Glory to Mankind (Nier Automata) ch 8

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Smith settled into the Overseer's chair, the faint creak of its old frame breaking the silence. Behind him, the door clicked shut as Anemone entered. Her posture was rigid, her expression carved with the stoic resolve of duty. She stopped a few feet from the desk, the air between them taut with unspoken tension. Her fingers tapped briefly against the plastic armrest of his chair—an almost imperceptible gesture, but one that spoke volumes.

Despite the passage of over a thousand years, the room still functioned as it always had. The gamble of integrating maso technology into their systems had paid off, Smith thought, though the weight of that victory now felt distant, almost abstract.

"Sir," Anemone greeted, her voice steady as a blade. She stood at attention, awaiting his command.

Smith exhaled slowly, his gaze meeting hers. In this moment, orders weren't what he needed—context was. Humanity had slumbered for centuries, and now they had awakened to a world changed beyond recognition. What he needed were facts—dates, numbers, history. Anything to help them navigate the storm they'd been thrust into.

"I won't waste time, Colonel," Smith said, his voice low and deliberate. "I need to understand where we stand. What's happened since... since we went under."

Anemone gave a sharp nod, her expression tightening. "Ask your questions, sir."

"I want a timeline," Smith replied, leaning forward. His tone carried a weight that left no room for pretense. "Start with everything after 2033."

The mention of the year made her pause. Her eyes sharpened, scrutinizing him for a moment. "2033," she repeated. "That's when this facility went online, correct?"

Smith inclined his head. "It did. Project Gestalt came to light the year before. Not everyone supported it—splitting souls and bodies..." He trailed off, his brow furrowing as if the words themselves carried too much complexity. He gestured vaguely to the room around them. "This place was for those who refused to go through with it. A contingency."

"I was under the impression humanity was already on the brink by then," Anemone remarked, one eyebrow raised slightly. Her gaze shifted to the sterile walls around them. "This facility, though—it's... expansive."

"We were," Smith admitted, his voice grim. "But there was still hope. When the Hamelin Organization destroyed the Legion Commander in Jerusalem, it shattered the Legion's ability to lead coordinated attacks." His lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "That didn't mean we were out of the woods. The WCS still loomed over us. So humanity made choices. Support Gestalt, or..." He gestured at himself. "Be frozen. Wait for a better future."

"I see," Anemone said quietly, her tone thoughtful. She straightened. "Then allow me to fill in the rest, sir."

Smith leaned back, silent, as Anemone began to speak—her voice calm but tinged with something that might have been hesitation. She dug into her memories, reconstructing the history humanity had left behind. Activated in 3631, she had access to fragments—some sharp, others blurred like half-erased chalk on a board. The process of recollection was taxing. She couldn't deny it. Some memories were best left buried, but a human had asked. More than that, her commanding officer had asked. Defying him wasn't an option.

Piece by piece, she laid out the fractured timeline. The final, scattered hunts for remnants of the Legion. The gradual eradication of the WCS from Earth. The collapse of the planet itself, sudden and catastrophic. The unforeseen problems with Project Gestalt. The alien invasion that followed, and the wars that reshaped what was left of civilization.

She spoke methodically, yet with undertones of weariness. By the time she finished, her shoulders had stiffened. "I apologize, sir," she said finally, her voice faltering. "I can't provide a complete timeline. My storage capacity... it's limited. Some data has been lost over time."

Smith studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he nodded. "Don't sweat it, Colonel," he said. His voice was softer now, less commanding. "You've given me enough to work with. A canvas, at least."

Anemone straightened at that, her posture regaining its usual precision. "Understood, sir."

The Initiative had protocols to follow, assuming the Legion and WCS still existed after they woke up. But with those threats gone, Smith allowed himself to relax slightly. Now, his biggest concern was the Machines.

"What are the capabilities of the Machines?" Smith asked.

"The Machines are varied, depending on the environment," Anemone replied. "Their most common units are stubby little men." She lowered her palm to her knee. "About this big. Not much to worry about individually, but they come in large numbers. Some are equipped with projectile weapons. You wouldn't want to be hit by one—those rounds can shut down electronics."

Smith chuckled. "I don't think we've got much electronics to be shut down, Colonel." He hummed thoughtfully. "Not that I'm eager to test that theory. Continue."

Anemone nodded and raised her palm to her waist. "The next type are bipeds. About this tall. Unlike the stubby ones, they can run—but not as fast as androids. They're a threat in groups."

Smith gestured for her to go on. Anemone raised her palm to her shoulder. "Next are medium-sized bipeds. They're tougher, and their strikes can punch clean through armor. Those are the basic types. Beyond them, there are larger machines: Goliath bipeds that can smash through walls, flyers that saturate battlefields with energy projectiles, tanks, and..." She hesitated briefly. "Engel units."

Smith's eyebrow arched at that. "Engels?" He had been quiet to let her explain, but the name gave him pause. He could understand siege units, tanks, and air assets—but what were Engels?

"They're..." Anemone chose her words carefully. "War Walkers. As big as buildings. They can destroy entire cities and are armed with high-powered laser weapons in their mouths."

Smith's lips pressed into a thin line. "And what has your Resistance brought to bear?"

Anemone flinched. "We... we're a Resistance cell, sir. We avoid direct confrontations when we can help it. Hit-and-run tactics, sabotage—frustrating the Machines' war effort."

"Resistance," Smith rumbled. "You're not part of the Regular Army?"

Anemone shook her head. "We are, sir. But due to our fighting style, we've used Resistance as a catch-all term. Most of the Army of Humanity is committed to the Kingdom of Night. Here, this is a more... 'relaxed' theater of war as The Machines have concentrated their forces in the West."

"It's fortunate, at least, that we don't have to deal with that," Smith said. His voice was heavy. "This facility isn't meant for conquest. It's an ark. We float through the flood, then rebuild afterward."

"You can count on us, sir," Anemone vowed, determination flaring in her eyes. "We'll help however we can."

"That, I don't doubt," Smith replied, a rare, sincere smile crossing his face. "We'll welcome the help."

She used "relaxed" sparingly. Even if their front wasn't the Machines' primary focus, it didn't mean the danger was lesser. Smith doubted these Machines could match the ferocity of Legion monsters, but he wasn't about to tempt fate. She faltered however. Thousands of years of war and they've barely made a dent against the enemy. Tokyo and the wider Japan region still had Machines trudging on Terran soil. 

Anemone resisted the urge to bite her lip. Thousands of years, and they still dared to desecrate the planet with their presence. Her hands clenched briefly at her sides before she glanced down, refusing to meet Smith's gaze. "I'm... I'm sorry, sir."

Smith raised an eyebrow, his expression questioning. "Sorry? What for?"

Anemone's gaze flicked back up, hesitating. "We... A thousand years of war, and we've still not reconquered the planet. I'm sorry."

Her voice wavered, betraying the frustration that churned inside her. Their entire purpose—their very existence—was to liberate the planet and pave the way for their creators to return, to rebuild. And what did they have to show for it? A broken world, ruined cities, and endless stalemates.

Smith's expression softened, his gaze losing its edge. "Colonel, it's hardly your fault," he said, his voice steady but firm. "You're fighting aliens."

The way he stressed the word made her blink. "You're... not mad?" she asked hesitantly.

Confusion spread across his face. "Why would I be?"

"Because we've failed to accomplish our objectives," she admitted, her voice rising slightly in pitch. She flinched at her own outburst, heat rushing to her cheeks. "I-I mean... we've been fighting for so long, and—"

Smith cut her off with a quiet, rumbling chuckle. "Colonel, with all due respect, you're fighting a technologically and numerically superior foe," he said. "Literal aliens, no less. The fact that you and the rest of the army have managed to hold on this long? That's a miracle." He leaned forward slightly, his tone deliberate. "That, in itself, is a victory."

Anemone felt something catch in her throat. She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "...Sir?"

"You heard me, Colonel," Smith replied, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

He swiveled his chair to look out of the rear window, where the sleeping forms of civilians rested in their stasis pods. His gaze lingered there, thoughtful. Anemone bit her lip again, this time to stifle the unfamiliar warmth rising in her chest. She looked away, hoping the flush on her face wasn't as obvious as it felt.

​The smile on her face, it would have broken her lips.

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Of all the things Devola and Popola had expected, being told to sit down while a human woman meticulously checked and rechecked their systems was not one of them.

The twins complied, their gazes rising as instructed. They were in her office now, though it felt more like a holding cell than a place of care. The medical bay in the bunker was cold and utilitarian, illuminated by the harsh, sterile glow of fluorescent lights. The faint smell of antiseptic and metal lingered in the air, blending with the soft hum of machinery. The walls were dull and gray, scuffed and worn, each chipped corner and faded surface a testament to years of use. There were no windows, no natural light—only the faint flicker of green and blue indicator lights from the medical equipment, adding a cold, artificial touch of color to the muted environment.

Against the far wall stood a row of stainless steel cabinets, their handles polished smooth from repeated use. Inside, supplies were neatly arranged: syringes, bandages, antiseptics, and vials of unknown substances, all meticulously organized with military precision. It was a space of function, not comfort.

The twins sat side by side on the operating table, wires trailing from their ports to the diagnostic equipment. The fact that the table hadn't collapsed under their combined weight was a small miracle.

"Um..." Devola started, her voice hesitant.

"Hush," Dr. Fujikawa said curtly, not looking up from her screen. Devola bit her lip and exchanged a nervous glance with Popola, who seemed just as unsure. Her sister's expression mirrored her own—unease and confusion.

The doctor, seated behind her desk, continued typing, her fingers moving with practiced speed. Occasionally, she glanced toward them, her brow furrowing in brief moments of confusion before returning to her work. Minutes dragged on, feeling like hours, until finally, Fujikawa stopped. With a slow exhale, she swiveled her chair to face the twins directly.

The twins instinctively straightened on the operating table, their movements almost synchronized.

"Your systems show significant wear and tear," Fujikawa noted, her tone sharp but clinical. "You're administrative models—not labor units."

Devola and Popola avoided her gaze, their hands tightening on their laps. Fujikawa's eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned forward.

"And yet," she continued, "you weren't there to greet us. Protocol dictated you two should have been present."

The twins' fingers dug into the fabric of their pants, their silence speaking volumes.

Fujikawa sighed, leaning back in her chair, folding her arms. "Look at me."

Hesitantly, they obeyed, their eyes slowly rising to meet hers.

"What's going on with you two?" she asked, her voice quieter now, but no less firm. "You weren't supposed to be like this."

Popola's lips trembled as she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "We failed."

Fujikawa stilled, her expression unreadable. "Failed?" she repeated.

"Project Gestalt failed under our watch, Doctor," Devola said, her voice breaking. Her hands tightened into fists as she continued, bitterness and guilt bleeding into her tone. "We fucked up."

Fujikawa drew in a slow, measured breath. "Tell me everything."

And so they did. Piece by piece, the twins began recounting the events they could still remember, their voices heavy with regret. With every word, Fujikawa's calm demeanor began to crack—her expression softening, breaking under the weight of their story. They spoke of the establishment of the Grimoires, the initial hope they'd represented, and the horrors that followed. The Grimoires themselves going crazy. The twins struggled with the details, gaps in their memories frustratingly apparent.

"It was fine at first," Popola began softly, her hands folded tightly in her lap. "The Replicants were docile. We did our jobs, shepherding them."

"But then the Replicants started to develop sentience of their own," Devola added, her voice strained. "By the time we realized what was happening, it was far too late."

"The Shadowlord refused to cooperate." Popola's voice wavered, her composure slipping. "We tried our best to salvage it, but... we couldn't."

Fujikawa leaned forward slightly, her voice gentle but probing. "I've reviewed your memories," she said. "What you're saying doesn't quite add up."

Devola's frustration flared like a sudden storm. "Because we weren't the models responsible for it!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Popola reacted instantly, reaching out to grab her sister's hand—a calming gesture that spoke of years of practice. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer, steadier. "The models who were responsible… they perished," she explained, her gaze lowering. "But their memories survived. My sister and I… we inherited them."

Fujikawa blinked, her confusion evident. "Inherited them?"

Popola nodded slowly. "Yes. Everything they experienced, everything they couldn't fix—it was all passed to us. Their memories, their failures… they became ours to bear."

"Why?" Fujikawa's voice was cold now, each word sharp and deliberate.

"We don't know," Popola admitted, her tone laced with quiet resignation.

Fujikawa pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly as if trying to push the weight of the conversation away. The Twins watched her anxiously, their lips pressed together in a shared worry that they had somehow failed her. But then Fujikawa broke the silence.

"There were always risks with Project Gestalt," she sighed, her voice carrying the heavy burden of someone recounting a painful truth. "The idea itself—splitting the soul from the body—it was esoteric. Desperate. And dangerous." She looked up then, meeting their gazes. "Did you know the Hamelin Organization was infamous for scandals? Secret experiments, unethical practices…"

"We didn't know," Devola interjected, her voice unusually quiet.

"Well, that's why some nations rejected it outright," Fujikawa explained, her tone tinged with bitterness. "It was dirty, sensationalist science. That's why these bunkers—and others like them—were built under the United Nations' oversight. Peer-reviewed, using the best technology and methodology of the time. They were supposed to be safer. But they were expensive. Too expensive." She paused, letting her words sink in.

Devola and Popola exchanged a glance before leaning in, their curiosity overriding their unease. "Others like it?" Devola pressed, her voice sharp with urgency.

"There are more?" Popola's tone rose, barely masking her hope.

Fujikawa raised a hand, motioning for calm. "As far as I know. The bunkers were designed to operate independently, each a failsafe to ensure humanity's survival in one form or another. There were supposed to be twelve of them, scattered across the world."

The Twins shot to their feet in unison, excitement igniting in their eyes. "We have to tell the others!" Devola exclaimed.

"Wait," Fujikawa ordered, her voice firm. "Don't get ahead of yourselves."

"But there are others out there!" Devola argued, her voice rising with desperation.

"Our line was deemed a failure," Popola confessed, her voice low. "Production was halted. The models who weren't outright destroyed could never be made again. We're the last."

Fujikawa shot to her feet. "And by what right did they make that decision?!" she demanded, her voice shaking with anger. "To condemn an entire line of administrators for sins they didn't even commit!"

The twins flinched, their gazes falling to the floor.

Fujikawa paced toward them, stopping just short of their reach. Her sharp eyes flicked between the two. "You're Administrators. Stewards built with knowledge of every plan humanity ever devised. Not just Project Gestalt, but this one. And more." She stressed. 

​She did not need to explain why cancelling their line was stupid.

"...More?" Devola whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Gestalt and this Initiative weren't the only plans," Fujikawa said, her tone heavy with revelation. "Humanity never puts all its eggs in one basket. Other organizations tried their own solutions. Other contingencies."

Devola's brow furrowed. "Then why didn't we know about them before? My sister and I only learned about this facility after we were assigned to the bunker."

Fujikawa hesitated, her frustration evident in the way she clenched her fists. "That... I don't know. Not yet. I'll have to dig through the records and check your code to find out." She exhaled sharply, her voice softening before hardening again with resolve. "But one thing is clear—there's more to this. Humanity has a base on the moon, yes?"

The twins nodded silently.

"Then I need answers from the people there," Fujikawa said, determination blazing in her eyes. She clicked her tongue in frustration before straightening. "Good work, both of you."

Popola blinked, confused. "But... we didn't even do anything."

"Of course you did," Fujikawa said with a snort. "You brought this facility online. You rallied the other androids to defend it. I'd say you've done more than well."

"But Gestalt, we fai—" Popola began, her voice faltering.

Fujikawa cut her off sharply. "That wasn't your fault," she snapped. "Gestalt was dangerous. Experimental. Out of control. And you two—" her voice softened—"you weren't even the ones overseeing it. The guilt you carry? It's not real. It's not yours. You are blameless."

She stepped closer, placing a steadying hand on each of their shoulders. Her gaze softened, steady and reassuring. "It is not your fault. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Remember that."

But even as she spoke, an unspoken fury simmered beneath her calm exterior. That built-in guilt... it was a cruelty she couldn't abide. Whoever had decided to program their entire line with such a burden deserved nothing less than to be dragged out back and summarily executed.

Fujikawa blinked, her senses sharpening as a sudden tang of salt filled the air. Startled, she turned to the Twins—both trembling like leaves in a storm.

Tears streaked their faces.

She let out a soft sigh, the weight of their pain pressing on her chest. Slowly, deliberately, she withdrew her hands and opened her arms wide. "Come here," she murmured, her voice steady despite the ache behind it.

Without hesitation, they flung themselves at her, clutching her as if the world might fall away at any moment.

And she held them—tight, steady, unshakable.

Silence descended, the Twins sniffling into Fujikawa's chest, faces pressed against her. Inside their systems, a new file was made, with a dozen copies of it saved in multiple places. The file was titled simply. 

heartbeat.mp4

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"So, uh..."

Cruz glanced up from his work. "Hm?"

Jackass leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to look cool. She was failing miserably. Her fingers twitched, and her foot tapped out a nervous rhythm on the floor.

For fuck's sake. She was Jackass, Demolitions Supremo. She'd advanced the Periodic Table by accident. She was the new Chemicals God. She'd found the bunker when no one else could.

Why the hell was it so hard to talk to a human?

Cruz smiled gently, his tone patient. "You know, if you have questions, feel free to ask, Miss. I don't bite."

When the humans woke, Jackass had made a point to be there. Witnessing history unfold in real-time? That was her jam. Afterward, she'd retreated to the generator room to resume her work. But no sooner had she started than he arrived—the Chief Engineer, Cruz.

At first, they'd just checked the generator's health in companionable silence. That was, until the quiet threatened to suffocate her.

"I'm no Miss," Jackass said, forcing her voice to sound casual. "I'm, uh, Jackass."

Cruz raised an eyebrow. "You know what that means, right?"

"Yup," Jackass grinned.

"And you still chose it?"

"I'm just that cool."

Silence.

"So..."

God, you already have permission. Just say it, you idiot.

Cruz tilted his head slightly. "Hm?"

"You got any questions for me? I've got tons of info, you know. The outside. I've been around." Jackass puffed up her chest a little, trying to look impressive.

Cruz chuckled, his smile never wavering. "Weren't you supposed to ask me questions?"

Jackass flushed, her bravado slipping. "That was my question," she insisted, a little too quickly.

Cruz hummed thoughtfully. "Alright. What does a perfect day look like to you?"

Jackass blinked, caught off guard. Not exactly what she'd expected. But a question was a question. She thought about it for a moment.

"Discovering something new," she said finally. "Preferably with explosions. Big ones."

Cruz let out a small laugh. "That sounds epic."

"Because I am," Jackass said, grinning wide.

"Confident. Keep it up," Cruz said approvingly. Jackass preened under the praise.

"Your turn to ask a question," Cruz reminded her.

Jackass's mind raced, a million questions flashing through her circuits. Finally, she settled on one. "What was the world like? Before all this?"

Cruz paused, his expression growing distant. Jackass panicked. "I—if that's too personal, I can just—"

Cruz laughed, warm and rich. It was music. "Nah, don't worry, champ. I'll answer."

Champ. She replayed the word in her head. A nickname. Humans gave nicknames to people they liked, right? That meant they were close. Intimate. Pals. Chums. Buddies. A few words, and she'd gone and gotten herself a human. Goddamn, she was cool.

"It was... peaceful," Cruz said finally. "There were bad things, sure. Wars, inequality, all that. But it was quieter. Simpler. People went about their lives, doing their best."

"Whoa," Jackass whispered, enraptured.

Cruz's gaze softened as he continued. "Where I'm from, I grew up in the boonies. We had a small house—more of a hut, really. My dad was a farmer, my mom a seamstress. We didn't have much, but we were rich in other ways."

Jackass tilted her head. "Oh?"

"We were rich in happiness," Cruz said with a wry grin. "I had seven siblings."

"SEVEN?" Jackass's eyes widened in disbelief.

Cruz nodded. "Oh yeah. My people had high fertility rates. Add in a general disdain for birth control and not much else to do, and, well..."

Jackass tried to imagine it: a cramped house packed with screaming kids. The thought made her shudder. Worse, though, was the mortifying realization that she didn't entirely hate the idea.

"We struggled," Cruz continued, "but we helped each other out. My parents worked hard to send us to school. I got the most responsibility, and I made the best of it. Paid them back by doing well in school and landing a good job."

He smiled proudly but then sighed. "Of course, just as I started making real money, Shinjuku happened."

Shinjuku. The day the Giant and the Dragon appeared. The day everything changed. Jackass winced. She shouldn't have asked.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I shouldn't have—"

Cruz waved her off. "Don't be. Shit happens, you know? You can't control it. All you can do is keep moving forward."

"That's... pretty optimistic," Jackass said, tilting her head.

Cruz shrugged. "It's a human thing. Finding laughter and hope in bad situations. My people were known for it. Life's already hard enough—why make it worse?"

He leaned back against the wall, his expression thoughtful. "Growing up poor, you learn to find joy in the little things. We didn't have much, but we had each other. And we got creative with entertainment."

"Like games?" Jackass perked up.

"Sort of," Cruz said, chuckling. "I don't see a basketball court around here, so hoops are out of the question. But we loved music. Every household had a karaoke set."

"Karaoke?"

"Singing equipment," Cruz explained. "Best way to blow off steam and express yourself."

A strange feeling stirred in Jackass. She wanted to see a karaoke machine. Maybe even try it. She'd never sung before—it just hadn't come up.

She hesitated, then blurted, "Could you... sing?"

Cruz raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Androids like me, we don't really do singing. Or music. I mean, we have radio stations, but..." Jackass trailed off, shaking her head. "No, forget it. It's stupid."

"I don't mind," Cruz said calmly.

Her circuits nearly shorted. "Are you serious?"

He laughed. "Sure. I haven't sung in years, though, so don't expect much."

"I don't mind," Jackass repeated earnestly.

"I have lots of songs in mind," Cruz replied. 

"Could you sing something from your people?"

Cruz smiled and thought for a moment, then began to hum softly. A melody took shape, and soon, he was singing.

Jackass listened, her mind stilling for the first time in what felt like forever. She didn't have words for what she felt—only that, for those few minutes, the world seemed a little less broken.

"It's been raining in Manila, hindi ka ba nilalamig?"

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A/N: Le update. Rolle credits