I'm Still Alive

A week had passed since that day.

The last record confirmed by the scout drone had been clear.

When I tore the drone apart to check, its identification rate had fallen below standard. So I figured they'd come back next time to verify things properly — yet, against all expectation, there'd been no movement at all.

Of course, I hadn't been sitting on my hands while I waited.

I scavenged the area around the control center and hauled in every sensor that still worked — from ones embedded in the rail bed to obsolete equipment dumped in the nearby maintenance yards. The ones still operational, I had Narin fetch and scatter in a wide ring around the perimeter.

At first the alarms went off for mutant rats crawling under the tracks and for vagrants wandering in to collect scrap metal, but after a few days of tuning the sensitivity, they became reasonably useful. At the very least, it beat only finding out when someone had already walked up to the front door.

This was where we'd be eating and sleeping for the foreseeable future. There was no reason to fight right outside our own home — and if a stray hit collapsed a wall during the scuffle, repairs would end up on our tab anyway.

I also prepared some weapons.

My first thought was to get a few guns. Illegal firearms weren't hard to come by in the Lower Tier, and I at least knew how to shoot. But then I remembered the way Narin had caught the scout drone a few days ago — no magic, nothing, just picked the thing clean out of the air. When it came to raw strength and precision, was there really any point in arming her with a gun?

I pried apart some railway bearings left in the maintenance room and found them stuffed full of steel balls the size of a thumb joint. I handed a few to Narin and told her to throw them as a test. The steel plate I'd propped up at a distance dented inward. When I swapped in something thinner, the ball punched straight through it.

"Not bad."

"This is... really satisfying."

The gun idea was shelved. I set aside a single one for my own protection, and that was that.

"Next time, do it like last time."

"Yes, Young Master."

Narin rolled a steel ball around in her palm. She'd caught the scout drone without mana last time, so there was nothing more to explain.

The problem was that even after all the preparations were finished, nobody came.

For the first few days, the idle time was actually nice — it had been a while. But after nearly a week of nothing happening, I suppose the calm left room for my mind to wander. What was I supposed to do with my life from here on?

Right after the fall, survival had come first. Now I at least had a place to sleep, and with Narin at my side, the fear of catching a knife in some Lower Tier alley had diminished from before. What remained was the matter of this unstable, short-circuiting life circuit of mine — hardly something that could be solved overnight, so I'd have to hunt for an answer at my own pace.

And once the urgent matters got ticked off one by one, there was nothing left on the list. Empty space.

I had no intention of reclaiming the company or rebuilding ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the family. Even at the height of my success, I'd never cared about the succession contest; I wasn't about to suddenly discover loyalty to a house that was already dead. Revenge was the same.

There was no question that my second sister had opened the gates. Whatever deal had been struck afterward, I had no desire to track her down and demand to know why. Winners take everything, however they have to do it — that's what a megacorp is. For a loser like me, what mattered wasn't any of that. It was how I was going to live from now on.

A safe place to sleep. No more worrying about medical bills. A life where I never had to do something I hated just for money. I didn't need the mansion in the Upper Tier — a life where one careless flick of someone's finger could erase my home and my bank accounts in a single stroke was not an experience I was eager to repeat. Once was plenty.

Just my own home and my own money. And an environment where I could protect them without watching anyone's face for permission. That much was enough.

Which meant the first order of business was clearing away whatever threatened that life. The bastards who wanted to "recover" Narin. I had no intention of hunting down my enemies for revenge — but people who came crashing into the life I was quietly trying to live? There was no reason to forgive them for that.

"They're slow to show."

Narin turned from the window. "Want me to go find them?"

"Find them where?"

"If I wander around, I'll find them. And if I find them, I'll catch them and bring them back."

Her face said just trust me and leave it to me. Last week she'd been begging me to run away with her; I gave her one word of trust, and now she was offering to haul my enemies in like groceries.

"No. Don't move first."

"I could be quick about it."

"That drone last time couldn't even get a clean ID on you. There's no reason for us to go traipsing around multiplying our trail."

I hated waiting indefinitely, sure. But combing the Lower Tier for people whose location I didn't even know? I hated that more. If they'd come to check once, they'd inevitably circle back. I could gather more information when they did, and plan from there.

"Just wait a little longer."

"Yes, Young Master."

After that, there was truly nothing left to do. The terminal turned up no new signals, and the scout drone had already been dissected as far as it would go. I drifted aimlessly around the control center and finally wandered into my room — the one Narin had rebuilt from memory into a rough copy of my old one.

When I pulled open the lower desk drawer, something round rolled out from the back.

Boing—.

A small rubber ball. The color had all but faded, and the surface was cracked in places.

"Why is this in here?"

At the sound of my voice, Narin came into the room. When I held up the ball, her steps quickened.

"Is that yours?"

"Yes."

"Why did you put it in my drawer?"

"You gave it to me."

"I did?"

I looked at the ball again. I had no memory of buying it, or of giving it to her.

"When?"

"When we first started living together."

That would be almost eighteen years ago. It wasn't exactly strange that I didn't remember. I pressed a finger into it; the rubber had gone fairly hard.

"At this point, shouldn't you just throw it away?"

Narin's gaze dropped to the ball. Her answer, after a pause, was a little smaller than usual.

"...Yes."

From her reaction, it had clearly been a treasured thing. Over a ball like this.

Looking again, though, it wasn't so far gone that it would rot apart tomorrow. Without thinking much about it, I bounced it off ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my hand.

Tok.

The ball struck the wall, bounced twice off the floor, and rolled off beside the sofa. Narin's eyes followed it all the way down. Then she walked straight over, picked it up, and came back to stand in front of me.

"Here."

"I didn't tell you to fetch it."

"You threw it."

Well, she had a point. I took the ball. Narin just stood there in front of me, her eyes glued to it in my hand.

I tossed it toward the door, and she shot after it instantly. It ricocheted off a desk leg and changed direction, but she caught it and brought it right back. Again. This time behind the sofa. Found it in seconds. After a few rounds, before my arm even moved, she was already shifting into a ready stance as if trying to read where I'd throw next.

Pointlessly serious about it.

"Having fun?"

"Yes."

"You never did this by yourself?"

"It's meaningless alone."

"You could throw it and fetch it yourself, same as this."

"But then you're not the one throwing it."

She held the ball out to me again.

...Was that what mattered? I couldn't say I understood — but somewhere along the way, watching her, I'd gotten quietly absorbed in it myself. I rolled the ball around in my palm.

"This one's going to be harder."

"Throw it however you like."

Let's see if she catches this. Just as I raised my arm—

Beep—.

A short alarm chimed from the terminal. Narin's head snapped up.

Beep. Beep.

Within seconds, responses were ringing from other points. Signals from the sensors laid along the perimeter. Narin set the ball down on the sofa with careful precision, then grabbed the small pouch she'd left beside the entrance. Steel balls clinked together inside it.

Our eyes met for only a moment. Then she was gone.

I picked up the terminal in the living room. Red dots were blooming across the screen. Ten. Then the number climbed. Thirteen. Sixteen. And twenty. There it stopped.

"That's quite a crowd."

One of the dots, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠closing in from the outer ring, suddenly halted, flickered briefly — and vanished. Two more nearby went dark right after.

KRAKOOM—!

Simultaneously, the distant sound of metal detonating reached us, faint but unmistakable.

After that, it was fast. The twenty markers dropped below half in the blink of an eye. The few remaining dots changed course — running, it seemed. They didn't get far, of course. It took less than a few minutes for the last one to go out.

I stared at the empty screen.

Glad I prepped those steel balls.

It was definitely quicker than last time. After confirming no additional signals had been picked up, I grabbed the maintenance terminal and my gloves. Finding where the last signal had died wasn't hard — the trail was practically advertising itself halfway there.

Black metal fragments embedded in the wall. A crumpled section of chassis, steel balls scattered across the ground. Deeper in, the smell of scorched circuitry joined the air. A film of black oil spread across the coolant running beneath the rails, and severed wiring spat the occasional blue spark.

At this point, following the signals was pure formality.

At the end of the trail sat Narin. Flying drones, four-legged crawlers — wreckage lay strewn all around her, and not a single unit was still moving. She was picking her way through it, checking the machines for any lingering response. Two steel balls, the unused surplus, hung in her hand.

Only when I drew close did she seem to finish, turning straight toward me.

"Any injuries?"

"None."

"People?"

"All machines."

Good enough. I crouched in front of the most intact-looking unit. Far bigger than the scout drone from last time. When I pried open the dented casing, the first thing to come out wasn't a gun. A thickly folded wire mesh. Restraints sized to fit a human's arms and legs. And inside the short launch mechanism, instead of bullets, long metal needles.

A design devoted entirely to immobilizing rather than killing.

"So that's what they meant."

The word from the scout drone surfaced again — recovery. If the goal had been to kill, there'd have been no reason to kit out with this kind of equipment. From the start, they'd intended to take Narin back alive.

I dug a little deeper into the chassis. A row of small cartridges sat slotted into one side. One of them, whether from the impact or not, bore a hairline crack. When I eased it out, liquid began seeping through the gap, and an unfamiliar chemical smell spread through the air.

"Hnn—!"

Until a moment ago, Narin had been right behind me. I turned to find she'd backed away a full step, staring only at my hand. Her golden eyes wouldn't leave the cartridge.

"What's wrong?"

"...I don't like that thing."

"Do you know what it is?"

Narin thought for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't know."

And yet she didn't come any closer. When the smell drifted toward her again, she wrinkled her nose and retreated another half step.

"I don't know what it is, but I hate the smell so much."

I set the cartridge down. She didn't remember it herself; pressing her for more would lead nowhere. I turned back to the machine's interior. Beside the control module, a tiny light was blinking faintly. Not quite dead, then.

The moment I reached toward it—

BEEEEEP—.

A short electronic tone rang out. Narin's whole body went rigid for an instant. Her right hand moved toward the machine — and stopped.

"You don't like this sound either?"

"...No."

"If it bothers you, step away."

"No. I'm fine."

This time she didn't retreat. If anything, she edged closer to my side.

Kzzt—.

Static hissed from inside the control module.

One cracked lens swiveled. Its direction was aimed precisely at Narin. Numbers raced up the damaged screen, and a moment later, an identification code I'd never seen before appeared.

"That's not me."

Narin's voice layered over the machine drone.

"What isn't?"

"That."

Narin, who'd been staring at the screen, turned toward me. "That's not my name. I'm Narin. The name you gave me."

"I know."

It was the name I'd given her. Whatever a broken machine chose to call her changed nothing. The comms module was already destroyed — no signal was going anywhere. But listening to it was unpleasant, so I cut the remaining power entirely.

"Here it is."

Tucked behind the control module was a small storage unit. To distinguish a target in the field, it would have to carry at least a minimal set of data. I tore off the surrounding board, extracted the unit, and connected it to the maintenance terminal.

There weren't many files. Equipment operation logs. Capture-gear status. And a single profile for target identification.

At the top of the profile sat the same code as before. R-359. Below it stretched a long string of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unreadable biometric comparison values. I scrolled down. The moment an image file loaded, my finger stopped.

A little girl standing before a gray wall. Far younger than the Narin I knew — but recognizing her wasn't hard. Those eyes. That face. It was burned into my memory.

Eighteen years ago. The tiny kid I'd found on my way back from a trip down to the Lower Tier. A child slumped against an alley wall in clothes caked with blood and dust. That day, in the red glow wrapping around that small body, I had seen the color black.

"Narin."

She was peering at the screen beside me too.

"This is you, isn't it?"

"It's me."

"Do you remember this being taken?"

"I don't remember."

I checked the timestamp beside the photo. It wasn't from after I'd brought Narin home. It was from before. Which meant at least one thing was certain: before Narin ever stood in that alley, someone already knew this child existed. Not by name. By the code R-359.

I scrolled a little further down the profile. A short status record appeared.

My hand stopped moving. Directly below it was one more line: disposal processing finished.

I turned my head. Narin was standing there, perfectly fine. So fine, in fact, that she'd just single-handedly smashed twenty machines to pieces.

I looked back at the screen. Disposal date: Cairm Year 122. It was Year 142 now. So roughly twenty years ago.

I was still turning it over in my head when Narin prodded my arm from the side. "Young Master."

Her face looked faintly tense. I could see her fingers fidgeting, hesitating over something. Was she about to bring up something serious? My guard was half up before I knew it—

"I'm still alive, you know. I'm not a ghost."

"...I can see that."