Week 2: Crushing the Seraphim
Skipping the flashbacks this time around for the Week 2 test matches on the trial Nexus. Nothing particularly memorable stood out. After my first fight with Gabriel, the battles kept coming day after day against Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Barachiel, and the rest, steadily piling up the data.
On the final day, we ran back-to-back matches—two opponents, morning and afternoon—to wrap up the trial Nexus test contract.
"You seemed to get more and more proficient at handling the Fallen Angel as the days went on."
Evening debrief. Midway through, the broker slid a tablet my way. It held data files from every Nexus skirmish. And there was one item showing a steady linear increase: durability at end of engagement.
My fight with Gabriel had ended in a narrow win on my side. But as we progressed, the margin grew little by little until...
"They were saying it felt like you were dojo-hopping or something. Like you had to smash their faces in to feel satisfied. Seraphiel was just complaining about it."
By the last test match, I'd claimed victory with 70% durability left. An overwhelming win, plain and simple.
And Seraphiel's rank is 17th—higher than Gabriel's.
Even if it was just a test match. Even accounting for the performance gap in the machines. It wasn't easy to swallow defeat to some freelance merc who rolled in from outside.
At least it stopped at complaints since it was a test. Small mercies.
The broker took the tablet back. He gathered the remaining files, tidying up as he wrapped things.
"Well, that concludes the contract. When are you heading out? Like I said, Archangel thinks highly of you. If you've changed your mind, you can say so even now."
"Dawn... latest by morning. Tell the guard unit."
"Understood. We'll do that. Now, about the payment."
The broker stood, pulling my wheelchair as we left the office together.
"You've eaten dinner, right?"
I nodded, and he looked ahead. Our footsteps echoed down the stark white corridor—clack, clack.
"Then we can head straight there. Destination's Archangel's medical wing."
The analyst read the transmitted data aloud. Beyond that tiny window, on that small screen, the massive conference room looked pathetically cramped and comical.
Sitting ominously across the dark conference table was the lead overseer for Project Fallen Angel.
"Yeah, I see it."
The Fallen Angel's system load graph jumped out. A sharp spike at the start, then tapering off. But this wasn't Rabe. Wasn't Lucifer's data.
Anon's data.
That rookie merc. Well, six months since debut, so "rookie" felt off now. Anyway, he showed the exact same results as Rabe.
I'd suspected as much.
Just like with Anon, I'd tried linking—and bailed out scared. Their common thread? Obviously.
Variable Risk: Rank S.
The analyst scratched his head, looking troubled.
"I wanted anyone to be able to pilot this thing, if possible."
"But things don't work out that conveniently, it seems. We'll keep iterating improvements... but."
Even the analyst lacked conviction. Could they really block that linkage, that tech prowess, in the Fallen Angel? Redesigning from the ground up would gut the next-gen Nexus performance they'd planned for. Dead end.
"With results like this, we have to go with what the data says. What's your take?"
"On Fallen Angel's development. Is the direction right? A Nexus anyone can pilot—but fatal to anyone?"
The lead pondered. To the analyst, it looked like a kid wrestling a math problem—endearingly cute, despite being older.
"No, you know the answer. You're just not saying it. That's the attitude I hate most. Spit it out."
The lead scowled in dissatisfaction, then squeezed out an answer.
"Exactly. So the answer's obvious. Right now, scour the earth—you won't find anyone else who can properly handle Fallen Angel besides those two."
"Slap a premium price tag on 'em. That should balance the books, right?"
The lead snapped back.
"No."
The analyst stated flatly, chuckling. The most absurd suggestion yet.
"From what I've seen, those two aren't the type to be tied down anywhere. You know the saying: the bird that flies farthest is the one unbound by any perch."
"Oh, you knew it too? Thought I was the only one left who did."
As the lead said, nothing flies eternally. Still, the analyst pressed on.
"But if you wait for it to land, you'll die of a stiff neck first. Chase it, and your eyes might cramp instead."
"Yeah. Be careful."
In the end, no positive response from the lead. He glared at the analyst a moment, then spoke.
Click. The feed cut to black.
He stared at the darkened laptop screen, then...
"Hoo."
Sank back into his chair.
"That's why I can't stand materialists."
Shove the truth in their face, and they won't swallow. Even if problems arose, it was never their fault.
"Birds, huh..."
The analyst tilted his head back, gazing at the sky through the window behind.
"...I can't stand the ones that insist on flying off on their own."
It's been ages since he last saw a bird soaring free in this world.
Hegemon. What an overpowering moniker. I had no idea what face to make at such a ridiculous name.
I listened quietly. Like it was someone else's story—praise like that held zero interest.
More importantly, why was Gabriel calling?
Gabriel's tone turned dead serious.
"Why?"
"Hm."
This... felt familiar. Like I'd heard it before. But from someone else, so I gave Gabriel my usual answer.
Gabriel fell silent for a long stretch after hearing it.
"Right?"
Hard to pin the emotion in Gabriel's voice. Maybe half fear, awe, contempt mixed in.
"......"
Gabriel's emblem blinked on my monitor. Electronic waves swept across the screen in sync with frame output cycles.
Guess this was the real point. Probably on his mind since he first called.
Surface-level excuse, anyway. Easy to grasp. Easy to sell to outsiders.