Glory to Mankind (Nier Automata) ch 17

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Camille stepped into her quarters, the weight of exhaustion bearing down on her synthetic frame. For someone without organic parts, she sure as hell felt like one. Every joint ached, every nerve hummed with overstimulation, and her mind churned incessantly. She slammed the door shut, locking it with a sharp hiss, and leaned back against the cool metal.

She had been young—an untested android with bright eyes and naive ideals—when the news broke.

Project Gestalt had failed.

The words rang in her auditory processors like a death knell. Anger had consumed her then, searing and righteous, burning through her circuits. They had to do something—anything—to salvage the wreckage. But when it became clear that nothing remained except scraps of hope and hollow promises, despair gave way to blind, unrelenting fury.

Back then, there was no council, no unifying body to guide them. Camille had been part of the Human Heritage Reclamation Management Organization, a group more focused on preserving humanity's art and culture than waging war. She wasn't a soldier; she was an artist. But even she had joined the throngs demanding justice, demanding vengeance.

The Twins were to blame, they said. Their failure was unforgivable. And so, retribution came swiftly. The Twins were stripped from existence, leaving behind only their shattered legacy: a grim warning to anyone who dared to falter.

Years passed. She had been in the prime of her life when the sky tore open, and the invaders descended. The Independists had been her first taste of combat—arrogant bastards who believed they could abandon their creators. She had fought them with fire in her veins, earning her stripes in a baptism of blood and steel.

But nothing could have prepared them for the Machines.

Their numbers were endless, a ceaseless tide that swept across the globe. Even the most advanced weapons couldn't stem the flood. The Americas fell first, Europe crumbled soon after. Africa was barely holding on. And worst of all, despair hung heavy in the air. Why fight when there was no future? Why resist when their gods—the humans—were dead?

It was in the midst of this bleakness that a lie was born.

The lie gave them purpose. It gave them hope. Europe became contested ground instead of a graveyard. The West Coast of the Americas was reclaimed, inch by bloody inch. The lie kept them marching forward, kept them alive.

Camille peeled herself off the door, her lips pressed into a tight line as her gloved fingers reached for the fastenings of her Hussar's jacket. Her cheeks burned, the heat spreading across her synthetic skin—a stinging reminder of the Doctor's hand, of the anger she had absorbed willingly. The jacket slipped from her shoulders, and her bountiful chest strained against the black lace of her bra. Her breath hitched as her fingers brushed against the soft swell.

Living a lie hurt. But it was necessary. Sometimes, she even believed it herself. She fantasized about humans living on the Moon, about their lives and struggles. What would they be like? Would they be proud of her? Of them?

The belt around her waist clattered to the floor, and her dress followed suit, pooling around her feet. Her wide hips caught the chill of the air, sending a shiver through her body. Her thighs rubbed together as she reached up, squeezing her breasts through the lace. A soft moan escaped her lips, trembling with need.

The reports had been a surprise. Not just humanity surviving, but a bunker full of them. The very idea was absurd. Over the years, there had been countless claims of human sightings, all dismissed as hoaxes or the delusions of newer models who didn't know any better. But this report hadn't come from some wide-eyed rookie; it had come from Commander White herself. And thus, she was ordered to confirm it herself.

Her fingers slid beneath the fabric of her panties, pressing against the slick heat there. She gasped, her hips bucking instinctively. Steam escaped her lips in soft, trembling whimpers as she worked herself, her free hand slipping beneath the lace to tease her hardened nipples.

She had prepared herself for disappointment. She had been let down too many times before. But when the confirmation came—when the evidence was undeniable—everything changed. The clock, which had been frozen for so long, began to tick once more.

She fell back onto her bed, her legs spreading wide as her fingers moved in desperate, fevered circles. Her other hand pinched and twisted her bare nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through her body. She moaned louder, her cries echoing in the small room as wetness coated her fingers. Her mind swam with the Doctor's voice, the Lieutenant-Colonel's orders, the promise of a future she had thought lost forever.

The Council of Humanity acted swiftly. A plan was formed. The Council may be many things but lazy, they were not. A space station would be cleared for the humans to inhabit. Their existence would be hidden at all costs. The Machines would be distracted, their attention drawn away from the desert. Probing attacks ramped up on every front, skirmishes designed to keep the enemy guessing.

Camille's fingers worked faster, her cries reaching a crescendo as the tension within her snapped. Her back arched, her body trembling as waves of pleasure crashed over her. For a moment, there was nothing but bliss—pure, unfiltered ecstasy.

She lay sprawled on the bed, her chest heaving and her thighs slick. She imagined the wet mouths sucking on her, tasting her. That image made her finger go again. She turned on her stomach, lifting up her rear into the air, her fingers bombarding her mind with heaven.

She was the eldest of the Council now, the last remaining member of the original generation. The others had died through the years or did themselves in, unable to keep up the pressure anymore. The new councillors, they were born after. They did not have the facts, the context. She did. Hence why she volunteered to speak for them. 

And she was going to continue doing that. Whether it be in the council floor...or underneath her goddess's angry gaze.

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The doors clicked shut behind them, sealing the two humans in the small, dimly lit room. The hum of the ship's systems was faint in the background, but otherwise, the space was silent.

Fujikawa paused mid-step, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she'd heard something.

Smith blinked. "Doctor?"

She shrugged, brushing it off with a slight wave of her hand. "Nothing. Just felt like someone was talking about me."

Smith arched an eyebrow, but he let it slide. They were alone now—no androids, no outside ears. This was private, as Smith had requested. He called it "final instructions." Fujikawa suspected it was more than that.

"So," she said, folding her arms. "What do you have for me?"

Smith didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze flicked to the side, his expression clouding. Then, without preamble, he asked, "Tell me, Doctor, what do you remember about the Hamelin Organization?"

Fujikawa froze. Her face paled.

The name was a ghost from the past. The Hamelin Organization—secretive, manipulative, and shrouded in controversy. They had emerged at the height of the Fall, performing what many called miracles. They developed a drug that resisted the effects of White Chlorination Syndrome. They were the architects of Project Gestalt.

At first, they had been hailed as saviors. But Fujikawa had distrusted them from the start. Their funding sources were a mystery, their methods shadowy. And when it came to light that they were using teenagers as weapons to fight the Legion, her distrust had hardened into something closer to disgust.

She exhaled sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Sensationalist hogwash. In a better world, they ought to have been dragged out back and shot." She crossed her arms tightly, her jaw set. "Why are you asking me about them?"

Smith leaned forward slightly, his tone dropping. "Camille confessed something to me. She said that when they opened up Devola and Popola, data about the bunkers and other contingencies had been erased."

Fujikawa's eyes narrowed. "And you believe her?"

"It's worth investigating," Smith replied with a shrug. "The records should tell us the truth—assuming they aren't just blacked out with redactions. But the more I think about it, the more plausible it seems that the Hamelin Organization was behind it."

Fujikawa's gaze drifted as she considered his words. When Project Gestalt had been unveiled, public reaction had been… complicated. Its first adopters were the ultra-rich, sparking outrage in a world already ravaged by economic collapse. The Legion and White Chlorination Syndrome had disrupted every corner of the globe, and seeing the wealthy buy their way to safety had only deepened the resentment.

"If they did erase the data," Fujikawa murmured, half to herself, "it could have been for revenge. Punishment, maybe. The United Nations would've been the authority in the new world, had things gone differently. And the remnants of that world—people like us—wouldn't have forgiven Hamelin for what they did."

Smith frowned, and Fujikawa caught the hesitation in his expression.

"Why do you hesitate, Lieutenant-Colonel?" she asked, her tone sharpening. "You know this has to happen. Without leadership, we'll be rudderless."

Smith sighed, leaning back slightly. "I'm still coming to terms with it, I suppose. We're laying the foundations for a new humanity. That's… an immense responsibility."

Fujikawa softened, just a little. "Well, I suppose future humans will be grateful that you aren't some power-hungry tyrant." She smirked faintly. "You're no demagogue, that's for sure."

Smith let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "I'm blessed by your confidence, Doctor."

"Now," Fujikawa said, straightening, "if the Hamelin Organization did do this—if they erased the data—then we condemn their memory. We make them reviled. Shift the unjustified blame off my girls, for one thing. Let Hamelin's name rot in the dirt where it belongs."

There was venom in her voice now, sharp and unyielding.

Smith nodded slowly. "That's fair enough." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "Though… your girls?"

"Yes," Fujikawa replied without hesitation. "My girls."

Smith arched an eyebrow. "You're fully adopting them, then?"

"I am," Fujikawa said, her tone resolute. "I'll have to write the papers for it, of course."

Smith pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning. "God damn it. We'll have to draft entirely new laws for that."

"Among many other things," Fujikawa reminded him, her smirk returning. "We'll need laws to prevent the abuse of androids. And while we're at it, we need to codify protections for future generations—natural-born humans, humans from android parents, and those born from artificial wombs. There can't be any discrimination between them."

Smith stared at her in disbelief.

She stared back, unflinching. "Don't give me that look," she said firmly. "You know how people are. When the memory of this crisis fades, future generations will take the peace for granted. We must ensure that discrimination of any kind is criminalized, even if it won't stop every case."

"It won't," Smith agreed, his tone resigned. "But it might ensure justice when it's needed."

"Exactly," Fujikawa said with a shrug. "Laws won't stop crime entirely. But they provide the means to hold people accountable. Anyway, let's get to the work of building that world first." She stood, brushing her hands together. "Anything else you need from me, Colonel?"

Smith shook his head. "No, I think that covers it."

"Good," Fujikawa said, turning toward the door. Then she paused, glancing over her shoulder with a sly smile. "Oh, and I hope your stamina isn't an issue, Lieutenant-Colonel. You already have a harem waiting for you."

Smith groaned, rubbing his temples. "God help me."

Fujikawa laughed as she stepped out, her voice fading down the hallway.

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A/N: I will do a little skipping after this. Next up, space.