...
In a shattered dreamscape, her consciousness drifts among floating shards of memory.
Veronica finds herself adrift in endless darkness—no direction, no path—with only a single blinding ray of light ahead that shines upon some massive, shadowy form.
As she steps forward, the beam grows more intense, looking as though it's beckoning her toward a destination only it knows.
You've advanced to the next arena match, Veronica.
Keep fighting. The ultimate prize for victory is your freedom from this place.
The voice fades into darkness as she presses forward, lance clutched tight, and steels herself for the next battle. She's determined to claim the "freedom" that should have been hers all along—through victory.
Her footsteps echo across the arena's solid metal floor. In the harsh spotlight ahead, she finally sees the object clearly: a massive octagonal cage.
But her "opponent" inside isn't some ferocious mechanical beast, but a mechanoid identical to herself. Her eyes shut tight, the mechanoid in the cage is fast asleep.
The cage thunders open. The "Veronica" in the cage snaps her eyes wide, fixing them on the Veronica outside the stage, her gaze devoid of light and harboring only an abyss of perfect darkness.
...
"Veronica" moves her lips and says something to her twin outside the cage, except it doesn't seem to reach Veronica.
Then "Veronica" steps free from her prison. The moment she steps outside the cage, however, the restraint collar around her neck erupts with violent electrical current.
Under the relentless electrical assault, the doppelganger's body fractures and dissolves, yet those lifeless eyes never waver, locked in their unyielding stare.
You will die here.
!
The lights extinguish, plunging everything back into a thick, clinging darkness.
She feels her consciousness spiraling downward into an endless void of darkness.
<size=40>Core System Scan>>>>>>></size>
76%...
92%...
Scan Complete
<size=40>Initiating Module Self-Calibration>>>>>>></size>
Self-Calibration Failed
Partial Module Functionality Damage Detected
<size=40>Recursive Repair Command Detected>>>>>>></size>
Self-Repair Completion: 85%
Yeah! Kill it—tear it apart—!
We want blood! More blood!
Hahahaha! Awesome, this is so freaking awesome!
Hell yeah! Fight to the end! Don't get yourself scrapped too quickly. Ain't every day you get to see something this exciting, hahaha!
She opens her eyes, her crimson gaze piercing through the darkness.
The shards of her chaotic consciousness dissolve instantly as her memory module completes its diagnostic. She extends her hand and stares at the vital fluid leaking between her fingers.
Meanwhile, her vision begins to blur. She struggles to overclock her mechanical core, desperately trying to stabilize her optical systems.
The data image of her dream-self disintegrating under the restraint collar's power still floats within her consciousness module.
Instinctively, she raises her hand to touch the unyielding restraint collar around her neck—the thing that's bound her since the day this body was first activated.
You think you can keep me chained like a dog...?
Dammit.
Her razor-sharp claws dig deep into the synthetic skin of her neck as she desperately tears at the collar.
But the collar instantly discharges a violent electrical current, sending agonizing surges through her consciousness module and forcing her to stop.
Aaargh...!
Those bastards... I'm going to crush every last one of them.
Down here in the lower level of the arena, there are no rowdy spectators shouting, no mechanical beasts howling.
In this cramped space, only thick darkness envelops her. There's no octagonal cage like the one in the arena above, no fight-to-survive gladiatorial rules—yet this remains her prison all the same.
Throughout this supposed "recovery room" for mechanoid gladiators, broken and jagged parts lie strewn across the floor. The mingled stench of machine oil and rust permeates the air.
If anything, this place looks more like a prison cell.
In the darkness beyond, the access controls and surveillance systems monitoring the path to the arena never cease operating as they watch for the slightest movement in this area.
The "prison cell" itself doesn't even need locksDthe restraint collars around their necks eliminate any possibility of escape for the mechanoid gladiators.
Along both sides of the corridor are identical rooms. Some contain mechanoid gladiators in sleep mode, waiting quietly for their next fight.
Others stand emptyDtheir former "occupants" having been torn to pieces on the arena floor.
But soon enough, a fresh batch of mechanoid gladiators will fill these rooms againDtheir "prison" while awaiting the next match.
Their fate is determined entirely by "victory" or "defeat" in the arena.
In the near-perfect silence of the darkness, a sound emerges from the distance.
Screech—grind—screech—
In the darkness, something solid scrapes against the metal floor, producing a sharp, persistent sound.
Veronica's acute sensory modules detect the anomaly. Such sounds couldn't come from a human—it's another mechanoid, and it's getting closer.
...
The sound, intermittent, isn't coming from ahead—but from under Veronica's feet.
A broken mechanoid lies sprawled on the floor, having been reduced to half a shattered head and one mangled forelimb that spits out sparks with the last traces of power.
Vital fluid pools from its broken body, leaving a long trail marking its desperate crawl.
Apparently having detected noncompliant behavior from its wearer, the restraint collar around its neck administers relentless electrical shocks as punishment.
Under the barrage of shocks, the damaged mechanoid's movements grow more erratic, its damaged voice module spitting out broken words between bursts of static.
Failed... mechanical gladiator... accepting termination...
This mechanoid... cannot... continue functioning...
Failed to... unlock... freedom... ending...
Target detected... Identifying model...
Designation... CTX-V Enhanced Function Model... Codename... Veronica...
Scanning... your frame's operational parameters... structural integrity... optimal...
Recommendation... Attempt escape... Calculating success rate... 0.019%...
...Avoid... forced... decommissioning protocol...
With one final surge of electricity, the mechanoid succumbs to the overwhelming voltage. The fractured voice from its speech module falls silent completely.
Vital fluid seeping from the mechanoid's fractured body pools into a dark mirror at Veronica's feet, reflecting her contorted, enraged face.
The shock collar that just executed the mechanoid gets twisted and crushed in her hands. At the same time, a shrill alarm wails from the terminal system.
...
Enough.
Hours earlier, while Veronica sank into that dark dreamscape, her many "brethren" were being systematically destroyed in the arena outside.
Everett Arena
A Few Hours Ago
Everett Arena A Few Hours Ago
Hours have passed since the crowds dispersed. The arena, thundering with spectators just hours ago, now stands eerily empty, with the spotlights still shining upon its vast central stage.
Under the harsh lights, a row of mechanical gladiators stands shoulder to shoulder in silence like lifeless automata. Each of their frames, damaged to varying degrees, bears the scars of combat.
Overseer looms over the damaged gladiators, its massive steel frame casting shadows across them. After a brief scan, its processing core confirms their identity codes.
It then establishes contact through its terminal and awaits instructions from its "Master" on the other end.
The execution protocol is ready, Master. Awaiting your termination order.
These eyesores are just scrap now. Dispose of them immediately.
Worthless, filthy scrap. The whole lot belongs in the trash heap.
Yes, Master.
We are requesting a postponement of the termination protocol. Our frames are still capable of gladiatorial performances.
We request... more matches. We can still fight.
Request denied. Initiating termination protocol.
BZZZZT—BZZZZT—
At Overseer's command, the collars around the mechanoids' necks jump to life and send a surge of high-voltage electricity through their metal frames.
The energy cores of all the mechanoids instantly fail with the electric shock, their heavy frames collapsing to the ground like scrap metal.
As Overseer sends commands to the system's terminal, ominous sounds echo through the empty arena. With it, the overhead scaffolding holding numerous screens now reveals a massive hydraulic press descending from above.
The hydraulic system drives the massive press downward with relentless force. The mechanoids' metal frames are reminiscent of cardboard when crushed and mangled by the massive press.
We... don't want... to be terminated...
We... can still... continue... to fight... for your entertainment...
The press descends with relentless precision, not stopping until it's flush against the floor, silencing the mechanoids forever.
Having executed the mechanical gladiators, the hydraulic press slowly ascends back to its original position, leaving behind only a floor of mechanoid remains crushed beyond recognition.
Disposal complete, Master.
Excellent. You were right. I really did see something I had never seen in the match today.
That "Veronica" does deserve a grander stage.
With it, "Master" abruptly cuts off communication with Overseer.
There is, however, a small anomaly that Overseer's visual sensors fail to notice—that is, among the debris on the floor, one of the mechanoids, having been reduced to a head with broken limbs, is slowly dragging itself away.
With Overseer gone, silence reclaims the arena. The only sounds that can be heard now come from a few cleaning robots preprogrammed to complete their cleaning tasks.
The cleaning robots dismantle the structures that aren't completely broken down yet, collect component fragments, and deposit them into the waste bins on their backs.
They follow their programmed routines with practiced efficiency, meticulously performing their designated "job."
To their visual processors, the dismembered remains of their "kin" are nothing more than another assignment to be processed.
Amid this mechanical carnage that resembles a battlefield, a petite human girl gracefully weaves her way through the metal remains.
Oh, excuse me, could you step aside for a few moments, please...
Wait! Don't dispose of that—I need that component!
The girl in the utility jacket navigates through the mechanical debris and between the working cleaning robots as she carefully avoids stepping on the components scattered at her feet.
She crouches down every few steps to examine the damaged components. She picks up parts that are intact and gently dusts them off.
Having picked up what she needs, she cups them in her palms and bows her head in silent contemplation—a gesture somewhere between a prayer and remembrance—before carefully storing them in the toolbox she carries on her back.
She repeats this ritual over and over, engaged in a private ceremony whose meaning only she seems to understand.
...It's such a shame. Must have been painful what you just went through, no?
But it's okay now. It's all over.
I'll remember all of you. Your designations, your maintenance recordsDI've committed every detail to memory...
A small, oddly-shaped robot has been following her all this time, its mechanical joints creaking and squeaking with every movement.
The robot apparently lacks a voice module, forcing it to communicate with its "human master" solely through movements and gestures.
That's right, Hammer, exactly like that... We're looking for parts with frame designation on them.
Great job! I couldn't have done this without you. You're such a big help.
(The indicator light flashes in a rhythmic pattern.)
You get that excited over a little praise? Alright then... I'll work extra hard and try to get you a voice module one of these days.
The girl smiles as she speaks to Hammer the robot, treating it as if it were her closest friend.
Petite, she stands amid the jagged heaps of mechanical debris, reminiscent of a delicate flower quietly blooming among metal ruins.
The peaceful moments, however, don't last long. Urgent alarms suDDenly blare throughout the arena, flooding every corner in an anxiety-inducing red glow.
ALERT—ALERT—ALERT—
...?
Meanwhile, the surveillance system mounted above the arena lets out a cold, mechanical, synthesized voice.
ALERT—ALERT—ALERT—
Mechanoid with incomplete termination protocol detected. Target has escaped from core area.
W-what's happening...?
N-no way... Did the surveillance system mistake the parts I just collected for an escaped mechanoid?!
The girl glances nervously all around her while clutching the toolbox stuffed with mechanoid parts against her body.
Meanwhile, from the perimeter of the arena, the heavy, metallic thud of approaching footsteps echoes in the distance.
We're toast! That... Overseer is coming!
(Spins in frantic circles.)
Argh—brain, calm down! Think of something. I gotta come up with something quickly...
Despite being nervous, the girl forces herself to stay focused and think clearly. Suddenly, her eyes light up.
I know what we need to do! Hammer, quick—let's shut down the main power breaker!
(Rapidly bobs head up and down.)
Minutes later, the arena doors slide open with a thunderous sound. The moment Overseer steps inside, the entire arena plunges into complete darkness.
(Perfect, the power's cut. Now's my chance...)
In the few seconds it takes for Overseer's visual systems to switch from standard to night vision mode, a petite human girl slips past its massive frame and vanishes into the darkness without a trace.
At the same time, Veronica crushes the collar that triggered the system alarm to pieces.
The alarms fall silent as the arena returns to normal operation.
When Overseer scans the entire area again with night vision, it detects nothing out of the ordinary—only mechanical debris scattered across the floor and a few cleaning robots performing their assigned missions.
Performing sensitivity self-test.
After performing another system scan with no anomalies detected, Overseer exits the area, considering it clear.
Lower Level, Staff Quarters
Everett Arena
Everett Arena Lower Level, Staff Quarters
The girl races down the corridor, her chestnut braids bobbing up and down behind her as Hammer keeps pace with rapid steps.
Yes! We made it! We're safe!
Owww—
Rounding the corner, the girl slams straight into a tall man, while Hammer, unable to stop in time, rams itself straight into the back of her knees.
The girl and Hammer collapse as her toolbox flies open, sending parts across the floor with a clang that seems to echo forever.
(Spins wheels frantically, trying to get back up.)
Ouch ouch ouch! That hurts... Hey, Uncle Roko! Why'd you have to stand right there?!
Serra! You little troublemaker, been up to no good again, huh? Tch... Out collecting your "junk" again, weren't you?!
Always tinkering with this nonsense! How many times have I told you? You never listen! Be careful, or that hard-headed maniac Overseer will catch you, and then you'll really be in trouble!
You think you're some official Consortium employee or something? Overseer leaves those people alone because they have privileges, but we don't!
Here, you're nothing but a... Sigh!
Okay, okay! Do I really seem like the careless type to you?
Besides, these things aren't junk—they're VERY VERY IMPORTANT TO ME!
...These lectures are seriously getting annoying, and they hurt my ears! Uncle, could you please stop treating me like a kid?
Fine, you're not a kid. Tell me, just how old are you?
...Alright, alright! I'll do whatever you say! I won't do it anymore. Happy now?!
Irritated, Serra crouches down and starts gathering the scattered parts from the ground, deliberately facing away from the stubbly-faced middle-aged man.
(Slowly glides toward Uncle Roko's feet and brushes against his pant leg.)
Sensing the uncomfortable atmosphere, Hammer, lacking a voice module, clumsily attempts to ease the awkwardness between the two.
...
He quietly watches the girl who stubbornly refuses to meet his gaze. Her earlier sprint has left her bangs stuck together with sweat and her cheeks red.
He wants to say something, but in the end remains silent. Instead, he quietly crouches down next to her and collects the scattered parts from the ground one by one.
These parts aren't ordinary gears and bolts—many are identification plates used to inscribe frame serial numbers, with codes and frame designations still clearly visible.
As he places a handful of parts into Serra's toolbox, the girl, having been quiet all this time, finally looks up at him.
...I'm sorry, Uncle Roko.
I just... I can't stand seeing those mechanical gladiators being treated like this. They're destroyed just because... they lost their fights...
They're... Every single one of them, I've repaired and upgraded them myself. I just thought... that maybe this way I could at least remember them, you know...
You're just like your father... Nothing keeps you guys from doing what you want to do once you've made up your mind.
Sigh. If your old man could see you now... his little girl all grown up... I bet he'd be proud.
...Anyway, no matter what happens, I'll always look after you. That's what your father asked me to do before he passed.
...
Yeah, right... If he hadn't practically lived at the casino, he wouldn't have racked up mountains of debt and taken out those predatory loans from Everett Consortium. Mom wouldn't have left us either.
And he wouldn't have ended up working off his debt as the Consortium's slave. I wouldn't have spent my childhood being shuffled between relatives and neighbors, going hungry some nights, or getting knocked around every so often.
Ahem... Careful what you say! They're listening!
As Uncle Roko quietly shushes her, he points up at the surveillance camera overhead. The girl responds with a disgruntled pout.
Oh, fine, fine! According to the noble Everett Consortium's definition, it's a "Voluntary Long-Term Personal Labor-Compensation Debt Resolution Program"—sounds pretty, but it's essentially working for them as a slave, right?!
And I wouldn't have been dragged here by the Consortium after he "ran away" from everything and forced to continue his "glorious" twenty-year program because he didn't have the guts to face any of this himself.
He really did escape, didn't he? Escaped this whole world, never to return... I barely even remember his face anymore.
It's weird, though... No matter how many times I tell myself "this is all his fault," I still can't bring myself to completely hate him.
I keep remembering riding on his shoulders while Mom stood nearby laughing when I was little.
But how did everything change? Dad got hooked on gambling, fell into debt with loan sharks, and Mom just walked outDeven said she wouldn't let me become "her burden"...
I mean, they're just so... irresponsible.
...
...Ugh, why am I rambling like this? Bet I'm just tired...
Though Serra maintains her defiant tone, she buries her face in her knees to wipe away the tear tracks on her cheeks. Her slightly trembling shoulders, however, betray her true emotional state.
Seeing the usually stubborn girl reveal such a vulnerable side, Uncle Roko finds himself at a loss for comforting words. The air between them grows heavy with unspoken tension.
Even the little robot, usually adept at supporting its master, fails to process the atmosphere between the two humans. It simply stands there silently, as if experiencing a momentary system freeze.
The silence is shattered when Uncle Roko suddenly erupts into violent coughing. His fit intensifies with each hack, his face gradually turning a sickly pale blue.
Cough... cough, cough...
Uncle Roko! Are you alright?!
Serra rushes over to pat him on the back. Roko, however, shakes his head while pointing at the pouch he carries around his waist, apparently trying to ask Serra to take out what's inside.
With fumbling hands, she rummages through his oil-stained pouch and finally locates a medicine bottle buried among all sorts of repair tools.
Serra can barely make out what it says on the heavily worn label on the bottle. Uncle Roko struggles to steady his cough-induced trembling hands while carefully tipping out several pills.
He shoves all the pills into his mouth at once and swallows them down. After a long moment, he starts looking better.
Uncle Roko, is your illness... getting worse? Why are you taking so many pills now?
...I'm fine... Just an old condition... I'm used to it by now...
This isn't right, Uncle Roko. You can't just keep going on painkillers alone. You gotta do something about it...
Don't worry, I've got it figured out. It's just three more years... Think I can still hang in there. Once I've paid off these last three years of work hours, I'm just gonna... cough... get out of here...
Damn, these work hours are so hard to earn... I make so little but spend so much. I'd love to trade for some cigarettes and booze, but I can't exactly go without these painkillers...
Who knows how many more years I'll have to slave away just to pay off these three years of work hours...
Uncle Roko...
Sigh. When I count it up, I've been working here for over a decade now... Your father used to be my assistant, and now it's your turn.
Hah! "Voluntary Long-term Debt Resolution Program"... Such a pretty name for what's basically prison. Those mechanical gladiators are locked up in here, and so are mechanics like us who fix those metal brutes.
We're all human, doing the same work in the same place, but the difference between us and those Consortium employees? It's like heaven and earth.
They clock in and out on schedule, get vacations, salaries, overtime pay, insurance... Sigh. I used to have all that when I was younger, and then it was all gone...
It's my own fault, though. I was always chasing big money, trying to give my family a better life, but I ended up drowning in loan shark debt. And here I am... with my wife and kids gone...
I don't blame them for leaving, though I do wonder how they are doing now... Heh, who am I kidding? Pretty damn sure they're doing a whole lot better now without me dragging them down... cough...
...
Serra, usually quick-witted, finds herself at a loss for words. She clutches the small robot in her arms, a sorrowful expression spreading across her face.
Sigh. It's all my fault. You see, I'm not exactly good with words... Cough, cough... All I do is whine about my problems, and now I've gone and made you feel bad.
If there ever comes a day when...
Suddenly, the surveillance system overhead blares with a harsh electronic tone, cutting their conversation short.
Inappropriate speech detected. System has logged your first violation today.
Serra, Junior Mechanic. Violations this quarter: 17. Penalty: 120 work hours deducted. Roko, Mid-Level Mechanic. Violations this quarter: 3. Penalty: 25 work hours deducted.
You have both violated the Everett Consortium Employee Code of Conduct, Article 5: Employees are prohibited from holding negative discussions regarding the Consortium...
Hey! You've got to be kidding me! How can you just dock our hours like that?! What exactly did we say wrong?!
Serra, Junior Mechanic. Violations this quarter: 18. Penalty: 150 work hours deducted.
You have both violated the Everett Consortium Employee Code of Conduct, Article 14: Questioning, contradicting, or threatening the surveillance system in any form is prohibited.
Dammit! You piece of—
Roko, however, shakes his head slightly, apparently trying to tell Serra to just be quiet. On the verge of explosion, Serra eventually manages to bite her lip and swallow whatever she was about to say.
The omnipresent surveillance system might seem dormant most days, but the highly sensitive semantic recognition module in each terminal works tirelessly, never missing a beat.
The moment it catches any potentially prohibited words in conversation, the system responds with its favorite punishment—deduction of work hours.
More and more work piles up without a single credit in payment—all supposedly to repay their "enormous debt," a sum so vast it defies imagination.
And the only way to obtain food and basic supplies needed for survival? Exchange the work hours they've struggled so hard to accumulate.
The terminal's AI algorithms have calculated their every move with terrifying precision, reducing them to nothing more than tiny cogs in the vast machinery of the arena.
...
Take it easy and get some rest—we have an early start tomorrow. I see the terminal has already sent out next week's work orders.
We've got a bunch of new mechanoids coming in—they've extended the season again. The work won't be easy... but you know you can always count on my help if you ever need it.
You'll be handling Sections A through F tomorrow, and I'll take care of all the rest.
...I'm heading back now. If you need anything, just speak to your terminal—I never put mine on silent.
...Yeah, see you tomorrow, Uncle Roko.
She returns to her room—a cramped, windowless cell barely a few square meters in size. Besides her basic necessities, every inch of the room is crammed with repair tools and equipment.
The exhaust fan drones with a constant hum, yet even its tireless efforts can't dispel the lingering scent of machine oil that permeates the air.
Goodnight, Hammer. Get some restDwe've got work first thing tomorrow.
(Returns to the charging dock after the indicator light blinks softly a few times.)
After a quick wash-up, Serra turns off the lights and lies down in the dark room.
Only in this darkness, when she can no longer see the cramped, filthy space around her, can her thoughts finally take wing like a bird in flight.
In her mind, she's no longer an oil-stained mechanic without freedom—she can go anywhere her heart desires.
Her fingers, having found the pendant she wears around her neck, carefully trace along the edges of the wings on it.
Her parents got her this pendant as a gift before she was born.
In her boundless realm of fantasy...
If these "wings" could grow from her shoulders, she would spread them wide and fly away from this prison that has caged her for so long.
Her thoughts take wing, soaring gracefully beyond this room, past the arena's domed ceiling, and toward the vast starry expanse she hasn't seen in years.
—Away from this mechanical arena that has imprisoned her for far too long.
