BAD ENDING 001: Slave Walker Sonia 9 — Aftermath
"This is completely unfair! If this isn't false hope, then what is it? I didn't enlist just to be treated like this…!"
A sharp complaint erupted from the most cramped and dilapidated of the Sky City Armored Corps' private living quarters, a place steeped in bleak, sterile cold.
The stale reek of disinfectant mixed with dust stung the nostrils. Crumpled uniforms lay scattered across the floor. A desk was buried under a chaos of data screens. A bed with a cold metal frame and furniture riddled with scratches seemed to speak for the psychological state of the room's occupant.
The voice belonged to a rookie pilot who had only just graduated from the training academy. Frustration, impatience, and a jealousy she made no effort to hide filled every word as she grumbled at full volume.
Barely a month ago, she had been one of countless new recruits who watched with envy and expectation as the unit's ace pilot, Peko, strode down the corridor accompanied by a dazzlingly beautiful blonde Slave Walker Unit.
Reality was merciless. The brand of having zero field experience locked a pilot into the official designation of "rookie" and the contemptuous nickname of "chick."
A full month had slipped away since enlistment, and still her status amounted to nothing more than a trainee who had never left the simulator cockpit.
When word of PK-02 — the Slave Walker Unit Peko had secured through her own personal means — spread both inside and outside the unit, subtle ripples began to form.
Combat footage and daily logs of PK-02, perfectly conditioned and absolutely obedient to her master's every command, stirred the dark desires of certain girls with deviant inclinations.
Lewd masochists who yearned to destroy themselves, to have their personalities erased and exist solely as tools, began flocking to apply as Slave Walker Units.
Of course, the phenomenon did nothing to solve the fundamental problem. Smoothly controlling a Slave Walker — a machine as sophisticated and complex as it was — required a minimum threshold of intelligence stats.
Unfortunately, the vast majority of those extreme applicants eager to hurl themselves into the abyss of self-destruction failed to meet that intellectual standard. Their applications remained nothing more than hollow echoes buried in stacks of paperwork, and the unit's chronic shortage of Units was not eased in the slightest.
In that sense, the existence of PK-02 — the girl once called Sonia — was nothing short of a miracle. Superhuman physical ability, a psychology of perfect submission, and the exceptional intelligence required to pilot a high-performance Walker: a flawless Slave Unit combining all three.
Whether that miracle had ever been meant for anyone was a question worth pondering deeply. At the very least, it had never been a miracle for the free will of the individual named Sonia.
"That…"
The chick pilot, still drowning in endless complaints and self-pity, caught sight of a scene so unreal it nearly stripped her of her grip on reality.
At the far end of the barracks corridor, in the lounge, a Slave Walker Unit sat on a plush sofa in an impeccably proper posture. Clad in a tight black latex bodysuit that laid bare every curve of her body, the blonde beauty waited without the slightest movement — like a living doll.
"Oh…? Good morning, Pilot. It's a lovely morning."
Sensing a presence, the Unit turned her head, spotted the chick pilot, and offered a gentle, programmed smile as she greeted her warmly.
Morning sunlight poured through the window, catching her abundant golden hair and crowning it with a sacred halo. Within that light, the identification code [PK-02] etched in stark black ink across the skin of her right collarbone gleamed with a particularly cold brilliance — branding her not as a human being, but as property.
In that instant, the chick pilot's happiness circuits — which normally ran at a dim, power-saving level of resentment and self-loathing — surged past their limits and began to race wildly out of control.
Could it be… could this be a new Unit assigned to me? Is my chance finally here? Expectation bordering on pure delusion flooded her mind.
The perfect, beautiful Slave Walker Unit before her eyes looked like a sweet gift that would instantly compensate for every grievance and frustration she had endured.
"Commander, please — isn't there anything you can do? I wouldn't beg like this for just anyone, and you know that better than anyone."
"…I'd love nothing more than to help you, but even if I usually play the smooth operator, I am still the Armored Corps Commander responsible for this entire unit. There are lines I simply cannot cross for personal feelings alone, Peko."
At that same moment, on a mountainside overlooking the bustle of Sky City at a glance, the cityscape beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of a top-tier restaurant spread out like a painting.
Against that splendid backdrop, Peko sat face-to-face with her direct superior — the Armored Corps Commander and overall head of the unit.
She had been cleverly dodging these meetings under the excuse of being busy, but the Commander's final ultimatum — that if she kept avoiding him, he would have no choice but to formally invoke his personal interview authority — had forced her to raise the white flag and appear.
The fact that they were not in a stiff interview room where warnings or disciplinary measures were typically handed down, but rather in a restaurant with expensive food neatly arranged, was a silent implication that this matter would not escalate into official punishment. Having read that much, Peko mixed a touch of petulance into her carefully worded complaints.
"This place is ridiculously expensive. If I'd known you were going to call me somewhere like this, I would have brought both of my girls so they could at least get one proper meal… Don't stare at me like that. I already know exactly what you're about to say, Commander… You promised me last time. As long as I delivered results, you wouldn't make an issue of anything else."
"Results… results, is it… Yes, if the outcome is good, not interfering much with the process has always been my long-standing policy. It's easier for everyone, and it raises the efficiency of the unit as a whole. But this time, anonymous complaints poured in so heavily they nearly crashed my personal terminal. I had no choice but to call the party involved in and talk it through myself."
The Armored Corps Commander paused, tilted his wine glass, then fixed Peko with a sharp gaze as he cut to the heart of the matter.
"By the way — have you given serious thought to Milli's retirement? We need to settle that first. It's true that the premium Unit you somehow acquired last month gave our unit's combat strength a temporary breathing room, but looking at it objectively, Milli has already reached her limit. No — she surpassed it a long time ago."
Thud.
The Commander slid the data pad he had been consulting across the table and set it in front of Peko. The screen was packed with complex graphs and cold numerical values from a precision analysis of Milli's current condition.
Physical wear from prolonged overwork. Accumulated mental fatigue. Peko's claim that Milli was "simply fainting more often due to external impacts" lost every shred of persuasive power in the face of the new analysis.
The data pad recorded a shocking fact.
Milli had already suffered a system shutdown — lost consciousness entirely — of her own accord, with no external impact whatsoever, immediately after discovering Sonia, well before she was caught in the enemy drone's self-destruction while trying to save her.
It was clear, scientific proof that Milli's body and mind could no longer withstand the extreme burden of being a Slave Walker.
The tragic past of the two sisters, Peko and Milli, was an open secret within the unit. Crushing poverty had driven the younger sister, Milli, to volunteer as a Slave Walker Unit for her family's sake, and that sacrifice had allowed her older sister, Peko, to walk the path of a pilot.
Through blood and sweat, Peko had risen to become the unit's top elite pilot and earned the honor of taking Milli as her exclusive Unit — but until then, Milli had been worked to the bone around the clock as a communal Unit with no assigned master, in conditions that could only be called hell.
In the end, Milli — Peko's first Slave Walker Unit, designation PK-01 — had been thoroughly broken down to the point where she should have been put through disposal procedures long past her officially designated operational lifespan.
"I simply cannot understand what goes on inside that head of yours. When did I ever say I would scrap Milli and sell her for scrap metal? All I'm asking is that you officially retire her and let her live out the rest of her days comfortably at your side. Why are you so stubbornly opposed?"
As a general rule, once a Slave Walker Unit's operational period ended, the body was modified for other purposes — typically sold as an expensive recreational love doll for the wealthy or as a slave with full ownership rights guaranteed — and the proceeds used to purchase a new Unit. That was the unspoken law.
Knowing the sisters' pitiful circumstances, the Armored Corps Commander was exceptionally recommending an "honorable retirement" for Milli. It was a clear privilege that went beyond regulations — a personal consideration.
Faced with the kindness of a Commander who had cherished and guided her like a daughter of his own since her days as a new recruit, a mentor in all but name, Peko could no longer raise her voice. She simply hung her head.