As the final rioting machine clatters to the floor, Teddy allows herself a soft sigh. She steadies her breathing, preparing to take stock of the changes to her frame.
Suddenly, countless streams of data materialize, a digital deluge overwhelming her M.I.N.D.
Her visual module flickers, projecting scenes she can't remember.
Protocol decryption is complete.
Initiating hijack.
A familiar voice reaches her ears. Is it someone important to her?
Who are those people?
Blind followers, unrealistic dreamers, and practitioners with hollow ambitions.
Is it a conversation from the past?
Can't believe you didn't tell me you were going to upgrade your frame. This suits you so much better!
Brainless idiots.
The final image shows a friend swinging a light blade toward her.
Ah, so this is where the mockery took place.
The phantom noise and images fade, allowing the world to solidify from the darkness. As the last echoes die, reality comes into focus:
...
The remains of rioting machines, scattered and silent, with Moore picking his way toward her through the debris.
You...
I'm fine.
Her consciousness has returned to her familiar frame. That new frame, which should have existed only as a data draft...
...?
("A new frame that should have existed only as a data draft"... Why did this concept come so naturally to my mind?)
Where's Moineau?
In the alley up ahead.
With a nod, Teddy makes her way into the alley.
A profound silence hangs heavy in the air.
Has she managed to stop Norman? Or have they both run off somewhere?
Yeah...
A stabbing pain pulses through her M.I.N.D. again.
Is it a lingering effect of the virus trap?
The hallucinations are returning—visual static and auditory whispers fraying the edges of her consciousness.
It whispers, "Offer up a bear."
She is about to enter the alley.
It whispers, "Bring back the spark of the divine."
What's so wrong with losing yourself in illusion?
Are you sure you want to go in?
...What?
Rounding the corner, she finds a scene of...
Devastation. The wreckage of rioting machines litters the alley, walls scarred by claws and energy weapons. The acrid smell of burning hangs thick in the air, pierced by slanted neon beams from the billboards outside.
In the center of it all stands Moineau, head bowed. Before her, Norman lies motionless in a pool of her own vital fluid.
Disheveled strands of lavender hair hide Moineau's expression.
But nothing can hide the crimson on her hands: Norman's vital fluid.
Moineau...
I was too late.
The rioting machines were too fast...
Moineau's voice reaches Teddy, flat and distant, as if through a faulty connection. Maybe her audio sensors are failing.
Can you check the area? I'm heading back.
She melts deeper into the alley and vanishes within moments.
Teddy is now left alone with Norman's corpse.
Crimson vital fluid. The same fatal wound as Christina's: a clean, precise strike through the chest, piercing the core.
The scorched bionic skin and melted components mock her with a silence that screams.
What were you looking at... Norman?
