Story Reader / Floating Record / ER10 Deceivers' Rapture / Story
The same metal walls. The same low ceiling.
Even with the advanced airflow circulation in Babylonia, the air remains just as heavy and clinging as before.
...Why don't you tell me where the members of the Polard Agency come from, Ms. Palangoski?
By Collins's standards, he's actually speaking quite gently at the moment. Still, the woman wants no part of his dagger behind his smile.
You already know everything.
Polard Orphanage. You kidnapped those children.
I never forced them into anything—they were all children with nowhere else to go. And frankly, back in the beginning, almost every candidate was brought in by Rosewater...
And that guy? He's been dead for years, right? Let me check... the cause of death...
With a deliberately over-the-top flourish, Collins pulls up a dusty old mission report on the terminal screen.
...Abandoning the Las Prados Intelligence Station, using Monzano to eliminate him, giving Discord more operational freedom—these were all the old man's own orders.
This isn't a plea—it's a statement of fact. She knows that no amount of truth will change the outcome of this hearing.
Now, where were we? Child candidates? Let's continue.
Children are far more manageable, and their bodies adapt so much more readily. Thanks to the Agency's efforts, Kurono now commands a fully trained corps of operatives.
During those grueling days when we challenged the World Government's Security Intelligence Bureau, the Polard Agency stood as our most dependable sword and shield.
Oh? Heheh...
He lets out a low, twisted snort of a laugh.
You really think sweet-talking your way through this will knock a few years off your sentence? Don't forget—the Polard Orphanage wasn't founded just to train agents.
If your story holds up, then why did the Polard Agency switch to recruiting adults later on?
Gestalt, the Zero-point Engine, budget proposals... When the Organization handed all that priceless intel over to the old man, no one bothered to ask where we got our agents.
Don't get me wrong. The old man has no intention of overlooking your contribution.
But you know how it goes—after all, Babylonia inherited the World Government's authority, so we still have to abide by the rules.
Ever vigilant. Keep Kurono's interests above all else... What else do you want to hear?
The former intelligence director suddenly grows weary of the status quo. She has interrogated countless individuals, and deep down, she's always known betrayal would one day come knocking at her door.
But she's never been the kind of person who just stands there and takes a beating.
What have YOU sacrificed?! Anyone who only scrapes by to save their own skin has no right to judge me!
She snaps back with a fierce retort.
What have I sacrificed? My peace, my kindness—are those the trite answers you're looking for?!
Make no mistake: you're not pushing Kurono's agenda—you're putting it all on the line for the future of humankind!
Rules, bylaws, and so-called "humanitarian" acts rushed through just to keep people quiet... If we actually stuck to them, we wouldn't even be able to form our first Construct line of defense when the Punishing Virus strikes!
We're all damned by our own deeds—and we've thrown away every ounce of our dignity for the sake of someone else's tomorrow!
Don't question where I stand.
The muscles in his cheeks pull tight, carving deep lines—raw fury that stands in stark contrast to his former polished facade.
...And please, don't make this difficult for me. File an official interrogation report with the Parliament, and we'll leave all this behind us.
As soon as we confirm that we're no longer breaking anyone's voluntary rights, both the Construct Research initiative and Project Winter can resume full steam ahead.
Collins rarely ever loses his composure. But for Kurono to establish a foothold in Babylonia—and for his bold vision to truly take root—he's willing to set aside his own pride.
Evolution doesn't wait for anyone—and neither does the ever-escalating Punishing calamity.
...When we selected those children all those years ago, we cared about more than just their natural talent.
We place great importance on the mind.
This little town starts off as just an air force base accessory—until a wealthy mogul named Fred Sinclair invests generously and transforms it into an oasis of milk and honey deep in the desert.
Casinos, luxury resorts, biome parks brimming with synthetic life, and round-the-clock festivities—Las Prados is a city built to revel in unbridled pleasure.
Whenever the streamlined silver express glides across the desert, there's always at least one traveler who isn't napping or savoring their meal. With a single glance outside, that fortunate onlooker spots a shimmering skyline at the horizon of endless sand and cacti.
So sudden, yet so captivating. Under the glaring sun or the silvery moon, the Lucky 38 Casino's spiral tower rises beside the crimson peaks on the horizon, its radiance stirring hearts with every glimmer.
In that very moment, the first traveler to witness this breathtaking view often goes rigid with awe, unable to tear their gaze away.
Then, as soon as they recover, they call out to everyone on board the special train: "It's Las Prados! We've made it!"
But none of this has anything to do with the outcasts living on the streets.
There's no sign saying I can't park here!
The man shoots an annoyed look at his hydrogen-powered car parked by the curb. The nearby meter blinks a bold "Pay".
Unfortunately, his beloved ride has already been impounded.
Let me check... During rush hour, parking on Central Avenue is off-limits. Everywhere else follows the standard rate of... with the fee breakdown charged by the hour...
He leans forward, squinting at the microscopic, almost insect-sized text beneath the fare display, quietly reading it under his breath.
Fine, fine... It's bad enough the arcade bleeds me dry, and now this crummy road has to pick my pockets too.
You want my money? Sure, take it!
The man wears a long-suffering expression and runs the card he's carrying across the console.
Nothing happens on the display, and the red lock light under the tire stubbornly stays lit.
Huh? You've got to be kidding me—this dump still makes you pay with tokens?
He slams his foot against the fare meter's thin post, pouring all his anger into a rebellion against these merciless rules.
Wow, what a dinosaur. Even the dealers are AI these days—why make such a fuss over tiny details?
If I still had a single copper or gold coin to my name, do you really think I'd be in such a hurry?
He grumbles nonstop, circling the vehicle as if he might magically unlock it just by walking around.
Sir...
Excuse me, sir.
He has no idea there's a little figure in a cloak standing right behind him.
It's a blue-haired girl whose dirty cheeks make him think of the grimy smears you'd see on old machinery when it fails.
Look, I'm sorry—I've already had the worst day! Go find someone else to bother!
As if he's still fuming, he throws one last furious glare at the sprawling entertainment complex in the distance.
See over there? Those folks are rolling in cash—more than they could ever spend. If you can find your way in, don't be shy—just ask them for whatever you need!
No, that's not it... I can help you.
Huh?
Without another word, the wandering girl walks directly to the fare meter. From under her cloak, she produces a simple necklace—a thin cord threaded through a small piece of metal.
Whoa, whoa—hold on! What do you think you're doing?!
She pays no mind to the driver's frantic shouts. Instead, she lifts the thin cord and gingerly slips the metal piece into the fare meter's coin slot.
Ugh...
His expression shifts as realization dawns on him, and he steps back to watch the spectacle unfold before his eyes.
The girl gauges her force with pinpoint accuracy.
Click
Did it work?
Yes.
The indicator flickers green for a split second, instantly erasing the source of the driver's mounting frustration on the dashboard.
The girl takes the slender cord and carefully wraps it around the metal shard, as if cradling an infant in soft blankets.
Little girl...
He runs a hand along his chin, eyeing the security lock that was cracked in no time. With a soft "tsk", he offers a mock-impressed remark.
But really—what's the point? I'm guessing you don't have any fancy gadget to receive money transfers anyway. So tell me, how should I pay you back?
Once he opens the car door, his voice shifts into a blatantly insincere drawl.
If fate allows us to meet again someday, then perhaps we...
It's all right, sir.
If you ever come across another child like me, someone still holding on to their food vouchers or tokens... please remember to lend them a hand.
The cloaked girl does a small twirl, slips out of the parking space, and vanishes swiftly around the corner.
...
Beneath the umbrella across the street, a sharply dressed agent observes everything with unwavering focus.
Her nerves are on edge. Vigilance is second nature, but that minor incident just moments ago has left her unaware of her surroundings.
She's being followed.
To make matters worse, the alley ahead is a dead end.
I'd like to have a chat with you, if that's alright?
It's nothing like she expected—there's not a trace of menace in his voice. He even keeps a few paces back, giving her plenty of space to breathe.
...
For now, at least she's not in any trouble.
Let's play a game.
He retrieves a small metal disc—no bigger than a thumb—from his suit pocket and shows it in the center of his palm.
This little coin isn't like those flashy tokens you can only use at the City of Entertainment. Back when Las Prados was just a humble ranching town—long, long ago—people used coins like this as real money.
He keeps it as brief as possible while explaining where the game item comes from.
So, what's it worth in credits these days?
In that instant, the man allows himself the slightest of smiles.
Don't worry. Any seasoned collector with a keen eye knows just how valuable this antique is.
Got a good look? The front side shows an old man's portrait, and on the back...
He balances the circular token on the back of his hand, then gives it a light flick with his fingertip.
It looks like a vicious bird, with some strange letters I can't decipher.
She can make out the spinning coin's tiniest details from here—her keen vision is nothing short of extraordinary.
Satisfied, he moves the conversation forward.
We'll play with this coin—if you win, you can keep it.
...
She keeps her face tucked beneath the cloak, wary of being seen—yet she still gives a small nod.
The rules are simple. I'll flip this coin and catch it. Before I open my hand, you tell me—will it be the old man's face or the eagle?
I understand.
Let's begin.
He tosses the small coin into the air with a sharp flick of his thumb and forefinger, then spreads his other hand wide, suspended in midair.
The instant that coin meets his skin, he slams his fist shut with unyielding force.
The old man!
The stranger extends his hand, each finger unfolding with deliberate care. In the sunlight, the weathered portrait of an old man shimmers like a gem.
The girl stands motionless, lifting her head for just a moment. In her eyes, he glimpses a flicker of fear, wariness... and an unspoken plea.
He inches closer, step by measured step.
As promised, this is yours now.
Like a wary stray drawn by the promise of food, the girl shuffles closer in tiny steps, her eyes locked on that circular object.
In a flash, she slips her hand out from beneath her cloak and snatches her belonging from the man's palm.
That coin you're so fond of—what does it look like? Think I could have a peek?
The girl jolts backward in a sudden, startled step.
That's definitely not a coin.
It's... something left behind on that puppy.
With the prize she just won growing warm in her hand, a sudden pang of sadness washes over her.
Oh, I almost forgot—I haven't even asked your name yet. I'm Rosewater, the tailor.
It's as though a single word hit a raw nerve; the girl's lips start quivering.
...Discord.
My name is Discord.
With those words, she takes out a tiny bundle tied with the thin cord, revealing just a corner of her precious treasure under his gaze.
Only now does he notice—it isn't a coin at all.
It's a dog tag, with dried bloodstains from long ago still visible.
Discord, have you come across a place called Polard Orphanage before?
He doesn't want to do this; he never puts stock in destiny.
Even though these homeless children are a burden no authority wants to claim, they still receive vaccinations at the temporary shelter to protect public health.
Because of this, every potential candidate's file is documented in exhaustive detail.
But luck is beyond genetic measurement—and it's one of the key factors in the lateral screening process.
The instant he poses his question, he has already condemned the girl. Yet he has no choice but to follow through.
Outskirts of Las Prados
Polard Orphanage
...The psychological assessment is finished. Candidate Discord has successfully cleared the final evaluation.
Take her to see the others, and don't forget the plastic restraints. Then go over the basic rules with her again.
Leaving the rare paper files on the desk, the woman steps away and exits the room.
Rosewater keeps his eyes fixed on the anatomical chart hanging behind the door. The vivid, hand-sketched illustration is unsettling—a tangle of red, yellow, and white forming a bizarre, petal-like shape. It's the human brain.
May the Lord forgive us.
...
A training uniform isn't bad at all. Compared to some ragged cloak, this thing's practically comfortable.
Yet for children who wander the alleys, cleanliness feels almost offensive. The clothes they expect to be grimy but comforting are, instead, polished smooth—like the carved reliefs you'd find in a gaudy entertainment hall.
First rule: You must remain in either your standard uniform or training fatigues at all times—unless it's after lights-out.
Second: Follow the instructor's whistle and every command—no exceptions.
Third... you must strap your wrists to the bedframe before you sleep, so the wolves won't feast on you in the dead of night,
A slender, well-defined hand offers a bright orange-yellow bar, roughly the width of two fingers.
This is your dorm. Tomorrow at five on the dot, the whistle sounds for wake-up. Meet in the courtyard for morning drills—don't be late.
She peers at the flat, ordinary-looking tool, curiosity flickering in her eyes as she wonders what it might be.
She doesn't notice her contact slipping out of the room, nor does she sense the growing cluster of hostile stares creeping ever closer.
Hey, new kid!
Hey, I'm talking to you! Didn't you hear me?
At the command of the two leading the group, the gathered children surge forward, driving the girl into a corner by the door.
Where are you from?
She stands there, a bit out of it, her thoughts still lingering on that slender piece in her hand.
Maybe it's because this is the first time in days she's had a proper meal. The woman dressed in lavish attire just brings her to the deserted orphanage cafeteria for a spread of ham slices, mashed potatoes soaked in gravy, and crushed chocolate cookies.
The sudden rush of sugar seems like a luxury her mind can't quite process, slowing her down considerably.
Could she be mute?
The ringleader ends her remark with an exaggerated, mocking laugh.
The children burst into laughter. It's not really out of malice—it's more like they're simply following the crowd.
...I can speak.
After a pause, she lifts her head and offers the simplest possible reply.
So you can speak after all—guess that makes you a dope instead of a mute!
When did we start letting dimwits in here? That old hag's really gone off her rocker!
This suffocating brutality is a whole new extreme—especially when set against the calculated apathy the adults once displayed.
Listen up, Polard doesn't take in freeloaders.
Make sure you finish that reflex training properly—only then can we eat well, sleep well!
If anyone starts slowing us down, we'll...
She lunges forward, practically flattening Discord against the wall.
She has no idea what "reflex training" is, but she understands all too well the fate that awaits her if she disobeys.
I understand.
The newcomer's voice is utterly devoid of emotion, sounding almost mechanical.
Their brazen malice feels like a punch landing on soft padding, leaving the bullies completely off-balance.
...What are you holding in your hand?
The sidekick spots something odd about the girl's other hand and roughly wraps his own fingers around it.
He's so strong that Discord can't help but be taken aback.
A group of unfamiliar kids seizes the tag.
Give it back!
No sooner does she shout than she feels her arms locked in place by the culprit.
And just like that, the metal tag lands in the ringleader's hands.
Um... so it's two circles, right? A stick, and...?
The girl locks her gaze on the pattern, looking completely baffled. It's a sight Discord knows well—any kid who's never had a proper education and ends up begging in the streets wears that same look the moment they see writing.
Free her!
A piercing voice rings out from the bunk at the far end of the dorm.
To Discord's surprise, the crowd parts of its own accord.
Second: Follow the instructor's whistle and every command—no exceptions.
But that was no simple whistle.
A tall silhouette drifts toward the entrance, each step placed with a dancer's precise grace.
Compared to those rowdy brats, they might as well be from another planet.
Hello there, I'm Eleanor. Welcome to Polard!
A stranger graciously offers a hand to Discord.
The ones who used to torment her feel no trace of that same delight. They shrink away, as if they've just caught a whiff of some unseen plague.
What is this weird stuff? I'm giving it back!
She jolts as if a bug just stung her, then flicks her wrist and hands the scrap of metal back to its owner.
The crowd scatters in no time, and everyone drifts back to their own bunks.
It's at this moment that Discord notices those impossibly smooth fingertips peeking out from lavish, ruffled floral cuffs.
First rule: You must remain in either your standard uniform or training fatigues at all times—unless it's after lights-out.
But that dress clearly doesn't fit into either category.
I am Discord. Thank you.
Her palm feels as cold as an early winter spring—biting and sharp. The absence of warmth unsettles her just enough to make her uneasy.
BEEEEEP—
A piercing whistle echoes through the corridor. No further instructions are needed; the children move in lockstep, like precision-built machines carrying out the same routine.
Jackets off, neatly folded, tucked into the wardrobe. A tap on the integrated forearm terminal of their undershirt. Bedding unfurled. They lie down.
Every sound they make is perfectly synchronized, without a single moment out of place.
Bedtime already, huh...
When she snaps out of it, she realizes it's just her and Eleanor left standing in the room.
She reaches for the zipper on her training suit, only to feel a cold hand gripping hers.
Shh.
She gestures for Discord to wait just a moment.
A chorus of crisp clicks echoes through the dim dormitory. The children, nestled under their blankets, carry out their last bedtime ritual: pressing one wrist against the metal bedframe, then snapping the orange band into place with a swift flick.
What appears to be a sturdy frame instantly folds in on itself, taking the shape of a handcuff.
Come on—your bed's right here next to mine.
Discord's gut feeling says that "maiden" suits the poised figure in front of her. She can't even recall which club she picked up that word from.
Eleanor guides her to the far corner of the room. To her surprise, there's a tiny vent window set into the wall.
Ever think about how a restraint strap could double as a musical instrument?
I don't understand.
Kind of like a pipe you can blow a tune through, or a little string that hums the moment you pluck it?
It's a straightforward thought, though a bit out there. Eleanor offers a gentle smile and carries on.
Just like this.
With her delicate, pale fingertip, she raises the small orange piece, letting it settle near the slim metal rim of the nightstand.
Eleanor reaches out her other hand, laying it gently over one end of the restraint.
It's all about the right amount of force.
She flicks her fingertip ever so slightly, sending the slender band vibrating against the metal surface and eliciting a soft, strangely captivating chime.
!!
Her inhale is so soft, it's as though she's afraid to disturb the music.
Shall I go on? This piece happens to be one of my favorites.
She repeats the motion, and the clear, delicate notes permeate the hush around them, wrapping the narrow gap between the beds in a gentle melody.
Third... you must strap your wrists to the bedframe before you sleep, so the wolves won't feast on you in the dead of night,
Ultimately, we've all grown past the point where a tale like this could scare us.
In the darkness, Discord picks up the soft sound of rustling—children, their instincts molded by obedience, twisting under the covers in a push and pull of yearning and rebellion.
Yes... so many once-bright hopes have been subdued and turned into fear.
In a heartbeat, that passage comes to a close.
Would you like to try?
I... I don't understand.
No worries. Take your time.
Observing the anxious child fasten the restraint to the bed's headboard, the girl gently directs her hand to rest at the first notes of the performance.
Knock
An unsettling noise echoes out, but thanks to the instrument's small size, it isn't quite as jarring.
Hehehe... HAHAHA!
See? It's so easy to make it sing.
Discord notices Eleanor struggling to hold back her laughter, but in the end she just lets it burst out.
A life of hardship has sharpened her senses, allowing her to pick up on even the faintest trace of malice.
Yet to her ears, there's not a hint of ridicule in that laugh. It's the only warmth in this otherwise frigid dorm.
For reasons she can't quite explain, Discord suddenly recalls the cafeteria's towering mound of hot mashed potatoes smothered in gravy.
I guess... it's even cozier than a bellyful of mashed potatoes.
But now... it feels off—doesn't have the same ring to it.
She blushes, feeling a bit self-conscious.
Then how about you play backup for me next time?
Alright, I'll give it a shot.
The silver-haired girl before seems like a bird cloaked in a sheer veil, reaching out to her through the endless gray hush.
Eleanor gently takes her hand and strums the slender, warm-hued instrument again.
Honestly, no matter how I play it, the sound stays so flat—it's nowhere near pleasing to the ear.
But in Discord's memory, the melody is tender and soothing—almost like a lullaby. Before long, soft snores drift through the room.
Silken strands of moonlight filter in through the round vents, leaving a fractured lunar glow across the wooden planks.
...So this Eleanor—is she the one who later became Eleanor Sinclair? The heiress to Las Prados?
Yes. After her adoptive parents passed away in an accident, she was then taken in by her adoptive father's sister, Monzano. She's been missing ever since.
It seems certain that she and Monzano meet their end in Las Prados during the height of the outbreak.
Who would've guessed that little blue-haired girl has such a heartbreaking past...
That phony look the woman can't stand creeps back onto his face.
How can this institution possibly allow a candidate who breaks the rules to do whatever they please?
Collins abruptly changes the subject.
It's connected to our training program.
Knowledge can be taught or even erased, but only conditioned responses stay branded deep within the nerves.
We don't contaminate those specially chosen minds with indoctrination. Instead, we keep each candidate's body in working order through obedience trials and mandatory fitness drills.
The body is nothing but a vessel for the mind. Such cold-bloodedness... I like it.
I don't recall asking for your running commentary.
This protracted account casts her as the keeper of the past, if only for a fleeting moment. In that instant, the woman briefly reclaims her lost majesty.
Hey, there's no need to get worked up. I'm still dying to know how this story concludes.
...Progress on the death-row inmate experiments crawls along at a snail's pace. These so-called mad scientists think they can skip straight to uploading, merging, or even transferring Memory—pure fantasy if you ask me.
That's why the old man gave the go-ahead for us to use these candidates directly in wetware Construct trials when the moment is right.
Project Winter wound up taking that same misguided detour, didn't it? Tch—humans never learn from their mistakes.
Speaking of which, our people recently swung by Fort Winter for the first time in ages, pressing that stubborn old relic Godwin to shift his research toward military Constructs as soon as possible.
Even though you've faced countless setbacks, all your hard work is finally paying off right when humanity needs it most...
It won't be long before none of this has anything to do with me.
Don't be so pessimistic... Now, where were we? Eleanor?
That girl stands out as the strongest candidate by every standard.
We hold dance classes to improve their physical coordination. They don't need to grasp chords or notes; they just need to follow the melody and match their movements accordingly.
Before long, we realize that after just one session, Eleanor can recreate the music on her own portable device.
Finch–Franks IQ Scale, B7 Behavioral Recognition Template, Existence Quantification Cognition...
In every test, Eleanor outperforms all the other candidates.
Oh, I see how it is... That poor girl who's about to have her brain cut open first—she's pretty unfortunate, isn't she? If she wants to doll herself up or do something outrageous, well... let her knock herself out.
He pays no mind to her exaggerated eye roll, firing back with a deadpan jab.
...But the experiment the old man is counting on never happens.
Still not finished? I'm about to run out of space in my report.
Oh, right—what was that tune Eleanor played for the blue-haired kid?
...I had no idea you could still find the time for something so idle.
A very classic choice, nothing special about it.
Franz Liszt, "Tannhauser" Overture.
