Among the Constructs, some lost their families and took this path because they had no choice. Some see themselves as weapons, as expendables. Others try to build new bonds so they can keep going on the ravaged battlefield.
Discord works like an efficient Purifying Force machine—hardworking, highly skilled, never complaining, never showing weakness or hesitation when ordered to kill her own kind. She never reaches out to people, never forms connections with others.
Even when others make small talk with her, she can't find anything to share.
It's easy to understand. The Kurono side doesn't want any more ties to anything related to Polard. That includes you.
They just shook off those accusations in front of the World Government. No way would they risk giving anyone new leverage against them.
In short, you have a new employer from now on. I look forward to working with you, colleague.
That's fine, Discord thinks.
Core work, secrets, big missions usually don't involve tools and supporting players.
Even so, minor, sidelined roles still get hit by little bouts of trouble.
Here for supplies?
Name and ID.
...
Department?
The Purifying Force.
Hah... so you're the new recruit in the Purifying Force.
Hey, you again...
Get off me! Stop holding me back! They're the ones who executed XXX!
If only, if only they'd held on a little longer, until backup arrived...
XXX was already badly infected, beyond saving. You just couldn't accept that...
Discord can't make out what the name XXX really is.
He was so good to everyone around him... what could he have possibly done wrong?! The Purifying Force is nothing but a bunch of executioners—cold, mindless tools!
Sorry... XXX was his childhood friend. He's just... too heartbroken...
The same syllables repeat again. This time, Discord still doesn't catch them clearly. She tells herself it's because she doesn't think they're important.
Whether the accusations are right or even meant for her, Discord feels no urge to argue. She won't even remember the accuser's face.
Enraged by Discord's indifference, the Construct suddenly breaks free of their companion's grip, lunges forward, grabs her collar, and knocks off her mask.
Say something! You tool!
You kill other people's lovers, family, and friends without hesitation. Don't you have any of your own? Do you even understand the pain of losing someone you love?
Tell me, what is there left in this world that you care about?!
Is there really nothing left in this world that you care about?
A flicker crosses her eyes, then fades back to nothing.
I don't have... anything like that.
Rosewater always pushes children into the abyss like this. He rescues them, chooses them, but in the end, they often face fates worse than starving or dying on the streets.
Most lab mice are put down after the experiment ends. To spare them extra pain, the executioner picks the best way to carry it out.
These animals are gentle and submissive, capable only of letting out useless cries in their final moments of struggle.
The orphanage kids can never live like normal children again. You personally cut away their future!
You're a hypocrite. You used their innocence and ignorance to turn them into future killers.
He thought he was ready to bear that sin.
Going back to his old trade feels like a weight off. Maybe, just like Palangoski mocked, he is never meant for that line of work.
For Rosewater, Discord is an exception. She reminds him of his guilt and offers him a chance to atone.
It's only a moment of kindness. Through his gloves, he strokes the little lab mouse he handpicked. She shrinks and goes still in his palm, as if sensing a brief shelter.
Her meek obedience is a polished blade. It reflects a victim's face and an abuser's too.
They rarely talk, but they're used to each other's company. Even sitting in silence at opposite ends of the dinner table has become their quiet ritual.
Life at the intelligence post is plain, far plainer than before.
Their job is to blend the tailor shop into Las Prados like fish blending into water.
Maybe relax a bit... try smiling more.
Is that an order?
After so much training, Discord can't understand what everyday life means at first.
She lives by the book. When it should be class time, she practices tailoring.
Compared with Polard's instructors, Rosewater is patient, and he really knows tailoring.
He's good at reading a customer's build, guessing their job, and judging their tastes.
Teachers tend to crane their necks forward. Athletes have stronger chests and limbs. If someone's body is streamlined... look closely and decide if they're friend or foe.
A good suit shows everything and hides everything.
Isn't there anything you want? Do you like sewing because of your life before you drifted?
He keeps his tone light as he digs through his long-hidden stash.
For generations we've made only the best suits, and only for people who truly fit the criteria.
This world revolves around the few who truly have the power to change it. For anyone with ambition, the goal is always to get as close to that center as possible.
Silence.
Maybe you'd like your own sewing machine, finer fabrics, premium embroidery thread?
Discord shakes her head.
I'll teach you everything I know. I can also teach you how to create freely...
He gives her time to think.
She's thought about it many times. She's still confused about what she's lost and what she's gained now. She stares for a long time at a father and daughter passing outside the shop.
The girl, five or six, looks tired and rubs her eyes. Her tall, gentle father lifts her. They laugh and hug for a moment, then he carries her on his back.
Rosewater's voice cuts off.
He remembers the unspoken rule: with orphanage kids, you can bring them new food, new clothes, new toys, new books...
But you must not give them a hug.
He forces a reassuring, apologetic look.
(This isn't allowed.)
(Of all things... this is forbidden.)
After going through trauma and abandonment, even a simple hug can trigger emotional dependence in children at the orphanage. As its long-time "director," he knows exactly what's best for them and how clear and strict the rules must be.
Discord knows he's trying to keep his distance, so she gets up without fuss and walks away, as if she'd only said a simple goodnight.
Mr. Director, it's time for me to sleep.
A wave of helplessness hits him. After he hears her gently close the door, he slumps into his chair.
He once thought he could make up for the past and build her a home again. But reality stands between them like a sharp, blood-soaked pair of scissors, cutting them apart in a way that can't be ignored.
All his effort so far, the results built on sacrifice and imbalance, the stains he can't wash away, have all woven into a road with no way back.
The intelligence outpost is only a clumsy, laughable fix.
(What else... can I do?)
(For Discord... and for myself?)
The weather turns cold. In past years, the old district would fill up with gamblers who lost everything at the casinos and had to sleep on the streets. Under martial law, even they're gone now.
She doesn't know what the director has been rushing around doing these past days, nor does she care. Quietly, she switches on the hallway floor lamp, keeping up the pretense of normal life as ordered.
It has been a week since they last shared dinner. She glances at the empty seat at the table, then looks away.
Wind chimes ring. He pushes the door back open with snow still on his coat. He unwraps a package: a roll of fine silk ribbon.
Discord, come here. I got you a gift.
A gift. The girl looks bewildered.
It's your birthday today, isn't it?
Birthday—another word that was once familiar but now feels foreign to her. She doesn't know whether to nod.
I remember it from your file.
He leads her behind the workbench, lifts the hat from the center mannequin, and stitches on the final touch himself.
The ribbon falls like a stream of stars. He's sure his skill hasn't slipped. That soft shine will draw admiring looks anywhere.
Same as the suit in the window. Only the finest materials.
Proud, he sets the finished mannequin beside the shop's crown jewel in the display window so they can admire them together.
It's so pretty...
The girl gasps in admiration at the exquisite dress before her.
It looks as if it stepped out of an oil painting, noble and refined.
The fabric is silky smooth with a subtle shimmer. Fine lace trims the neckline and cuffs, while the bodice is shaped by delicate, three-dimensional pleats. The skirt billows outward in soft, cascading layers, like blue roses just beginning to bloom at daybreak—each layer edged with silver-embroidered trim.
In the display window, a suit stands beside it—majestic, commanding, the very image of royal perfection. Even the wealthiest clients she once saw at the workshop never wore anything of such genuine quality.
The girl knows the shopkeeper almost never brings customers to this part of the store.
Don't you want to try it on?
He stands shoulder to shoulder with Discord. The reflection in the glass almost makes it look like they're already wearing the finery.
To his surprise, the girl steps back twice and shakes her head, shattering the illusion.
The mannequin, draped in the gown and topped with a formal hat, looks so much like the friend she once depended on most. But that friend is no longer here, no longer speaking to her in that soft, patient voice.
She has to face that reality.
Clothes make the person.
As a tailor, I always believe that good, well-fitted clothing can bring better days.
He convinces himself that the girl deserves better—that she should have just as much as anyone else.
Maybe this dress can take the place of his embrace.
There have never been any "better days"...
But in this life, that's almost like house arrest. They just keep playing the roles assigned to them.
This life? Just another mission. Just another intel op.
There will always come a moment when every false mask is taken off.
I don't care what I wear anyway.
Rosewater is speechless. After a long pause, he finally speaks, sounding defeated.
Is there really nothing left in this world that you care about...?
The girl stands straight, eyes forward, calmly awaiting punishment, just as when she faced the instructors—just as she always has, every time.
Care? Weren't they the ones who trained them to care only about missions and objectives?
Rosewater regrets his words instantly, shame twisting his face.
He suddenly gets to his feet and rushes to his meticulously organized desk. In a frenzy, he empties it drawer by drawer, throwing everything onto the floor.
The girl's usually calm face changes. Her mouth hangs open as she watches it all happen.
From the very back of the bottom drawer, he pulls out a small box, fiddles with its hidden mechanism, and takes out a tiny key. Like a madman, he runs to the glass cabinet, unlocks it, and rips the ornate suit from the mannequin.
This was my proudest masterpiece... my only treasure in this corner of the universe...!
Do you have any idea how special this is?
He grabs his long-handled scissors and, in the blink of an eye, shreds both the one-of-a-kind suit and the freshly made gown to pieces.
Fabric scraps, loose threads, and tufts of cotton fill the air like a blizzard. Heavy golden buttons hit the floor, rolling across the carpet with soft clicks. The tailor shop looks as if it is buried under a storm of tattered snow.
The mannequin stands bare and alone in the middle of the mess, its stillness like a silent actor mocking the scene.
Discord stands frozen, letting the scraps and threads settle on her hair and shoulders. Somehow, they feel more dangerous than falling silver forks.
Her lips part slightly, but no sound comes out.
...
Looking at it was the only way I could keep believing that humanity is always improving... always moving toward something better.
The fabric is made in runs of just twenty-three meters a year, over seven hundred top-grade textiles combined, stitched with platinum needles. A suit like this could only be worn by the oldest, wealthiest royal families.
But now, he doesn't have the strength to list those meaningless accolades one by one.
The tailor breathes hard, his eyes red as he stares down at the broken threads and fabric pieces in his hands.
The girl trembles, then shudders, breathing in short bursts. She doesn't look at him.
Why...?
I... I don't know.
She feels nothing. No hope for the future.
Be a good girl and forget everything that happened tonight.
Be a child...
May the Lord... may the Lord forgive us...
Rosewater says nothing more and walks her back to her room.
Hurry up! Move faster!
The snowy day is silent as ever. The wind chimes of fate echo again through the streets of the old district, which is far removed from any trace of prosperity.
There are always countless ways to explain why something happens. Humans always feel the need to give meaning to the things we cannot understand.
(At least...)
Blood froth fills his throat as his life leaks away little by little. With regret, he realizes there's no time left to say goodbye.
(Tell... tell Discord...)
Trying to get my dress dirty too? Don't be so stingy now.
(Reality... really is... nothing but a pair of scissors...)
Merry Christmas, Mr. Rosewater.
The famous tailor of the old district lies dead in a pool of blood. Karmic justice. His human experimentation projects end with him.
Half a lifetime of effort has become a dream steeped in sin, fading like mist.
Huge scissors hang overhead...
Their fates are severed in that instant.
Regrettably, "Embroidery Scissors" is already deceased.
Flames sear her skin. Ash from burning cloth drifts before her eyes. Discord snaps out of the verdict and a Construct's fist is already swinging at her.
She lowers her gaze and decides to take the punch head-on.
Unexpectedly, the blow never lands.
Throwing a punch just because someone won't talk? Staying quiet is good. Trouble comes from a loose tongue.
Shorthalt, I remember you being quite the chatterbox.
Oh? Is being talkative a crime now?
A tall Construct neutralizes the force of the punch and smoothly blocks the attacker who's lost control. Knowing they're in the wrong, the attacker's companion keeps apologizing while shoving and dragging him away.
Don't take this lightly. Make sure you take him to the Star of Life.
After he finishes, Shorthalt pats her shoulder and waves the onlookers away.
Show's over. Move along.
Hah. The Purifying Force is nothing. If you run into the Scarabs, you won't even know what hit you before you're dead.
...
Huh? Is that what we need to hear right now?!
Move along. Go on.
Shorthalt picks up the mask that had fallen to the ground and hands it back to her.
Discord looks up at the stranger, hesitates, and misses her chance to say thanks.
The second time she sees Shorthalt is on a ravaged battlefield after a mission. Discord remembers searching for something she lost, but by the end she has forgotten what it was.
She wanders among the wreckage of Constructs, her eyes unable to focus.
Constructs... are weapons. Expendable. Humanity's hope to reclaim Earth...
She keeps repeating the new rules and protocols uploaded into her mind.
Oh, it's you?
Lost something? I can help you look.
Shorthalt's face is heavy. He doesn't paw through the remains like trash. He lifts them onto his broad shoulders as if they were comrades.
Time blurs. Discord almost gives up and numbly follows him through one scene of ruin after another.
...I remember they picked a fight with you. Why didn't you fight back? Are you even human?
I'm a Construct, part of the Purifying Force.
No, I mean before you became a Construct. We aren't born with metal arms and legs.
...
You must have a name, right? Your human name.
...My name is Discord.
I'm Shorthalt. We're all people. We all have names. There's no real difference.
We're not weapons, and we're not expendables.
He folds his hands, tucks away a bundle of sorted dog tags, then solemnly places a thin metal tag in her palm.
See? You do have something you value.
Discord studies the small, cleaned tag. The thin cord is broken. Old bloodstains still sit in the grooves, turned deep brown.
Her name is engraved on it, but she can't recall any memory tied to it.
Watching her fall silent, Shorthalt sighs.
I know everyone is different, there can be individual differences... but in your case, hmm... I had some ice cream the day before yesterday, and right now you're like a bowl of ice cream that's frozen solid...
You're from Kurono, right? A Kurono-made Construct?
...
Easy. No need to be on guard. I don't have a grudge against you.
I used to be a cop. Sorry, occupational habit.
Getting no answer, the big guy rubs his not-quite-stubbly chin.
I have things I care about too... Where's the candy V gave me?
He digs in his pockets and pulls out a torn candy wrapper, then stuffs it back, embarrassed.
Back in the Education District, I met a bunch of brats who got into trouble every other day!
And before I knew it, I got attached to them.
...
I... used to be a tailor.
She's not used to this easy tone. She stammers it out, then sees him smile.
Got it. When you find the things you care about again, tell me about them.
The last time she hears Shorthalt's name is in Commander Nikola's transfer order.
Just like that, he was gone and left behind all the things he said he cared about.
And you? Think about it. What happens to the things you cared about?
After the ground mission in Las Prados, the ice cream's "frozen solid" problem gets worse.
Her frame is fully repaired, smooth and flawless, yet at random times pain signals fire, and her vital fluid suddenly leaks.
Phantom sight, phantom smell, and phantom pain.
Should I follow the order to join the Scarabs, or stay with the Purifying Force?
The goal of her long search is gone. From now on, what will she live for?
You don't need to choose. Once you choose, you carry that choice. Can you carry it?
I should always... complete the mission.
To complete the mission, you only need to be simple and efficient.
Stay the same. Doing nothing often works best. Keep to the shadows, don't try to stand out. That's how you live the longest.
Her urge goes the other way. A pull toward self-destruction keeps pushing her to find a weapon strong enough to pierce her chest, or to stop maintaining her frame.
Sadly, in Babylonia those things aren't easy to do.
So she starts drifting toward more dangerous battlefields without thinking.
