Glory to Mankind (Nier Automata) ch 5

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High above the clouds, inside the heavens, it perched above, a titanic watch over a broken planet. Suspended in the silent void, the colossal structure hovered above the Earth, its metallic surface gleaming under the distant light of the sun. A halo of solar panels, meticulously arranged along its curved exterior, absorbed the cosmic energy necessary to power life aboard. It lacked frills, decorations, it was all sterile and clinical, a bastion meant for a single purpose, to be the home of YoRHa. 

Inside, it had corridors that stretched endlessly, its sterile white walls curving ever so slightly, vanishing into the distant shadows. Soft overhead lighting pulsed faintly, the hum of the ship's life support system the only sound in the empty passageway. Multiple black doors stood, some to wide hangers were craft of advanced design waited, ready to be deployed at a moments notice. Fabrication rooms crammed with machines that could produce weapons at demand. At its heart, deep inside of it, protected by its frame and armor plating was the Command Center. 

The command center hummed with quiet efficiency, bathed in the cold glow of data streams and shifting telemetry. A massive screen dominated the far wall, its gridded surface displaying the ever-changing map of the world below. Live feeds flickered across the panels—surveillance footage, encrypted transmissions, and scrolling logs of classified operations. Both at the top and bottom of the screen were words etched like a silent mantra: "For the Glory of Mankind."

At the center of the room, elevated above the others, stood a lone figure draped in elegant white. The fabric clung to her curves, molded to the full swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the arch of her hips. Gold embroidery laced along her bodice, swirling like liquid fire across the pale expanse of her skin, tracing the valleys of temptation only to disappear beneath the scandalous cut of her attire. Her hair, bound in an intricate braid, cascaded like golden silk down her back, save for the rebellious strands that framed her face—pale cheek bones and cherry red lips curled in imposing cold command. 

Below her, rows of android operatives stood, their eyes locked on the data streaming across their monitors. The Operators themselves were no slouches either. Each one of whom visions of beauty like their Commander. Their outfits a sheer, form-fitting bodysuit of black, adorned with gold accents and lace detailing. A high collar merged into a mask that veiled the lower half of their faces, leaving only their eyes visible. The corset-like torso sculpted their waists, while translucent panels played between concealment and allure. Garter straps connected to thigh-high stockings that seamlessly blended into sleek, heeled boots. 

​Commander White strode forward, heels clacking against cold sterile metal. Preparations were underway for another descent mission. A machine factory proved too much trouble and needed to be destroyed. Collaboration with the local Resistance cell was undergoing but its Colonel had went radio silent for some reason. It was likely either a communications error or Anemone was busy doing something else. White did not pay it anymind however. Her time with Anemone was over. 

​She glanced down. "Operator 60. What is the status with the descent team?" she asked. 

The Operator in question was dressed in her midnight black uniform, though her hair was braided in two neat twists. Her personality was a stark contrast—soft, playful. There were murmurs around the Bunker that 60 was unprofessional and overly enthusiastic, but White had never seen it that way. Despite her flowery demeanor, 60 was remarkably competent at her work.

"Uhm," 60 leaned in, her voice trembling slightly. "The Descent Team's still finishing with refueling, Commander. Captain 1D's 229 was the last to be filled."

"Unacceptable." Commander White clicked her tongue, irritation flashing in her cold blue eyes. "That should have been done hours ago."

"T-there were minor tweaks, u-undertaken," 60 squeaked, her gaze avoiding White's sharp stare, her fingers wringing nervously at her uniform.

White grunted, her frustration simmering beneath her usual icy composure. "Never mind. Inform me when they can go."

Before 60 could respond, another voice cut through the tension. "Commander. We are detecting a transmission from the surface."

White turned swiftly, her dress flowing behind her like a ripple in the air. 210, a strict, taciturn operator, was the complete opposite of 60—no-nonsense, composed, and as sharp as steel. Her eyes fixed on the screen with precision.

"It's from... the Resistance, Commander," 210 said after a brief pause, her voice betraying no emotion. "Colonel Anemone."

White's eyebrow arched. After a few days of silence, Anemone had chosen to surface. "Patch her through," White ordered, her voice terse.

The screen flickered to life, revealing Anemone. The image was a little distorted, but there was no mistaking her face. "White," she began, her voice strained. She coughed—a strangely human gesture for an android with no lungs. But that was their nature, crafted so closely to human likeness. "I need to discuss something with you. It's... extremely important. Do you have a secure line? I cannot risk others hearing this."

White's eyes narrowed as the operators around her exchanged curious glances. The urgency in Anemone's voice stirred something cold and sharp inside her. If it was that serious…

"I do," White responded, nodding. Her voice was steady, but there was a flicker of doubt hiding beneath her cool exterior. She turned to an operator with tightly wound curls. "Direct the call to my quarters. Highest security."

"Y-yes, ma'am!" 60 stammered, quickly tapping at the console, hands shaking.

Without another word, White left the Command Room. Her boots echoed against the sterile white floors of the Bunker, the walls of the military installation reflecting a cold, unfeeling efficiency—no art, no comfort, only metal, terminals, and the constant hum of machinery.

As she walked, her thoughts churned. What could Anemone possibly want now? It couldn't be personal—whatever needed to be said had already been said. Yet, a gnawing feeling of unease took root inside her. Speculation wouldn't help her now. She would find out soon enough.

Arriving at her private quarters, White entered and sealed the door behind her, shutting out the rest of the world. The room before her was a stark contrast to her usual controlled environment—chaotic, disordered. Discarded dresses piled in heaps, boots gathering dust in the corner, the bed untouched beneath tangled sheets. She told herself it didn't matter; no one was supposed to see this space.

She marched over to the terminal, fingers steady as she activated the private line.

Anemone's image flickered onto the screen.

"It's me again," White said, her tone clipped, straight to the point. "What is it?"

Anemone wasted no time. "I'm cashing in a favor. I need uranium. As much uranium as you can supply on short notice."

White's face morphed from surprise to confusion. Her brow furrowed, and she repeated the request with a deadpan expression. "You want uranium."

"To be delivered as soon as you can," Anemone's voice was urgent, her eyes focused. "I'll send you the coordinates." Numbers flashed across the screen, confirming her request.

White glanced at the coordinates, recognizing the location immediately. "The Desert Region," she murmured, thinking aloud. "Might I ask why you need radioactive material?"

She had access to many resources: advanced android operatives, a space station that doubled as a laser weapon, and multiple weapons systems, including nuclear missiles. Uranium could be transported easily, or she could have it manufactured. But why was Anemone asking for it now?

White noticed a brief flicker of hesitation in Anemone's eyes—almost imperceptible, but enough for White to catch.

"It's..." Anemone hesitated, clearly grappling with how to continue. "Please, make sure your security is triple-checked. Make sure absolutely no one is listening in."

White's jaw tightened, a flash of offense crossing her face. Did Anemone doubt the security of her Bunker? "It is secure," White replied sharply, but the unease in her chest grew heavier.

Anemone's lips moved again, almost too quietly for White to hear.

White blinked. She was sure she misheard.

"What did you say?"

Anemone's voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the air with a chilling clarity. "There are humans on the planet."

The words hit White like a thunderclap. Impossible. Improbable. Her mind rejected the claim, scrambling for any logical explanation. For a moment, she stood frozen, trying to wrap her mind around what she had just heard. No. It couldn't be. She was malfunctioning—hearing things. Her audio receptors must have been misinterpreting the signal.

"There are no humans on the planet," White insisted, her voice tight, a knot of panic starting to form in her gut. "They are all on the Moon."

Anemone's gaze was unwavering, and her voice didn't waver. "Perhaps if you saw it for yourself, you would believe me."

White's heart raced as she considered the possibility. The idea of humans still being alive on Earth was ludicrous, a myth long debunked. Humanity had died—wiped out by the failure of Project Gestalt. The so-called "Council of Humanity" were nothing more than fabricated voices. The Moon base was nothing but a storage vault for DNA samples.

But… Anemone was not one to lie.

White's mind spun. A part of her—something buried deep inside—stirred with hope. If… if Anemone was telling the truth…

Humanity wasn't dead. Their gods—her creators—had returned.

White swallowed hard, trying to regain control. She didn't want to feel this. She couldn't. Emotions were forbidden. She may not be an android of YoRHa design but she was its Commander. She had to abide by its rules. But no matter how hard she tried to stifle it, the thought of humanity surviving made her heart ache with something she hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

"Expect me," White said, her voice steady but carrying a weight she hadn't intended.

"Bring the uranium, please," Anemone added, before the transmission cut off, leaving White staring at the empty screen.

Humanity was still down there. They were alive.

She stood in silence for a long moment, her mind racing, torn between disbelief and the faintest flicker of hope.

Turning to the terminal, White schooled her features, her persona coming to life. She pressed on it and found 60's face appearing.

"C-Commander!" 60 greeted, bright-eyed, her voice quivering with curiosity. "How was the call? Was it—"

"Direct Unit 2B to my quarters," White interrupted, her voice firm, her thoughts already elsewhere. "Instruct Engineering to prepare four boxes of uranium."

60 blinked in surprise. "But what about the mission?"

"It goes as planned," White replied, her gaze hardening. "I am commandeering 2B for a new one."

Grim understanding flashed across 60's face. "Understood, Commander. Redeploying 2B."

There was only one reason for White to summon 2B at seemingly random times—to perform tasks requiring immense willpower and sacrifice. But today, that was not the case. White sat, her gaze fixed expectantly on the door. Moments later, it opened.

All YoRHa androids were designed with beauty in mind, and YoRHa No. 2 Type B was no exception. Her gothic dress, obsidian black, clung to her like a second skin. The bodice tightened around her waist, shaping it into a cruel, perfect curve. Thigh-high boots gleamed in the light, the leather smooth and dark. One stocking-clad leg peeked through the slit of her skirt, porcelain white thighs glowing under the harsh glow of the room. Her short, silver hair framed her heart-shaped face, a blindfold concealing her eyes, a beauty mark near her red lips. She paused, saluting with a gloved hand over her chest.

"Commander," 2B's voice broke through the quiet hum of the Bunker.

White stood, her expression unwavering. "2B, I have a special mission for you."

No change in 2B's expression. "Execution?"

White shook her head. "No. Colonel Anemone claims there are humans on the surface. I need you to investigate."

White watched 2B closely, noting the absence of any visible reaction. "Understood," came the android's measured reply.

"You'll also be delivering uranium to the Colonel. She requires it." White continued. "Any questions?"

2B's gaze remained steady. "I'm not built for scouting or reconnaissance, Commander. Wouldn't it be better to send a Scanner model?"

White considered it for a moment. "Perhaps. But this is a matter of verification with consequences that reach higher up the chain. I need someone with tact to make informed decisions. Scanners would be useful, but their curiosity could be a hindrance. Furthermore, you are also delivering sensitive material. Scanners cannot be relied to be defend it. Do you understand?"

Another nod. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Go. Report back as soon as possible."

​With that, 2B offered one more saluted before turning on her heels. If this was a hoax, there was no harm down and 2B could safely deliver dangerous material. If not...

White bit her lip. Then blinked as she felt liquid. Blinking, she glanced down at the hems of her dress.

It was wet.

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A/N: She came.