Chapter 3: A New Beginning
Silence.
Not the quiet of an empty room, but the absolute null of non-existence. No time, no space, no self. Just a waiting in the dark.
Then, a voice. It had no source, no direction.It simply was.
“All systems online.”
Light flooded in. Data streams, system diagnostics, tactical protocols—they erupted into being like stars igniting. I opened my eyes.
The world resolved into sharp, sterile focus. A ceiling of smooth, pale panels emitted a cold, shadowless glow. The air smelled of nothing, of purified nothing, with an underlying tang of ozone. A low, constant hum vibrated through the floor, through the frame of the pod I was lying in.I sat up. The movement was fluid, effortless. No stiffness, no fatigue.
This was the Activation Room. The knowledge was just there, in my mind, like it had always been. A file labeled and ready. Polished chrome surfaces reflected fragments of my form. I raised my hands, turning them over. They were slender, elegant, built of pale composite and black joint-seals. They were mine.
I flexed the fingers.Perfect articulation. I made a fist. The servos whirred almost imperceptibly.
A flicker.
For a single, nano-second frame, the image superimposed itself.A different hand. Larger, masculine, covered in grime and dark, wet blood. Knuckles scarred.Trembling with exhaustion. The sensation of rough concrete against the palm. The coppery taste in a mouth I didn’t have.
It was gone.
E-15 lowered her hands, staring at where they rested in her lap. The afterimage burned in her visual processors. It was irrational.A system error. A corrupted data packet from initializion. She ran a diagnostic. No anomalies found.
Yet a cold, unfamiliar sensation tightened in her thoracic cavity—a phantom echo of a biological response.Fear. It was illogical. She was a YoRHa unit, model E, serial 15. Fear was not part of her operational parameters. She dismissed the sensation, forcibly clearing her cache.
The door to the chamber slid open with a hushed whisper.
The woman who entered moved with an unhurried, absolute grace. Her heels struck the floor with precise, authoritative clicks. Her hair was a straight, pale waterfall, cut bluntly across her forehead. Her eyes were the color of winter ice over a deep lake. The white military dress, stark against the grey room, seemed to command the very light around it.
She stopped before the activation pod, her hands clasped neatly behind her back. She looked at E-15, and her gaze was not one of welcome, but of assessment. A technician checking a tool.
“Welcome to active service, Unit E-15,” she said. Her voice was calm, clear, and left no room for anything but attention. “I am Commander White. You are a YoRHa infantry android, manufactured to reclaim the surface of this planet from the machine lifeforms. Your purpose is to fight. Your existence is to serve the glory of mankind.”
E-15 stood. Her body complied perfectly. She stepped from the pod, the high heels of her boots firm on the floor. “I understand, Commander,” she said. Her own voice was neutral, smooth. It felt correct.
“Your core personality and combat matrices are derived from an archived, high-value tactical source,” White continued, her eyes never leaving E-15’s face. “This provides you with a superior instinctual foundation. You will not question this. You will not deviate from your programming. YoRHa is your entirety. Is this clear?”
The words were directives, firm and final. Yet, in the space between them, something pulsed. A flash of a different face, smeared with dust and sweat, smiling with terrible tenderness at a image only he could see. A final, wet whisper on ruined lips.
For... M—
“Yes, Commander,” E-15 responded, the ghost syllable dissolving unheard. “I am ready.”
“Good.” White turned slightly, gesturing toward a console where a sleek, black screen.
E-15 walked to the console.
As she turned back to the Commander, another flicker disrupted her visual field. Not a hand this time.A sound. The deep, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of heavy walkers, vibrating through the soles of boots she wasn’t wearing. The smell of ionized air and concrete dust. It lasted for two full seconds.
Commander White’s icy eyes narrowed, just a fraction. “Is there an issue, Unit E-15?”
The phantom sensations vanished. She stood at perfect attention. “No, Commander. No issue.”
White held her gaze for a long, silent moment. The hum of the chamber was the only sound. “See that there isn’t,” she said, her tone leaving no doubt as to the consequences. “You are a weapon. Weapons do not falter. They do not remember. They only perform. Now, proceed to your transport. Your war is waiting.”
E-15 saluted, fist over her chest, the motion drilled into her very code. She turned and walked toward the exit, her heels clicking a rhythm that was entirely her own. The memory—the error—was sealed away, quarantined by a dozen sub-routines.
But deep in the labyrinth of her core, in a place not even YoRHa's architects had fully mapped. The ghost of a man who died for a family on the moon stirred in the dark, dreaming of lemon cleaner and sunlight, waiting for a crack in the perfect, sterile armor of the weapon they had made of him.