Correct. You are perceptive."

Akemi giggled triumphantly. "My turn again!" She straightened up, her earlier sadness almost forgotten. Her eyes darted back and forth as she searched for her next target. Finally, she grinned. "I spy with my little eye… something blue."

210's visor glinted faintly as she scanned the area. "The United Nations banners on the wall," she guessed.

"Nope!" Akemi said, her tone playful. "Not that."

120 rotated slightly, his optics whirring softly. "Hypothesis: The emergency exit sign. Blue lettering."

"Nope again!" Akemi said, shaking her head. She looked between them, her grin widening. "You give up?"

210's head tilted slightly. "Not yet. Your...clothes?" she suggested, nodding toward the light blue trim on Akemi's jacket.

Akemi clapped her hands. "Yes! You got it!" She beamed up at 210, her earlier tears now entirely replaced by glee. "You're good at this!"

210 blinked, her processors briefly stalling. "I… appreciate the compliment."

​Pride swelled in her. 

"Your turn," Akemi said, bouncing slightly. "Pick something good!"

210 hesitated. She had never played a game like this before. Her databases offered no tactical advantage; no strategy applied here. After a moment, she spoke. "I spy with my little eye… something… human."

Akemi immediately looked around, her eyes scanning the corridor. She frowned in concentration, then tilted her head. Then, slowly, she pointed at herself. "Is it… me?"

"Correct," 210 said, her voice soft. "It is you."

Akemi's cheeks flushed slightly, and she smiled shyly. "That was a good one."

120's sensors whirred faintly. "Observation: This game is inefficient for information gathering but appears to increase morale."

Akemi giggled again. "It's fun! That's the point!"

120 processed this for a moment, his mechanical hum filling the brief silence. "Acknowledgment: Fun achieved."

Akemi laughed outright at that, her small frame shaking. She leaned closer to 210, her earlier fear now a distant memory. "You're funny, 120-san."

"I do not possess humor circuits," 120 replied.

"That's what makes it funny," Akemi said, grinning.

210 sat quietly beside them, observing. The girl's laughter, her warmth—it was something intangible yet undeniable. For the first time, she understood, at least in part, why humanity had clung so fiercely to the bonds they called family. It wasn't logical. It wasn't efficient. And yet, it was… irreplaceable.

"Would you like to continue?" 210 asked after a moment.

Akemi nodded eagerly. "Yes!"

And so they did.

For two hours straight.

Akemi led the charge, her small voice bubbling with enthusiasm as she pointed out objects, colors, and shapes, her laughter filling the otherwise sterile corridor. 210 played along with quiet precision, her responses deliberate but sincere. 120, meanwhile, participated with an almost mechanical eagerness, his monotone delivery unintentionally amusing Akemi every time he spoke.

For the first time in her short life aboard the station, the little girl seemed at ease.

That was, until 210's audio sensors picked up a distant voice—a male voice.

"AKEMI!"

The word cut through the hum of activity in the corridor. Akemi froze, her wide eyes snapping toward the sound.

"Dad?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

210 stood immediately, her visor locking onto the source. A man was pushing through the crowd, his face pale with worry but unmistakably alive with hope. His dark hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled from the long journey. Yet, none of that mattered. As soon as Akemi saw him, she launched herself off the bench.

"DAD!"

She sprinted, her small legs carrying her as fast as they could. The man dropped to his knees, catching her mid-flight and wrapping her in a tight embrace.

"Akemi," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Oh, thank God. Akemi..."

Tears streamed down her face as she clung to him, her small arms clutching his neck as if she would never let go. "I thought you were gone! I thought I lost you!"

"Never," he said, his voice ragged with emotion. "I'd never leave you, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. There was a mix-up, but I'm here now. I'm here!"

210 observed the reunion silently, her posture straight but her gaze fixed on the pair. Her processors registered a faint, unfamiliar sensation—not jealousy, not longing, but a quiet sense of satisfaction. This is what it means to be whole, she thought.

120 hovered nearby, his optic sensors flickering faintly. "Observation: Reunion achieved. Emotional response detected."

210 glanced at him. "Yes," she said simply.

The man finally stood, holding Akemi in his arms. He turned toward 210, his expression a mixture of gratitude and exhaustion. "You stayed with her," he whispered. "Thank you. I don't know how to repay you."

He then bowed, long and deeply. 210's eyes widened. She awkwardly cleared her throat, fighting the flushing that was threatening to break out of her cheeks.

"No repayment is necessary," 210 replied, her tone as steady as ever. "It was my duty."

He pulled back, gratitude clear on his face. "Still, I must thank you." 

Akemi turned her head, still clinging to her father but smiling shyly at 210. "Thank you, 210-san," she said softly. "And 120-san, too."

120 straightened slightly. "Acknowledgment: Gratitude received. You are welcome."

The man nodded again, his grip tightening on his daughter. "If there's anything I can do, anything at all—"

"Take care of her," 210 interrupted, her voice calm but firm. "That is all I require."

He hesitated, then nodded. "I will." he vowed.

Akemi waved at 210 and 120 as her father carried her away, her small hand disappearing around the corner. 210 turned to leave, her mission complete, but paused when his voice called out behind her.

"U-um, 210-san!"

She turned, tilting her head. "Yes?"

Takeo shifted awkwardly, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I was told that once we settle here, we'll have homes, businesses, and… well, normal lives again." He hesitated, then offered a nervous smile. "If that's true, then… allow me the honor of repaying you by cooking you a meal!"

He blinked, suddenly unsure. "I mean… is that even allowed?"

210 froze. A human was inviting her.

A human was inviting her.

…Was this a marriage proposal?

Oh.

Oh.

She had not anticipated getting married so soon. They had only just met. But… if he was offering…

"I accept," 210 said, her tone as calm as ever despite her internal calculations spinning wildly. She straightened slightly. "...I will need some time to, ah, prepare."

Takeo blinked, startled, then quickly nodded. "O-of course! Take your time! You know where to find us!"

She did.

As Takeo turned and walked away, 210 stood rooted in place for a moment, her processors running at full capacity.

Goodness. She needed more research into this.

Quickly.

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A/N: Clap clap clap. Get wholesome'd.  Get wholesome'd.  Get wholesome'd. 

Next chapter, YoRHa shows the lengths to how much they are going to go to protect the humans.