"Assistant, you can’t handle anti-air?!"
The drones were reconnaissance models with no offensive capabilities, so ramming was their only weapon.
However, why are reckless tackles or suicide attacks in some games so powerful and terrifying? The brute force of charging at full speed without regard for one’s safety is in itself a formidable weapon and act of violence.
The drones hurled themselves forward, demonstrating the principle that force equals velocity times mass.
I rolled across the ground to dodge a drone that passed dangerously close. Before I could even rise, another drone dove down onto the spot where I had just stopped, ending its run.
"How many are left?!"
"Three… no, four. Look up."
Among the drones circling us like wild dogs, one hovered motionless overhead. I instinctively raised my firearm and pulled the trigger, and one drone sped forward to take the shot.
"You saw that?"
"Exactly. That must be an antenna or some kind of external receiver. The reasons it can’t move are too numerous to list."
While the Senior Operator's ears flicked as she chatted amicably with her assistant, I panted and ran, dodging the drones. My gun had long since expended its ammunition and still wasn’t reloaded; all I had left were my sturdy legs and burning lungs.
The Senior Operator—or rather her assistant—had an uncanny knack for intercepting me whenever I tried to stick close, so I never got a moment’s rest. I finally managed to chamber a round and squeeze the trigger. The shot struck one drone, jarring it to a halt, and the remaining drone collided with it. Though the collision dragged on, the outcome was simple: mutual destruction.
I collapsed flat on the dirt and gasped for air. I’d had enough of that for a lifetime.
The drone that had sat motionless on higher ground only stirred when we had debated three different ways to knock it down—and ultimately decided I’d take the shot.
"It’s come down, then."
I raised my weapon and leveled it. The drone slowly lowered its body and descended toward us like an adult meeting a child’s gaze. At that sight, I lowered my gun, and the assistant enclosed the drone within her massive frame.
"Is it… panicking?"
"Well, it’s different from how it moved when trying to flee the crate."
The drone fidgeted in the assistant’s hold like a restless child, shifting erratically before settling directly in front of the Senior Operator. She faced the drone, then released the assistant and unrolled a map. The drone deftly traced a line with one of its legs, and she followed with her pen.
I was momentarily at a loss for words, then spoke.
"This is a route. It starts here and leads to the mid-slope of the mountain beside us. What reason could there be to mark such a path? We have no idea what that drone might do next."
"Right. Exactly. Which means you’ll have to go check it out."
The Senior Operator looked down at me silently, plucked the hovering drone from the air, handed it to me, and said,
"So, off you go."
The path into the mountains was long and arduous.
The slope was as slick as muck, and the wildlife weren’t foolish enough to ignore a lone traveler. The night concealed even the ground beneath my feet. Yet I managed to ascend in a straight line because of the drone.
The drone that the Senior Operator had released volunteered to guide me, flying ahead, and so I reached this point.
"Honestly, no matter how much I think about it, I still don’t get it."
I’m used to being sent out, to having that drone released, and to just following along—but I still don’t understand.
I’m accustomed to following incomprehensible orders. The quality and quantity of information are on a completely different level. To an ant, a human is invisible—a mere moving thing, neither creature nor terror.
Ants don’t think. They move only by instinct and pheromones.
I’m no different. It’s the Doctor’s and the Senior Operator’s judgment, and above all…
That, I suppose.
That’s how it is.
So that’s how it came to be.
You don’t need to know.
Having been stung by that tone more than once, I didn’t even feel like asking. I scrambled up the slope, shaking the webs from my thick wings, tossing them aside, and kept turning my head, scanning the surroundings.
Tree canopies, animal burrows, the dusk. There was no notable landmark.
The drone quietly descended beside me and settled on the ground. This was the end.
Indeed, this was the end of both my destination and the route.
I retraced my steps and surveyed the area.
There was nothing.
"Honestly. What on earth could be here?"
Maybe my presence here is necessary. So I’ll wait.
I’ll wait for that something.
**
Approximately 120 hours earlier.
Research Annex Office.
The Doctor busily observed the researchers as they interacted with the drones through experiments and dialogue. More precisely, he studied the researchers who were having those conversations—until one of the assistants organizing data beside him spoke up.
"Hmm. Currently, we’ve identified six researchers as contaminated, and as you can see, there are a considerable number of electronic devices, particularly communications equipment. The anomalies manifest when they attempt to communicate with it, or try to relay its messages to us."
The assistant cued up recorded footage of a man sitting motionless in an empty room. There was no desk—only a single overhead light that served to reveal his presence.
"Ah… uugh… mrrph."
The man began to speak, then abruptly fell silent, tilting his head repeatedly. The clip had clearly been edited, for the long silences didn’t linger. When the video ended, the Doctor regarded the assistant in silence, prompting him to continue.
"Yes. To continue: we determined that it has been influencing our perceptions and thoughts, demanding dialogue. Therefore, we deployed agents equipped with mental barriers and cognitive distortion protocols, and the results are as you see now."
"They’re broken. Not quite insane, but incapable of coherent conversation."
The assistant drew a steady breath and spoke with a resolute expression.
"We plan to attempt dialogue using [Ama-11], which contains fragments of a different entity."
The assistant’s face trembled, visible even beneath the visor, and he confessed that he didn’t truly believe this method would work—but no alternative had presented itself.
The Doctor, glancing beyond the double-pane, surveyed the contaminated equipment and personnel before him.
"Researcher, how much do you know about the [Behemoths]?"
The assistant ran through dozens of thoughts in response: thoughts about the Doctor’s question, and thoughts about the intent behind the question, and finally a sense of disappointment.
The Doctor waited patiently, realizing that his question had taken on a tone of mild reproach, and rephrased himself.
"They’re extremely aggressive by nature. There are exceptions, but they’re few, and sometimes they show curiosity or other emotions toward us. But have you ever observed them communicating with each other?"
"I’ve seen it a few times in the data. Mostly, it resembled territorial animals: they fight, part ways, and then engage with different individuals."
The Doctor fell silent, implying that the assistant already knew what came next.
The assistant stood his ground, acknowledging the Doctor’s implication, but insisted there was no other way.
"Then what’s the outcome if you hold a dialogue with it? Is the plan simply to exploit its goodwill, carve it up, graft on machinery, and turn it into a warship?"
This time, the assistant’s voice brimmed with confidence as he outlined the plan, claiming they already had a collaborator and that cooperation had been secured.
"It’s the Director, then."
"Yes. He’s the collaborator on this project. And he said that if you came, he was certain it would succeed."
The Doctor fell into thought for a moment, then silently nodded.
**
Approximately 84 hours earlier.
Factory Operations Control Room.
"Understood? [Ama-10]. To converse with it, [Ama-11] must be moved alone. We’ve stored the mission data in the contaminated drones here, and the Director has negotiated collateral with it, but there’s no guarantee. I expect this mission to finish cleanly."
The assistant almost laughed at the Doctor’s feared reputation and rumored prowess.
It felt like some absurd panacea.
The moment the Doctor cooperated, everything suddenly got easier and resolved quickly.
The assistant danced for joy!
*
Approximately 51 hours earlier.
External Camp.
"That crate must be the object. The monsters are on guard."
She fluttered her wings at the feathered figure inspecting its equipment, then manipulated her terminal and read the drone’s data thoroughly.
She said nothing, holding her breath for a moment, lest a heavy sigh escape.
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