Isis huddles in the darkness, unmoving in the floating dust.
She was trained to keep quiet, even during rest.
Making even the slightest sound is vulgar, beneath someone of proper breeding.
When the golden light filters through the narrow window crack and touches the pale wallpaper in the distance,
Madam Monzano will soon be coming for her again. She huddles in the darkness, unmoving in the floating dust.
She must be loyal. She must be a servant that Madam Monzano finds useful.
The moment her feet touch the ground,
whenever any part of her body is visible to others,
she has to keep a smile on and be ready to serve.
That is what makes a proper maid of the Monzano household.
Only in the brief minutes before dawn, in that hazy space between sleep and waking,
can she truly have control over her own body.
A polite tapping on the metal pipes breaks Isis' happiest time of day, her pre-dawn meditation.
Hey! The sun isn't even up yet!
Isis, you are hiding here again. The guests are on their way.
She swallows the complaints poised on her lips and jumps up in a panic.
You selfish girl, you finally show yourself. Hurry up and get ready.
Why is your apron dirty?
Hehe!
Do not laugh!
Isis, learn from Discord!
The head maid's brows snap upward. She looks ready to beat her with a stick.
None of them ever laughs out loud. Every servant is trained to suppress even the slightest chuckle.
If the master or the guests hear a servant laugh, they will think they are being mocked.
In this household, even small mistakes are punished quickly and without mercy.
Worse than the physical pain is the mental torture, a torment much harder to endure.
Isis curls her lip in contempt. Of course, between the two of them, Discord is the good one and she is the bad example.
Confirm the guest list. For now, go report to Madam Monzano.
The maids set out spotless tableware with precision, moving back and forth as they dust the furniture and polish the floors.
Madam Monzano sits alone at the dining table. The young lady is nowhere to be seen.
They rarely dine together. Both are constantly consumed by the family business.
In pursuit of a lofty ideal, Madam Monzano naturally expects everyone to pull together.
I want this dinner to be flawless. Not a single mistake. Every guest must be satisfied.
Yes, Madam.
Keep your behavior in check. Do not let me learn that anyone plans to embarrass me again.
Yes, Madam.
Ice cubes crack as they melt in the madam's pre-dinner whiskey. The maids bow in perfect unison.
The grand dinner is about to begin.
The mansion's great hall gleams under branching chandeliers. Rainbows of light play over the ornate gold-leaf furniture. This is not the popular virtual reality, but tangible luxury you can see and touch.
The mansion now bears the name Adrianna Monzano.
Every maid in this house is expected to give her all to honor that distinguished name.
Their black-and-white uniforms are crisp, the lace immaculate. Polished shoes click across the floor. They file in with silver trays of crystal flutes, each one filled with golden champagne.
As guests step onto the red carpet with loud, careless laughter, Discord greets them with a steady smile and a respectful nod, all part of the performance.
Welcome.
Everything runs like clockwork, a ballet set to precise choreography.
Only a well-trained, elegant microcosm like this can prove that Madam Monzano's promised bright future is not empty talk.
Madam Monzano's gold nails glitter, hinting that wealth can buy not only luxury but a future of beauty and obedience like this.
Discord's eyes meet Isis'. They both know they are bait in Madam's game, props in a lie sold to rich guests who refuse to see them as people.
The dinner reaches its height as taste stimulants take effect. Enthusiasm rises with the level of intoxication.
I'm sure you know that the world's most consequential decisions are not made in public chambers or at some conference that captivates the masses.
They're made just like this, discussed and weighed in quiet, secluded mansions.
That's why I invited you here, so you can witness ahead of time the great achievement we are about to unveil.
A holographic projection of a groundbreaking vessel appears above the long table, rotating slowly as details are magnified so every guest can see.
Eden III.
Even if disaster strikes outside, it cannot breach the thick walls of our well-forged, stable, comfortable life.
And what does the world beyond these walls have to do with our Eden in the sky? Your wealth remains here. Your life will not change.
All you need is a more comprehensive will, one that ensures you and your descendants can settle everything once and for all and enjoy your later years.
No one believes there will be new wars or upheaval. In a rational age of space exploration, extreme violence seems impossible.
This is Madam's most effective pitch to persuade guests to board the ark. Passengers need only exchange a portion of their wealth, and a measure of loyalty, for a ticket.
Suddenly, a staggering figure bursts into the banquet at its peak.
Why, if it isn't Baron Houseman! You're late. Look, I even kept your seat for you.
Monzano! You poisoned me! Do not drink! None of you drink that poison!
Heat drains from the room like hail on hot stone. Everyone turns to the hostess.
Monzano toys with a lock of hair at her temple, enjoying the attention.
It's only been a few days. How did you become so haggard? Is your heart condition keeping you from enjoying good wine?
With everyone watching, you really do have a knack for jokes.
Discord, take Baron Houseman to the VIP room to rest. When he looks better, he can rejoin us.
Yes, Madam.
The maid quietly helps the guest out. Monzano stays composed, walks to the vacant seat, and lifts the untouched flute. In the lights it shines like liquid gold.
Everyone here has status and ability. Poisoning is such a low trick... I fear our friend has a persecution complex.
Some huddle and whisper. Others murmur and wave their attendants away.
To our never-ending feast of pleasure, and to our... true Eden.
None of it matters anyway. Monzano smiles and drains the glass. Then she signals for a fresh champagne tower.
As the fountain spills from tier to tier, smiles return to every wrinkled face.
This is a nitroglycerin injection, sir. It should relieve your angina.
The guest lies back on a black velvet chaise. As the elegant maid approaches, his face twists in terror, as if Death herself stands before him.
Madam hopes you will think it over.
Cough cough... Think what over? Boarding a ship full of holes that could sink at any time?
He swings his gold-inlaid rosewood cane with all his might. It hits Discord's leg with a hollow metallic clang.
Or should I praise her for seizing the family fortune to stage a mass delusion, and applaud her for discarding the noble Sinclair name?
And you, what are you exactly?! A mechanical monstrosity kept by Monzano!
The effort of swinging the cane empties his last strength. His chest wheezes like a broken bellows.
When one is forced into a passive position, even deciding their own fate becomes hard.
I am only... a maid. An asset belonging to Madam Monzano.
Her face shows no pain. She's simply reciting rules she cannot disobey.
Colorless liquid beads at the needle tip. The baron's bulging eyes dart wildly. He thrashes like a fish bound to a cutting board.
What are Monzano and her kind?! Rootless shades who survive by cunning and paranoia!
Even though the baron refuses to accept being a victim, the course of events has already swept past his own thoughts and efforts.
He distrusts technology and rejects reason. Either way, since he doesn't plan to board...
Even if he sprinted across the deck now, it wouldn't matter; the ship has already departed.
No... Don't...
The injection goes into his vein. His features, scrunched like dried orange peel, have no choice but to loosen.
His high cheekbones stand in sharp contrast to his sunken eye sockets. Gray-white stubble has pushed through his skin. He hasn't had the strength or time to groom himself.
Everyone who steps into this mansion is already tied to the same single straw. Those who won't be tied will soon burn through their strength and, exhausted, sink and drown.
Now, you can sleep in peace.
The VIP room door eases shut. Discord tosses sterile gloves and ampules into the incinerator, then spots Isis leaning against the hall, idly fidgeting with the hem of her clothes as she waits.
Discord! Tonight's feast is over. The guests are leaving. We can finally rest.
Right.
Since the guest hasn't changed his mind, there's no need to report back and trouble Madam.
They head back to their assigned area together, and from the maids' break room comes the sound of broken, on-and-off sobbing.
Isis presses her ear to the door and listens for a moment.
She's been crying all night. Everyone's trying to comfort her.
Madam handed her over to Senator Richard during the dinner, but she doesn't want to go live with that decrepit old man who can barely move anything but his eyes.
Is staying here... really any better?
At least she'll never be punished again.
Discord snaps her head toward the loose-lipped Isis, grabs her hand, and strides past the break room to the hiding spot only the two of them know.
What's wrong, Discord? Why aren't you talking?
Isis shakes her wrist, sore from being twisted, and puts on a playful, complaining face.
There are "eyes" everywhere.
Yeah, but not here.
Isis giggles and nimbly sidesteps along the wine racks, then climbs up.
Discord sighs and follows her. There isn't room to stretch at the top, so they lie down hugging their knees, curled into small bundles.
...So that's how your apron got dirty.
It won't happen again! I already cleaned it spotless!
The maid looks surprisingly proud of herself.
We have to go back on time... If we break the rules, Madam has plenty of ways to brand them back onto our faces... and into our hearts.
Hmm. Tell me, are we just stuck like this?
Are we going to live out our days with "worthless" and "disgraceful" written all over them?
Discord is very good at silence.
Don't you have any dreams?
Dreams...
Even she's shaken by the power held inside that word.
It's not important...
It's very important!
Isis' lashes flutter. Her eyes sparkle even in the dim light.
Instead of giving everything to Monzano's dream, why not chase our own?
Me, I want to be a star singer!
At Monzano's banquets, she'd sometimes see those people—dressed in finery and jewels, refusing food to protect their voices, drinking only water.
Discord can't remember their ever-changing faces, blurred by rejuvenation treatments, and can only tell them apart by the style of their clothes.
Las Prados cannot exist without them, just as they cannot exist without Las Prados.
Whether it's just a whim or not, Isis looks like a satisfied little squirrel, and Discord can't bring herself to ruin it.
Hey—
The maid reads her thoughts at a glance and puffs out her cheeks.
No, not like those arrogant peacocks we've seen here.
I mean the kind who can start singing anywhere, anytime, and draw a crowd!
Music's wonderful. No moral preaching, no dividing the audience into high or low.
Some sway to the rhythm, some join in singing, and everyone feels joy, hope, just for the music itself.
"Hope." Discord imagines it—faces in the crowd lighting up with joy, caught up in the melody.
Alright, when you become a singer...
A star singer!
A star singer, then. I'll be right there, clapping and playing along.
No! You have to come sing with me!
Isis sways her head and hums a tune she just made up, pulling Discord's hands into hers.
Palm to palm—it's a warmth she remembers.
Looking at Isis' innocent face, Discord finds herself unable to say no.
...Alright.
Wooow—thank you, Discord! You really are my best friend!
The days only move forward. The eve-of-festival banquet is still in full swing.
Monzano's guests, draped in glittering silk and gold, drift from one end of the hall to the other, chatting in clusters.
...
Discord takes off her glasses to wipe them, and when she puts them back on, a familiar figure flashes past in a corner.
(...Eleanor?)
(Has she come back from Fort Winter?)
Discord! The head maid wants us to take these plates... hey, where are you going?!
Monzano had forbidden her to meet Eleanor in private or speak with her, telling her to behave like any other maid. But she can't resist—she follows under the excuse of returning dishes to the kitchen.
Just a glance, just to be sure she's alright.
She trails the shadow to the madam's study. The door is half open, almost inviting.
If Monzano finds her here, the punishment will be severe. But...
Discord takes a deep breath and pushes open the door she shouldn't.
The room is empty. Was she mistaken?
Wine-red velvet curtains are tied back with braided cords. The desk is a single slab of ebony, with a golden pen tip suspended eerily in its holder.
A hardbound notebook with gilt edges lies fully open on the desk, ink still wet on the page. The final flourish of a cursive letter has bled into a faint blur.
From across the room, she can already guess what's inside.
Registry Atiel van Wilmont Strazo, Otto Rotti, Walter Benjamin... and the most recent addition, Houseman.
Each is a trophy, with a story behind it. But none is as important as the first two.
Sinclair.
Discord's teeth chatter, and her vision blurs.
Reading is still difficult and slow for her, but this surname, the one that would be placed after Eleanor's...
Eleanor's got a new home.
...Isn't that great?
Potassium nitrate, when diluted enough, is completely harmless. But if injected repeatedly over the span of several days...
The body can metabolize it cleanly, leaving no trace. Until the burial, the cause of death will appear to be natural weakness, a quiet and silent passing.
On damp, foul-smelling turf among rows of decaying gravestones, the young girl sits in the punishment chair prepared for her, because that was the order.
Her stomach churns violently. She cannot stop the acid from surging up her throat and collapses to her knees.
Discord, come out! Discord! Someone's coming!
The maid rushes in, grabbing her stiff, kneeling companion.
The floor... it's dirty...
Forget it!
Isis yanks off her own apron, drops to her knees to wipe at the mess, then grabs the perfume bottle from the desk and sprays it heavily into the air.
The sound of footsteps is getting closer...
Huh?
The madam slows her pace, sniffing the air, her eyes scanning the study for anything unusual.
Hiss... Her long, armored nails scrape across the solid wood of the desk, over the leather chair, across the spotless cabinet.
Finally, her gaze falls on the rare Kadupul flowers at the window. The Queen of the Night blooms only after dark, then wilts completely by morning.
I have told you not to spray so much perfume on the flowers. The smell is disgusting.
She tears apart the miraculous blossoms and tosses them carelessly to the floor.
Then she gathers the notebook from the desk and moves to put it away in the cabinet.
Her hand has not yet touched the handle when a firm voice interrupts.
Aunt, there you are. I have completed the task you assigned me.
Did the target confess?
Yes. The interrogation was entertaining. Luckily, he spoke before I lost interest.
Very good, Eleanor. Come to the casino with me tonight.
Yes, Aunt.
The sound of heels fades into the distance. Inside the cabinet, the maid takes deep breaths, her terror still raw.
Her heart beats again, trembling as if it had just been freed from the hangman's rope.
Let's run away.
Through the haze, Isis' eyes are unwavering.
Staying here means giving up on any hope for a future.
...
You are insane. The madam will not be pleased.
She forces the words out through the burn in her throat.
She will not find out.
Impossible. How will you avoid all those cameras that watch everything?
And what happened today... she will know as soon as she checks the recordings.
We'll find a way.
Escape? And go where?
Freedom... sweet as the purest spring water, poisonous as the deadliest liquor.
She still has orders to follow. She must report back to Kurono and to Monzano. And "she" is still here, moving like a marionette with its strings pulled day after day.
Is this the unchanging fate of those who are nothing but tools? The world feels as if it has never changed.
The thought has circled her mind countless times.
Perhaps... perhaps fate will finally extend an olive branch, perhaps it will let them go.
Isis' face wavers in Discord's narrow field of view, and her heart flickers like a candle, swinging between fear and hope.
Promise me, no one can ever know about our plan.
Howling wind drives rolling storm clouds across the dark sky.
The storm lashes the ground with impartial fury. Inside the mansion, the rush of footsteps is busier than the rain.
The head maid shouts at the maids as they appear and disappear along their work routes.
Power outage? It's fine. The backup will switch on automatically in a moment.
Who opened all the windows? Quick, close every one of them!
Someone, help! A guest is drunk and making a scene! Who dosed the drinks with too much palate stimulant?
The banquet... the banquet must go on!
Break times, camera angles, guard posts, process flow—every detail and blind spot. She never knew Isis understood so much.
The only place without surveillance, the gateway to freedom, isn't the thorn-ringed estate entrance. It's Monzano's bedroom.
Whether people believe the facts depends on how we tell them.
The blond man swirls his wine, leaning on the railing at the mansion's highest terrace. He switches off the hologram on the glass and takes in the rare, chaotic downpour.
What's the largest terrarium in the world? You've already seen it.
Creatures trapped in a bottle live each day in that tiny world, breeding and thriving until their lives end.
Nothing is wasted. Everything feeds back into the cycle of life.
No one will notice that, on this stormy night, two maids have slipped away from the feast in a hurry.
And every creature in the ecological bottle shares the same source, Mother. So what?
Madam, you're not preaching some relic of old morality, are you? It seems the Sinclair name gives you more pain than glory.
One by one, the corridor cameras with their red lights go dark, drooping as if nodding off, then flicker back to life a few seconds later.
Since childhood my brother and I studied together. He was taught the way of emperors. I was trained to be the perfect adviser who'd never dishonor the Sinclair name.
People sing of greatness. Because greatness is sacrifice, greatness is being nameless in the shadows.
Calling the "virtuous wife and mother" a sacred duty is like praising a slave's obedience as virtue. Quick to feel others' pain but numb to your own desires.
I refuse to be like that.
Some guards are knocked out. Others are led astray.
Eager shadows race through the maze-like corridors, running toward their dreams.
Only ambition that matches your desire can lead to a future worthy of it.
Can't anyone see it? The nobility are nothing more than thieves made legitimate by the system. Why should the privileges earned by one generation be passed on intact to the next?
The ugliest, most despicable thing in this world is when someone inherits wealth and power without the ability or effort to deserve it. Usurpation is a thousand times more noble than inheritance.
Wait, where are the guards?
Hey, hey! The drones are malfunctioning!
The towering tiered cake for the evening banquet is demolished by a malfunctioning drone plummeting from above. White cream floods across the ballroom's center like a rushing river, throwing the entire gathering into chaos.
Perfect. Now that is how you start a party... no, a banquet. Look around, so many people gathered here, and yet there is only one real star—Madam Monzano and her pride and joy.
The blond man gives an exaggerated, theatrical bow.
I can certainly be a mother. Once Project Bokonon is complete, I will be the mother of a new world, a new era.
Until then, you will continue to address me as...
...Madam Monzano.
The hostess surveys the chaos in the ballroom with cold pride before she speaks again.
The education of an emperor is simple.
We have only one path before us, and that is success.
Little did they know that the door they were opening led not to freedom, but to the abyss.
Hey, you're in my way.
At the sound of that familiar voice, Isis sinks weakly to the floor.
How...
Monzano strides into her bedroom with a bottle of red wine and a diamond-encrusted crystal glass.
She sits on the leather sofa, setting the bottle on the low marble table in front of her.
One by one, she removes the glittering jewelry from her hands, neck, and hair, tossing each piece carelessly onto the floor. There is no need to keep up the show anymore.
The deep red wine pours into the glass like silk, the rising sound of the liquid filling the crystal echoing like a slow, final funeral bell.
I remember telling you to stay here and not go anywhere.
If all you wanted was to report to those old men, you did not need to sneak around here.
She raises her right hand, the golden revolver glinting as she idly spins the cylinder with her fingertip. Into the communicator on her hat brim, she gives a command.
Alright, the party's over. See our guests out.
A single clap breaks the silence.
A final gift for our visitors.
Bang.
The endless banquet is finally ending. The maids will soon be freed from their duties. This vessel, carrying monstrous distortions and tangled desires, is about to begin its first and final voyage.
Bang. Bang.
Fireworks explode in the clear night sky after the passing of the storm.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Thud—a heavy weight hits the floor. A wine bottle shatters on the veined marble table, sending shards and liquid in every direction.
Blood-dark wine spreads from beneath the maid's head, twisting into strange patterns on the handwoven natural fiber carpet.
What a mess. Take it away and dispose of it.
The madam raises her glass and drains the crimson liquid in one gulp before tossing it aside.
To myself.
Discord stares in exhaustion at the corpse of herself, forced into silence.
The world is so bright, so terrifying.
So I'm not the protagonist after all.
So the world has no interest in me.
So I am someone who can be discarded, ignored, left unchosen. Someone without value.
Someone who shouldn't exist, pushed out to be sacrificed, told to step aside for someone else's gain... just a supporting role.
<color=#ff4e4eff>Discord!!!! And you!!!!</color>
You're the lucky one, aren't you?
You were supposed to be expendable, to die with your spine broken.
<color=#ff4e4eff>You gave in. You ran away. Why?!!!</color>
If the ending you get is just a little better than the one they planned for you, you're fine with it. You lie there pretending to be dead, cold as steel.
There's nothing good about living like that.
You can't even make a sound.
The maid's face is frozen in its final contortion. Discord's eyes are wide with shock, fear tightening her chest. And in the next heartbeat, she's no longer watching—she's in it, forced to feel it for herself.
Why won't you stop? Why act like you don't see?
Is that something Aunt told you to do?
She drops her head and hurries away without answering.
Wooow—thank you, Discord! You really are my best friend!
In the pitch-black wine cellar, Isis takes Discord's hand, humming softly.
Promise me, no one can ever know about our plan.
Who were you just talking to?
What game are you playing?
And why are you making a face I've never seen before?
Discord tries to step back, but Lilith seizes her hand, curling her fingers around it like a snake tightening around prey.
That won't do.
I won't allow it.
Like a moth trapped in a spider's web, her fragile wings beat against sticky threads. Each movement only makes the strands pull tighter, heavier.
Her faint heartbeat is sewn shut with invisible silk. The vision of freedom shimmers in front of her, but every time she reaches for it, it's dragged back into the suffocating dark.
The ending is already decided.
So you want freedom? Fine. I'll let you go. I won't interfere in anything you do. You'll go back to Kurono, give them your report. They're testing new tech, and they'll give you new legs.
Only one condition: you'll be my eyes and ears.
I don't punish tools. Tools only cause trouble in the hands of bad craftsmen.
The maid's eyes are empty, unmoved by words like "tools" or "bad craftsmen."
Before you answer, ask yourself this: are you even worthy of it?
Sharper instincts, stronger body and combat skills, faster data processing... and the expensive upkeep that comes with all of it. You'd better prove you're worth the trouble and not just dead weight.
If you won't do it for yourself... then do it for Eleanor.
The madam swallows the phrase she's always spouting about "mutual progress" and studies the maid's face instead.
No reason to say no, is there?
For a second, Discord's expression flickers, then smooths away.
Under Monzano's sharp, hawk-like stare, she lowers her head, closes her eyes, and dips into a curtsy.
As you wish, Madam Monzano.
Monzano smiles with satisfaction.
Before the final banquet, Discord is told to deliver the completed gown to the young lady.
Golden vines embroidered by hand, lace light enough to seem like it could take flight—no longer confined to the frame, stretching beyond the cage of tradition.
Every stitch comes from long hours hunched in a chair, without rest—sewing in her whispers, her despair, her sighs, and her fragile dream of leaving it all behind.
Creativity might be humanity's greatest treasure, but Icarus kept flying higher and higher with his wax wings, thinking he could reach the sun.
In the end, his body drifted among the feathers that once carried him.
No one cared when he fell. History just repeats itself.
It's obvious what my aunt wants. Even a blind man could hear it in her voice.
She takes a sip of tea and offers the kind of perfect, polite smile that hides her teeth.
Remember what we talked about in Polard?
Across the table, the chair is empty. Behind the door, the blue-haired maid clutches her chest, knowing no one will ever sing for her again.
She is about to fasten wax wings to her back and fly toward an ocean waiting to drown her.
Kurono Ground Research Base
Kurono Ground Research Base
Excellent neural reflexes, good adaptability to the Tantalum-193 copolymer, but...
The M.I.N.D. stability is too low. The modification could fail at any moment.
...Failure is not an option. We don't have many experimental samples left from the ground organization.
B-but...
This data and these protocols haven't been validated...
The researcher is drenched in sweat, tugging at the white lab coat that has darkened and clings to her skin.
We are validating them right now, aren't we?
If we can't produce results, how do you expect me to report to Kurono-San?
Increase the pain output. Force the M.I.N.D. and the subject's consciousness to sync. Everything else... can be cut away.
Apart from the director who gave the order, none of the other researchers can keep a detached expression anymore.
After going through all of this, can anyone truly keep their original soul? Will they still be the same person they once were?
Every machine keeps working without mercy, denying her even the quiet release of death.
Finally...
<size=45>>></size>
<size=45>>>>>Operation complete. Subject ID...</size>
<size=45>>>>>>>>></size>
<size=45>>>>>></size>
<size=40>>>No record found.</size>
<size=40>>>No record found.</size>
<size=40>>>No record found.</size>
She shuts off the terminal in the preparation room and drifts back to her lounge like a blue ghost. The door slides open as the security system reads her Construct ID.
The room is plain and bare. It makes no difference where she sleeps. She looks at her reflection in the mirror—it feels less and less like her own face.
Why... this wasn't part of the plan they described to her.
Mission, order. Mission, order. Stacked higher and higher. She is starting not to recognize the words she once knew better than any others.
What is she supposed to do now? Where did Eleanor go? Why has she not contacted her? Did I... get left behind again?
Alone, Discord stares up at the changing virtual sky above Babylonia, stubbornly searching for an answer through questions that threaten to drown her.
