The silence after Kaiju No. 9's command was a physical weight, thick with the promise of dissection. The two derivative horrors stepped from the shadows, their movements a jerky, unnatural mockery of life. Their claws crackled with unstable spatial energy, casting flickering, malevolent light across the ruined sector.
[Ravan: Host integrity at 34%. Systemic collapse imminent. Neural load critical. Engagement with derivative units increases projected mortality to 73%. Recommendation: Withdrawal impossible. Prepare for catastrophic failure.]
Akira forced himself to his knees, then to his feet. His shattered arm hung uselessly at his side, a white-hot brand of agony. Every breath was a ragged knife in his ribs. But his good hand found the hilt of his katana, his knuckles white. He would not die on his knees.
"If they're my copies…" he gritted out, the words tasting of blood, "...then I'll break them first."
No. 9 watched, its multifaceted eyes gleaming with cold, analytical interest. "Yes. Demonstrate your limits, variable. Show me the breaking point of your synthesis."
The clones moved. They didn't possess No. 9's chilling grace; they were raw power and stolen data given form.
Clone A was speed. It flickered forward in a series of micro-bursts, a distorted echo of Akira's Tiger Beetle acceleration. It was faster than him now, but imperfect, overshooting its mark and leaving a shimmering afterimage.
Clone B was defense. It lumbered forward, its form rippling with a crude, rocky texture—a bastardized version of the Hardened Carapace. One of its arms was sheathed in the same dark, light-drinking alloy as its progenitor.
Clone B charged, not at Akira, but at the most vulnerable point: the unconscious Kafka.
"No you don't!" Reno's voice was a raw shout. He was on one knee, his scorched arm trembling as he brought his rifle up. He couldn't fire; Kafka was in the way. Instead, he threw a rock. It was a pathetic, human gesture. It pinged harmlessly off the clone's head.
But it was enough. The creature's head twitched, its programming prioritizing the immediate threat.
In that split second, a wall of brilliant, desperate blue energy flared to life. Kafka, on the ground, eyes squeezed shut in unconscious agony, had thrown up a shield on pure, protective instinct. It was thinner than before, flickering violently.
Clone B slammed into it. The shield didn't shatter; it groaned, buckling under the weight, the feedback making Kafka's body convulse.
"Its knee!" Reno yelled, his Observer's eye catching the flaw even through his pain. "The alloy graft on the left leg is unstable! It's lagging!"
Akira was already moving. He couldn't use synthesis. He couldn't risk giving No. 9 more data. He just ran, a stumbling, painful sprint, putting everything he had left into a single, precise thrust with his katana.
He aimed for the seam Reno had called.
SHINK.
The blade bit into the alloy-biological junction. Dark, oily ichor spat from the wound. Clone B roared, a distorted, staticky sound, and backhanded Akira away. The blow was glancing, but it was enough. Akira hit the ground and rolled, coughing up blood.
Clone A took its cue. It flickered, appearing directly in front of Reno, its vibrating claw aimed at his throat. It had analyzed the group. The Observer was the tactical core. Delete the core, and the system fails.
Reno stared down the claw, his world narrowing to the killing point. He didn't drop his rifle. He didn't close his eyes. His jaw set. "Not the weakest link," he muttered, a final act of defiance. "Not today."
Akira tried to push up, to move, but his body betrayed him. He could only watch.
A blur intercepted.
CRACK-BOOM!
It wasn't a clean block. It was a collision. Kafka, somehow on his feet, had thrown his entire body into Clone A. There was no finesse, no shield. Just raw, desperate impact. Blue energy erupted from him in an uncontrolled wave, throwing both himself and the clone sideways into a pile of rubble.
The energy didn't recede. It pulsed erratically across Kafka's skin, cracking the concrete beneath him. His eyes were wide, unseeing, glowing a terrible, solid blue. A guttural, non-human sound tore from his throat. He was a dam bursting.
"Kafka, NO!" Akira screamed, the plea tearing his raw throat. "He wants it! Don't give it to him!"
For a horrific second, it seemed Kafka would lose himself completely. The transformation was moments away. But at Akira's voice, the roaring energy stuttered. Kafka's human consciousness, his will, fought back with terrifying force. With a final, agonized shudder, he forced the storm down. The light vanished, leaving him pale, still, and utterly broken.
The three of them were now truly finished.
Kafka: Unconscious, bleeding from his eyes and ears.
Reno: On his knees, weapon aimed but with nothing left to give.
Akira: Propped against rubble, barely conscious, his blood pooling beneath him.
The two clones reset themselves, their injuries already knitting back together with horrific speed. They began to circle again, their purpose clear: finish the test.
No. 9 watched, its head tilted. The intellectual fascination was gone, replaced by the dull satisfaction of a concluded experiment. "Endurance parameters recorded. Data sufficient. You are concluded."
The derivatives raised their claws, the air humming with building spatial distortion.
[Ravan: Host vitals below sustainable threshold. Probability of survival for next engagement: 3%. No logical countermeasures available. Suggest immediate external intervention.]
Then, the world exploded.
It wasn't from the clones. The sky above Tachikawa Base screamed. A split second later, a concentrated artillery bombardment of immense power slammed into the ground around the derivatives and Kaiju No. 9.
The earth erupted in a continuous, thunderous roar. Concussive waves battered the ruins, throwing up a massive cloud of dust and smoke. The derivatives were thrown back, their forms momentarily vanishing in the hellstorm.
No. 9 didn't flinch. It simply raised a claw, and a sphere of distorted space encapsulated it, the shells detonating harmlessly against the barrier in silent, flower-like blooms of fire. But its focus was broken.
Through the ringing in his ears, Akira heard a new sound. Not the whistle of shells, but the sharp, close-range crack of supersonic movement.
Figures landed amidst the chaos with practiced, lethal grace.
Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina landed in a crouch directly between Akira and the smoking crater where the clones had been, his twin kodachi already drawn and humming with energy. His eyes, usually gleaming with mischief, were flat and deadly.
"Tsk. You rookies really know how to make a mess," he said, his voice a low purr that cut through the din.
A moment later, Kikoru Shinomiya landed with a ground-shaking crunch next to Kafka's still form, her massive axe held in a defensive guard. Her uniform was torn, her face smudged with soot and blood from her own battle, but her stance was unwavering, her expression fierce. She didn't look at them, her gaze locked on the obscured forms of the enemy.
But her positioning was unmistakable. She was their shield.
Then, a voice, cold, clear, and amplified from every surviving comms unit on the base, cut through the chaos like a blade.
"All units, converge on Sector 4-West. Target designation: Kaiju No. 9 and derivatives. Maximum suppression. Priority: Protect the sample vault. Do not let it advance."
Captain Mina Ashiro. She wasn't there, but her will was. The cavalry had arrived.
The smoke began to clear, revealing the two derivatives rising from the rubble, their forms regenerating, their glowing eyes locking onto the new threats.
Hoshina offered a sharp, predatory grin. "Alright, copies. Let's see if you can keep up."
As the elites engaged, a medic team rushed forward, pulling Akira, Reno, and Kafka back from the frontline. As they dragged him away, Akira's fading vision caught the sight of Kaiju No. 9. It had already dismissed the new combatants.
It turned its back on the fight, on the elites, on everything. Its singular purpose重新asserted itself. It took a single, ground-cracking step toward the breached, but still standing, door of the Central Sample Storage.
The fight with them had always been a distraction. The real mission was just beginning.
And they had already lost.
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T/N :
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