ER14-14 Nocturne
The once-thriving manor now stands in silent decay, having never received any guests in ages.
Rumor has it that the master and lady of the manor perished in some terrible accident, leaving their only daughter languishing in her sickbed, awaiting death's inevitable grip.
Unbeknownst to them, however, is that there is a secret laboratory under the now-decrepit manor that operates day and night carrying out an urgent experiment.
A young researcher hunches over his control panel, fingers working methodically across the interface. Every few moments, his eyes dart nervously toward the ceiling-mounted security camera. He flinches whenever its faint red light blinks.
It hasn't been long since he started working here, and yet he's acutely aware of the fact that their every move in the laboratory is being closely watched by a certain "director" through the surveillance system.
On just his second day, he watched in horror as several senior researchers who had had a few experimental blunders were escorted from the lab by a stern-looking butler. None of them was ever seen again.
Such a generous salary comes with equally high expectations, he reasons. Those colleagues must have been dismissed from the Consortium's classified project. He silently prays he won't meet the same fate, though deep down, he suspects "dismissal" might mean something far worse.
He reminds himself that he's young, with his scientific career still stretching before him like an unwritten page. This project, dangerous as it may be, is the launchpad his ambitions need—the perfect stage for his brilliance to finally shine.
He refuses to return to those wasted years after graduation—fresh from academia's ivory tower, only to find himself scrubbing test tubes in nameless laboratories, his brilliance dimming with each menial task assigned to someone like himself who is clearly destined for greater things.
Determined to scale the heights of scientific achievement, the young researcher pushes himself relentlessly. He's first to arrive every morning and last to leave at night, his figure a familiar sight against the lab's harsh lights when everyone else has gone home.
Where everyone else sees tedium, he finds fascination—poring over data sets with reverent attention, approaching each experimental protocol with a fervor his colleagues simply cannot comprehend.
...
The researcher snaps back to reality and forces his wandering mind to focus on the task at hand. Once more, he initiates the procedure he's performed countless times before—the delicate process of transferring simulated consciousness data into a mechanoid vessel.
Initiating simulated consciousness data mapping, integration test 167.
As the researcher inputs his commands, data streams across the experimental panel begin to pulse.
His eyes lock onto the fluctuating progress bar, and his heart races as the bar crosses the critical threshold. Going from a warning red to a promising green, the bar, by the second, inches closer to completion.
Yes... Come on... Let's make it happen this time...
The researcher murmurs these words like incantations, as though his whispered encouragement would somehow speed up the process. Then, his body tense with anticipation, he rises from his chair despite himself.
—Right then, the bar, having come so far without any hiccup, freezes in place.
With it, the promising green quickly drains away and turns red again.
Damn it! Matching coefficient is dropping—reduce the signal-to-noise ratio, now!
The red bar continues its merciless retreat.
Why is it still dropping?! No... this isn't working!
Amplify input signal strength... Filter out the noise...
The progress bar hits zero.
...
Staring blankly at the cascade of error messages flooding the display panel, he lets out a long, defeated sigh.
Integration Test #167... failed.
He slumps back into his chair, shoulders sagging with defeat. He runs his fingers through his disheveled hair and begins to mutter to himself.
It's not working. The signal interference always rockets out of control whenever I load the simulated consciousness data into the mechanoid, doesn't matter how I adjust the parameters...
No amount of playing with the parameters seems to work.
This is pointless... I'm just wasting time at this point. I need to report these findings to management.
Having noticed his distress, some of his colleagues walk up to him.
Don't beat yourself up over this. If the project is impossible, that's not on us. Gotta question this project instead of blaming yourself.
Exactly. I mean, transferring human consciousness into mechanoids? C'mon, this whole thing has only existed as a theory up until now. They can't really expect us to come up with any breakthroughs anytime soon, right?
I heard this consortium funded this same project years ago, but shelved it when they couldn't make any breakthroughs. Weird how they decided to come back to it after all this time.
Who cares? The pay is fantastic, and the consortium has money to burn. Once this project wraps up, I'll be halfway to financial independence. Ain't no point worrying about anything.
Sure, the money's good, but these confidentiality agreements are brutal. No leaving the facility, no outside contact—we might as well be prisoners! We're scientists, for crying out loud...
And what about those guys from a while back? Weren't they fired because their experimental data wasn't promising? We can't even reach out to ask where they landed new jobs.
Look, we can think all we want, but it ain't getting us anywhere. Just do the work and be done with it.
Clearly more experienced, the veterans continue their noisy chatter about the project, completely oblivious to the worried look on the young man's face.
When they're done venting, they give the young researcher a few perfunctory pats on the shoulder and return to their respective workstations.
These veterans have mastered the art of slacking off. Every day, they'd put on a show of being busy, run through the procedures once with exaggerated diligence, then submit completely fabricated data.
The young researcher, on the other hand, stands out like a sore thumb, being the only one committed to producing real scientific results.
After a long moment of contemplation, the young researcher seems to have made up his mind. With a deep breath, he dials an internal extension on his terminal.
A few rings later, the composed voice of a man comes online.
Though the young man has had limited interactions with him, he knows that this "Edmond" is essentially the one taking care of things around here. The young researcher was, in fact, onboarded to work on this project by none other than Edmond himself.
The young man, however, can clearly tell that Edmond is just a frontman—that someone else is pulling the strings behind the scenes.
What's going on? Is there something wrong with the lab?
Sir, I really hated having to bother you... but I do have something urgent to report to management.
...Just focus on your work. I'm the one you should talk to if you ever run into any issues.
But the experiment is stuck. We have tried everything we could think of, but we've made absolutely no breakthroughs!
I've gone through years of previous research records, and I'm convinced we're heading in the completely wrong direction!
The young researcher, having broken his silence, launches into an impassioned monologue about all the experimental approaches they have tried and how each ended in failure.
He doesn't even care if Edmond follows.
We're just wasting our time doing things the way we have all this time!
But Edmond remains silent on the other end of the line.
Hello, sir? Are you still there?
An alert tone signals a new connection on the other end of the terminal, followed by the exceptionally young voice of a female.
Go on. I'm listening.
I've been following this project's progress very closely.
The researcher didn't expect anyone else to join the call, but this stranger's interest in the project rekindles his fading hope.
So here's the situation—I've tried every approach imaginable, but I just can't push past the data compatibility threshold in the consciousness transfer experiments.
No matter how I adjust the parameters, I always end up with noise corrupting the results.
And...
The female's voice cuts him off impatiently.
So, what's your conclusion?
The researcher grips his terminal tightly, summoning the courage to deliver his conclusion.
My conclusion is this—the project is fundamentally impossible to complete in the short term!
...
Is that so... I see.
Excellent. You've got a good head on your shoulders. I'm appointing you as the research director for this project.
Edmond, bring him to my office.
We'll have some discussion about where this research project is going next.
...Understood.
Yes, of course! I'll gather all the previous data reports and be right over to brief you!
The young woman on the other end hangs up.
The idea of "reporting the situation upward" excites the young man, and the prospect of an imminent promotion convinces him that he needs to take this opportunity seriously.
He quickly organizes everything and downloads it to his terminal.
He ignores the puzzled glances from his colleagues as he mentally rehearses how he's going to present his findings during the upcoming meeting.
Edmond arrives promptly and leads the young researcher out of the laboratory. He guides him through the mansion's labyrinthine corridors.
Um, sir, where exactly are we... going? I thought I was supposed to report to the project director?
...We're almost there.
Edmond's icy expression silences the young researcher immediately.
Despite his composure, the young researcher feels uneasier by the second as soon as he realizes they're heading deeper into the basement levels of the estate. The complete absence of anyone else along the way only intensifies his apprehension.
Finally, they reach a dim, enclosed underground corridor. At its end stands a single rusted door that slowly creaks open, letting out a wave of dank, foul-smelling air from the darkness beyond.
The director is waiting for you inside. Go in.
Where the hell is this place? What are you planning to do with me?
I came here to do a job, not to be pushed around by rich bastards like you! I quit, right here and now! I'm done with this!
With newfound courage, the researcher refuses to comply and turns to leave.
The young man, however, freezes at the sound of a gun being cocked. Turning around, he finds himself staring down the dark barrel of Edmond's pistol.
W-what are you doing?!
I said, get inside.
Edmond violently shoves the researcher's shoulder, causing him to lose his footing and tumble into the dark room.
Terrified, the researcher lands on what feels like a pile of objects. Squinting in the faint light filtering from the doorway, he gradually makes out what surrounds him.
Several lab coats and ID cards were scattered about—the names on the cards belong to his colleagues who have gone missing.
...!
Bang—bang—
Several gunshots drown out his screams.
Moments later, Edmond shuts the heavy door behind him and returns to the hallway. He looks up to stare directly at an inconspicuous camera mounted on the ceiling.
As you wish, Dolores. He'll raise no more objections about the project.
Hours later, the still-shaken researcher hides in the forest beyond the estate grounds as he stares at Edmond in disbelief.
Here, all your belongings are in this bag. Lie low for a while, move to another city, and never come back here.
I'll find a way to help those in the lab escape in small groups. Remember, no matter what happens, never ever try to reach out to one another after this.
I'm truly sorry for dragging you all into this mess, but... this is as much as I can do for you.
Just promise me that you won't go to the police, because if you do, then I'm afraid...
I don't get it... Why are you still here?
You saved my life! You're a good man! You should get out of here yourself!
Edmond simply shakes his head as he casts a worried yet longing gaze at the estate in the distance.
Someone needs to take care of Dolores... She's going to die if I leave.
Edmond says nothing more. He simply pats the young researcher's shoulder, then rises and walks back the way he came.
The setting sun bathes the ivy-covered estate in a blood-red glow. Edmond stands in silence before the mansion, gazing up at a window on the top floor.
Behind the window, Dolores watches him quietly.
So this is what you call "loyalty," Edmond.
Dolores watches the butler enter with unsettling calm.
...I'm sorry, Dolores.
You let them go... every single one of them.
You got in the way of my plan and set free those that should have died... Is this how you show me your loyalty?
Dolores, your tea has grown cold. Allow me to bring you a fresh cup...
Edmond pauses, then bends down to replace the cold tea on the side table.
...Answer my question!
With Edmond evading her questions, Deloris flies into a rage. She snatches the teacup and hurls it violently to the floor—
The thick carpet absorbs the impact, silencing what should have been a crash. The teacup rolls across the floor, unbroken.
...I'm sorry, Dolores. Please... let's stop these experiments.
Edmond's lips tremble as he speaks.
...You've seen it yourself, haven't you? These experiments are going nowhere.
Every single researcher who'd ever worked here came to the same conclusion.
Dolores... please, spare yourself this torment. I really don't want...
I don't want you to become like your father.
The oppressive laboratory doors, the sickly glow of failing lights, a brooding man cradling bizarre machinery...
Edmond can't bear to see Dolores, whom he raised with his own hands, turn into another monster.
...Haha, don't even think for a second that I don't know what you're up to, Edmond. You're just after our money like everyone else!
I knew it! I KNEW it! You're—you're just like the rest of them! You're just one of those vultures! All waiting for me to surrender, waiting for me to die!
Dolores shrieks hysterically. Years of physical suffering and endless battles against all her "relatives" eyeing their fortune have transformed her into a deeply paranoid and eccentric woman.
Dolores, I'm not...
Smack—
His response comes in the form of a teapot violently hurled at his feet.
The teapot doesn't shatter. The thick carpetDput in place specifically to protect Dolores from injuryDquietly cradles the fragile porcelain.
...
She looks down at the teapot rolling across the floor, a flicker of lucidity returning to her eyes.
Dolores, you'll be alright. I'll find the finest specialists...
Edmond stoops to retrieve the teapot from the floor, his voice gentle as he tries to soothe Dolores.
Yes... of course. I won't be dying anytime soon.
Dolores speaks softly.
I won't be dying, but you, Edmond...
!
Before Edmond can react, the dark barrel of a gun is pointed squarely at the butler's chest.
Bam!
...Dolores...
Of course, I won't die, but you, Edmond, I wouldn't say the same about you.
With cold detachment, Dolores watches the butler struggle to his feet, desperate to escape. She covers her mouth to stifle a soft, delighted laugh.
I hate you, Edmond.
Father's dead. Mother's dead. I'm... I'm dying, too. Why are you still alive? Why are you still so healthy?
I hate all of you—I hate healthy humans, and I hate machines that never fall ill. Only me, only I'm trapped here, confined to this mansion waiting to die!
Why do I have to be stuck with the short end of the stick?!
(A choked sound...)
Blood bubbles from the corner of Edmond's mouth as he wobbles toward the impossibly distant door—
—then falls lifelessly to the floor.
The metallic smell of blood seeps into the silent carpet as Dolores stares unwaveringly at Edmond's lifeless body.
You can't escape, Edmond. Don't even think about leaving this place.
She forces her frail body upright and methodically connects experimental devices to Edmond's body with surprising dexterity.
Following the system prompts, she keeps her eye on the fluctuating readings on the control panel, her eyes darting across every changing number.
The experiment progress bar inches forward and briefly surpasses the critical threshold before gradually grinding to a halt.
...Tsk.
Refusing to accept failure, Dolores frantically hammers at the buttons on the control panel.
A moment later, the frozen progress bar begins to crawl forward once again.
Partial consciousness data retrieved. Consciousness match coefficient: 45%. Memory data partially corrupted.
Proceed with forced activation? Warning. This action will result in permanent memory loss.
Without a moment's hesitation, Dolores presses the "CONFIRM" button.
—(bzzzzt)...
D-Dolores.
As the loading bar reaches completion, the mechanoid that Dolores put in place long ago slowly opens its eyes on the other side of the room.
Deloris... H-Hello... Good day to you.
...Edmond?
Good—day. I am Edmond, I am—your butler.
No—no matter what happens—I will always remain loyal to you.
...Hah, yes, that's what you always used to say, Edmond. That you would always remain loyal to me... right?
The mechanoid climbs out of the chamber and stands silently behind Dolores.
That's more like it, Edmond.
I can forgive you for what you have done, but since you let those researchers go... you'll have to continue their work yourself.
Past experimental data and procedures are compiled into files and uploaded to the mechanoid's memory shell. Under Dolores' command, the mechanoid continues the hopeless experiments.
The manor remains as desolate as ever.
Dolores summons "Edmond" into her room.
We're falling behind. We need more mechanoids for this project.
Only the most powerful mechanoids can meet my requirements.
I will create for them a brand new... stage... for them to shine.
She gazes at the images of the colosseum on the screen before her, a smile slowly spreading across her face.
Some time later, the long-dormant Everett Manor suddenly becomes the source of a new sensation—
MECHANOID ARENA! ENDLESS THRILLS GUARANTEED! GUARANTEED TO GET YOUR BLOOD PUMPING!
CRAVE THE THRILL OF A COLOSSEUM? WANT TO FEEL THE RUSH OF PURE ADRENALINE BURST?
COME TO THE EVERETT ARENA NOW! CHOOSE YOUR FAVORITE GLADIATOR AND PLACE YOUR BETS!
BLOOD! EXCITEMENT! CARNAGE! ENJOY A GOOD TIME!
The virtual announcer's voice reaches the top-floor control room, slightly distorted by the thick glass barrier.
...
Through the monitor, a raging battle unfolds between mechanoids in the arena.
The horn of the rhinoceros-looking mechanoid morphs into a long blade as it charges at the human-looking mechanoid standing opposite, roaring as it goes...
In an instant, the human-looking mechanoid is shredded into flying metal shards.
Deliberately red-colored oil sprays in all directions, captivating every spectator in the stands. They cheer wildly, demanding more "explosive matches"—
Look at that, Edmond.
Yes, Master.
This is what I need. We acquire more experimental materials while squeezing every last fortune from those stupid bastards in the stands...
That's two birds, one stone, wouldn't you agree?
Yes, Master.
As the match comes to an end, the spectators cheer wildly, eagerly awaiting the next poor soul to show up.
So sit back and enjoy this ultimate entertainment, and have a wonderful evening, everyone!
With the virtual announcer's animated voice filling the arena, the stage is set for another round of gladiatorial combat.
A female mechanoid with a long tail, lance in hand, slowly steps into the gleaming spotlight at the center of the arena.
Watching the mechanoid walk into the arena, Dolores breaks into a faint smile.
Surprise me... "Veronica".
