Chapter Text
Scenario 2
The Refuelling Port
[Log Entry: No. 2 | Mountain Zone – Campsite]
“Hey… No. 2!” Sweet and boyish, the voice I’ve come to recognise as No. 9’s reaches my ears. As I slide off the boulder on which I’m sitting and turn around, I’m greeted by the sight of his panting, hunched-over form. He’s clearly arrived here in a hurry. Cradled in his arms is a flask.
I’m struck by an overpowering sense of déjà vu.
“Oh, hey there, No. 9.”
Several seconds pass while he catches his breath. “I’m sorry! I’ve been so busy with the others that I forgot to check up on you!” Straightening up, he meets my gaze. “How are you doing?”
Warmed by his concern, I offer him a small, grateful smile. “I’m fine.”
“How’s your wrist?”
I hold out the bandaged joint in question for his inspection. “The recovery process is going well, thanks to you.”
Tucking the flask into the crook of one elbow, No. 9 grasps my hand between his. Slim, delicate fingers palpate my wrist with a healer’s expertise, sending pleasant jolts up my arm. “It is healing up nicely, and I’m so glad to see that!” He says that like he means every word from the bottom of his heart. “How are your water levels?”
Now that he’s mentioned it, I can’t ignore the HUD alert indicating my water tanks are below fifty percent capacity. “It appears I’m running a bit dry.”
“Well, luckily for you I’ve brought a drink!” he chirps, releasing my hand to unscrew the cap from the flask before handing it over. I receive it wordlessly. “Y’know,” his voice quietens, and a thoughtful frown crosses his face, “I have a strange feeling this has happened before. What’s even stranger is the fact that I don’t have a memory file of the event. But I remember offering you water, and you saying the water tasted sweeter than you expected…”
“Funnily enough, I can recall the same thing,” I admit, equally perplexed at this discovery. “Which would normally be impossible, since the memory file is also absent from my databanks.”
No. 9’s frown deepens. “It can’t be a coincidence, can it? What else do you remember?”
“You told me not to be a stranger,” I reply, warmth blooming inside my chest at the recollection of that precious sentiment. “And to rest up well before tomorrow’s operation.”
“Yeah, I did,” he agrees, a fond curve to his lips. Then his frown returns. “But if your water levels aren’t refreshed and I’m bringing you a drink again… It’s like we’re doing this scenario over again, as though it never happened in the first place.”
What he’s suggesting sounds plausible enough – assuming time can bend backwards on itself like that. “That could be the case, yes.”
“Even if we’ve somehow defied the natural laws of the universe and inadvertently rewound time, it still leaves the question of why it’s happening at all. But that’s food for later thought. Right now, I’m more concerned about your health. So if you’re thirsty,” he nudges the flask, “drink up!”
Gazing into said flask, I examine the clear liquid swirling within. “That’s the thing, No. 9. Drinking wouldn’t alleviate my thirst.”
No. 9 cocks his head at me, his expression one of complete and utter befuddlement. “Huh?”
“I can’t replenish water through regular ingestion,” I elaborate.
“Oh, why didn’t you say so before? No wonder your water levels keep decreasing!”
Given the limited context, It’s not surprising that he’s arrived at this conclusion. Indeed, the issue here isn’t an omission of information, but rather a mismatch. Not that I can comprehend it myself.
“I didn’t, because on the previous occasion, I could drink to replenish water. But that uptake method doesn’t align with my documented experience. As far as I know, I’ve always fed water directly into my supply tanks through an abdominal port.”
This only serves to heighten No. 9’s confusion. “But uptaking water through a port, rather than drinking it, would require completely different engineering.”
“That’s right. It’s as though my memory self and I are two different models.”
He shakes his head, sending pale hair aflutter. “Now that really doesn’t make sense.”
“Trust me, No. 9,” I sigh, “I’m just as confused as you are.”
No. 9 contemplates the matter for another moment before giving up. “If there’s no explanation behind why we’re repeating the same event,” he splays his palms in an exaggerated shrug, “what’s another unsolvable mystery? Anyway, where exactly is this port?”
I tap my clothed navel with my free hand. “Here.”
His curiosity is evident as he glances down at the indicated body part. “The umbilicus, huh? I should’ve guessed that. Obviously yours doesn’t end in the typical cul-de-sac. Now this probably goes without saying, but you can feel the water going in, right?
“Yeah.” Although the port doesn’t open directly into my water tanks (which are located further down), the connecting ducts are fully innervated for feedback purposes.
“May I have the flask back?”
Nodding, I return the item to his waiting hands. It wouldn’t do any good in my possession, anyway.
“The water in the flask is at ambient temperature,” he explains, fishing the cap out of his pocket and screwing it back on, “which is significantly lower than our basal body temperature. Such a large temperature gap wouldn’t feel very pleasant, so I’ll warm it up for you.”
Trust No. 9 to offer so thoughtful a gesture. For maintenance routines like this, my comfort had never been a priority. It would be a novelty, receiving water that isn’t unagreeably cold for once.
“I’d appreciate that,” I reply, my lips curling upwards.
His answering smile is all toothy delight, and I feel my black box skip a beat in its pre-configured rhythm. “Alright, I’ll go do this and get the necessary equipment. Be right back!”
Enthusiastic as ever, No. 9 dashes back into the cave. A few minutes later, he wheels out an intravenous support pole, complete with associated fittings. After exchanging his usual gloves for a thinner, translucent vinyl pair, he carefully transfers the water from the flask into an IV bag. Then he hangs it up and fiddles with the tube, ensuring that all components are properly attached. Finally, he adjusts the roller clamp and fills the drip chamber to the halfway mark, before opening the clamp fully to prime the giving set with water.
“Alright, that’s all set up! I guess you’ll need to remove your jacket for this.”
I nod; that’s a normal part of the procedure. After undoing the assortment of zips and buckles, I wriggle out of the heavy leather garment and drop it on the ground. This leaves me in a close-fitting tank top, the bottom of which I untuck from my waistband and roll up to expose my navel.
As I redirect my attention to No. 9, I notice he’s gone very still, as though transfixed by my partially undressed form. Though I can’t discern the movement of his eyes behind his visor, I get the distinct feeling that I’m being… scrutinised. Now, I’m no stranger to medical exams – detached, impersonal affairs conducted by faceless medical personnel. However, there’s nothing clinical about the way No. 9 is looking at me. His expression can only be described as rapt: cheeks tinted pink and lips slightly parted. The IV tube hangs loose in his hand, seemingly forgotten.
Feeling an uncomfortable heat spread throughout my body, I clear my throat. This snaps No. 9 out of his trance, and he hastily averts his gaze, flushing a darker shade of pink.
“Uh, s-sorry!” his voice is fluttery, higher-pitched than normal. “I-I’ll get this started. Could you sit on that rock and lean back a bit, please?”
As I follow his instruction and present myself accordingly, I become more and more aware of my rising discomfiture. It churns inside my artificial stomach, a potent mix of vulnerability and anticipation. No. 9 is simply fulfilling his role as my attendant, so this shouldn’t be any different to the occasions other staff have done it, right? Why then, is my mouth dry as the desert, my black box galloping at breakneck pace?
With nozzle at the ready, No. 9 approaches, stepping in between my spread knees. The scent of yuzu fills my nostrils, and I find myself intoxicated straightaway. As his left hand alights on my abdomen – presumably to brace himself – I have to suppress the bodily impulse to jerk. It’s as though there’s electricity leaping from his fingertips, radiating across my circuits from the point of contact. This sensation is amplified all the more when he brings in his right hand, inserting the nozzle into my belly button port. Though the cool plastic is a far cry from his supple touch, it transmits that same, intense energy, leaving me a frazzled mess even as it sets my synthetic blood afire.
“This is okay, right?” Overwrought as my senses are, it takes me a moment to realise No. 9 is speaking. His gaze is trained on my face, assessing my reaction. “It doesn’t hurt or anything like that?”
Far too electrified to work my vocal processors, I give a faint nod.
“I’ll release the clamp now,” he continues. “This shouldn’t take longer than a couple of minutes.”
A click follows the deft movement of his fingers. Then water is trickling into me, pleasantly warm like he promised. But I have barely a second to savour the feeling, the contradiction of excitement and discomfort that his nearness evokes within me. Satisfied with the process, No. 9 withdraws, putting a more professional distance between us. At once, I’m shaken out of my stupor, besieged with an acute, familiar sense of loss. In an effort to stave off that emptiness, I cast my mind towards the closest topic at hand—
“No. 9?”
He swivels back in my direction. “Oh, is something the matter?”
“Earlier, you were looking at me… quite intently.”
This causes his cheeks to glow pink – a sight that grows prettier the more I see it. “I—I must apologise for staring. That was rude of me.”
“Can I ask what caught your attention?” I persist, not wanting the conversation to end before it even started. “Is there something unusual about my frame?”
It’s only after the words have left my mouth that I realise how accusatory they sound. Nevertheless, No. 9 humours me, visibly battling through his own mortification to provide an answer:
“W-Well… it’s just… you’re more well-built than I expected.”
From the way his voice diminishes to a squeak, I would’ve expected something more incriminatory in nature. His admission basically amounts to a compliment. Not that my physique deserves one, for it was a design choice made by my creators rather than myself.
“Our uniforms hide a lot, it seems. As a Defender model, my frame is reinforced for greater physical durability. However, I am modelled after a boy in late adolescence rather than a full-grown man. Compared to No. 3 and No. 4’s frames, mine is smaller and lighter.”
My exposition invites No. 9 to comment further. “But you’re still taller and bulkier than the rest of us M002 units. Heck, No. 3 described us as ‘scrawny’ when we first met!” He lets out a chortle at that. “Being M001, I shouldn’t be surprised that you look more like him and No. 4.”
I shrug. “It’s a look that matches my function, I suppose.” And that's to infiltrate M Squadron under the guise of my false designation. Since I look the part, my squadmates are less likely to question my higher strength limiters, which isn’t a D-type attribute so much as a failsafe measure to ensure that I could overpower any M unit in one-to-one combat. Moreover, my slighter frame in comparison to No. 3 and No. 4’s is a calculated design, allowing for optimal agility while minimising my height and weight disadvantage against them.
“I also think it suits you.”
Now that’s a definite compliment, however rich with unintended irony. No. 9’s visored gaze is fixed upon mine, driving home the sincerity of his statement. But I have no idea how to reply; there’s no pre-recorded response in my databanks for someone expressing their appreciation of my looks. Still, for all my social ineptitude, I know it’s awkward to leave him hanging. So I come up with a deflection instead:
“What do you think of your own frame, No. 9?”
“Mine?” He seems surprised that I’ve even asked such a question. “To be honest, I haven’t really given it much thought. I’m not a combat model, so there’s no need for me to be bigger or bulkier or anything like that. Not that our appearance is an accurate indicator of our functionality in the first place. No. 6 and I have practically the same build – he’s only a little bit more muscular than I am – but his strength and speed are on a whole different tier…”
His words are chosen to sound conversational, but there’s an underlying edge to them, something I’ve come to recognise as discontent. “Would you prefer having his specs? Would you rather be an Attacker like him?”
No. 9 shakes his head. “No. I don’t enjoy violence at all. The opposite, in fact. I like fixing broken things. I like caring for others and tending to their needs. I know these traits are programmed into me, so that I’d be inherently motivated to carry out my duty. Still, I wouldn’t want any designation other than Healer.
“Yet, at the same time,” he lowers his gaze onto his boots, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice, “I can’t stand how weak I am. Unable to fight, always needing to stay on the back lines and be protected.”
“That’s a matter of necessity,” I say in as reasonable a tone as possible. “Your role is not to fight, but to support. To mend. To nurture.”
“I know.” A heavy sigh whooshes out of him. “The squad wouldn’t be able to function properly without a healer. Someone needs to perform maintenance and repairs and backups and run all the menial errands. Like fetching everyone else water.” He jerks his head in the direction of my navel and its IV attachment. “I just wish I could do more. If only I weren’t so… useless.”
By the end of his little spiel, No. 9’s shoulders have slumped inwards, making his small frame seem even smaller. It rouses something foreign and protective inside me, coalescing into a desire to reassure him.
“I’m sure the others would beg to differ. They value what you do for them. If any situation goes badly, they can always count on you to bring them back to fighting form. It’s a special reassurance only you can provide.”
No. 9 turns to face me. Something wan forms on his lips, as though he feels obliged to show his gratitude but can’t quite manage it. “That’s a… kind thing of you to say, No. 2.”
Evidently I haven’t said enough – even if my words amount to no more than empty platitudes. “What I’m getting at is… you shouldn’t undersell yourself, No. 9. You’re trying your hardest against insurmountable odds. But M Squadron still stands today, despite suffering countless losses. This very fact is testament to your hard work.”
For several moments, No. 9 does nothing but stare at me, mouth agape. “You haven’t even seen me doing a full repair job, and yet—” he pinches his mouth shut, visibly shifting gears. “Thank you, No. 2. I appreciate your faith in me, your efforts to lay my insecurities to rest. It really means a lot to me. I can’t say that anyone else has ever considered my feelings like this.”
A more genuine smile accompanies his words, and once again, I find myself at a loss of how to respond. I’ve never been on the receiving end of such powerful sentiment.
“I-It’s—” I stutter, groping wildly for the right thing to say, “—not a problem, No. 9.”
If possible, his smile brightens. It’s so radiant a sight that it steals the air from my artificial lungs, holding me captive for a suspended moment. Then No. 9 shifts his attention back to the IV stand, finally noticing the absence of fluid movement – because all of the water has long since disappeared into me.
“Oh! We got pretty side-tracked, huh? The bag is well and truly empty. Here, let me detach this.”
He steps into my personal space a second time. Just like before, I’m abruptly seized with anticipation, my black box drumming a ever-faster staccato as his hands close the distance between us. In a motion as gentle as it is deliberate, No. 9 presses his palm against my belly. The ensuing surge of warmth is no less exhilarating than before, making my circuits spark and jitter inside me. It’s a contrast to my lack of outward reaction; being better prepared for this, I successfully maintain my stoic mask. Meanwhile, No. 9 disconnects the nozzle from my navel with a careful tug, and pulls away.
At once, the breath I’ve been holding escapes me in a noisy rush. Now that it’s over, I’m flooded with relief – but more than that, disappointment.
Picking up my jacket from the ground, No. 9 hands it back to me. It’s with a strange reluctance that I tuck in my tank top and pull the garment back on. Should I return to full modesty, it can only mean that our encounter has come to an end.
“Well, that’s that,” No. 9 says lightly, breaking the silence. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Not at all.” This constitutes both truth and lie. The onslaught of unsettling feelings aside, it’s a far better experience than the equivalent I’ve undergone on the Bunker. “And our chat was… enlightening.”
My choice of descriptor earns a brief chuckle from him. “That’s one way to put it. I guess I got my wish to know you a bit better, though I ended up talking about myself more.” He rubs his nape sheepishly. “Honestly though,” he adds, voice becoming quiet as he meets my gaze, “I really appreciate the pep talk.”
“Again,” I reply, this time with far more grace, “it’s not a problem.”
After winding the IV tube around the stand, he gathers the remaining medical paraphernalia into his pockets. “I must be off now. If you need me for anything, you know where I am! Let’s talk again soon, okay?”
Even though it's the more advisable course of action, I cannot find it within myself to refuse him. “Okay.”
“Good luck tomorrow! I’ll see you around, No. 2.”
The warmth in his voice matches his glowing expression, and I'm compelled to reply in kind. “Likewise, No. 9.”
With a cheerful wave, he departs, wheeling the IV stand back into the cave. I watch him go, my bandaged hand rising in a vain effort to stifle the pang in my heart.
I’ve made a terrible lapse in judgment, allowed my emotions to govern my actions. As No. 9's executioner, I can’t afford to become attached to him. Nor should I foster his attachment to me; it’s beyond cruel to gain his affection and trust in the face of my imminent betrayal. But as I review our latest conversation – invariably honing in on his sunny smile – I realise it’s already too late for that.