I shouldn't be here.
That was Arran's first thought upon regaining consciousness. Not in the philosophical, existential sense—but in the purely physical sense of being completely misplaced.
A few hours ago—or was it days?—he had still been in the cozy, postmodern science wing of the Great Library, immersed in a book titled The Turing Test, lost in its fascinating paradoxes about whether machines could possess souls. The air there had smelled of aged paper and desiccants, and the only sound had been the occasional rustle of turning pages.
And now—
Arran was curled up on a cold, damp stone floor, suffocated by darkness. The only light came from the faint yellow emergency lamps beyond the iron bars. The air was heavy with the scent of mildew mixed with something harsher—some chemical stench, like a blend of hospital morgue and derelict factory.
"Hello? Anyone there? …Hey! Is anybody there?!"
He rushed to the iron bars and shook one of the rust-covered but still sturdy rods. The clang of chains echoed through the empty corridor, carrying far but summoning no response. Only the occasional drip of water from some distant pipe kept rhythm with his growing desperation.
"Help… Miguel! Captain! Ilo! Anyone…"
Arran's voice cracked with sobs. He wasn't a warrior—he was a submarine mechanic, best at staring blankly at engines that never spoke back, not facing kidnappers and captivity.
Where was that sword-swinging brute Miguel now? Wasn't he always boasting about being some special forces soldier? Why hadn't he burst through the wall like in the movies? And Ilo, that walking encyclopedia—hadn't he claimed the Great Library was absolutely safe? And the Captain… that theatrical man… Arran would even welcome a cringe-worthy monologue from him right now.
Time ticked by, the cold creeping up Arran's spine. He slumped to the floor, hugging his knees. Fear slithered around his throat like a cold, wet serpent. Dark thoughts crept in: Had they not noticed his absence? Had the ship already left?
Just as despair threatened to drown him—
Clack.
A sharp metallic click broke the silence.
Arran's head snapped up like a startled rabbit. The sound came from the end of the corridor—a heavy metal door was opening.
Then came footsteps—light, measured. Not the stomp of boots or the drag of kidnappers, but precise, almost cautious heels.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
They stopped at his cell.
Holding his breath, Arran peered out through the bars.
And for a moment, he thought he was dreaming, or that an illustration from his book had stepped into reality.
Standing there wasn't a thug or a mad scientist—but a girl.
She looked no older than fifteen or sixteen, dressed in an elaborate dark Lolita gown, layers of lace brushing against the grimy floor. A tiny soft hat perched atop her silver-white hair, which cascaded down her back. Her face was like a porcelain doll's—pale to the point of translucence—with heterochromatic eyes: one a deep blue, the other a muted red, both fixed on him through the bars.
"…Who are you?" Arran's voice trembled.
The girl didn't answer immediately. From her skirt pocket, she drew a large keyring with precise, elegant movements tinged with an unnatural stiffness. She selected the correct key without hesitation.
Click. The lock turned. The iron door slid open.
The girl lifted her skirt slightly and gave a courteous curtsy, like a lady from a bygone era.
"My apologies for your suffering, Scholar."
Her voice was impossibly gentle, like a finely tuned audio clip—melodious, with an almost imperceptible ethereal quality.
"My name is Alice. I am… temporarily managing this facility."
"Alice?" Arran stood shakily, still weak. "Did you… kidnap me?"
"No. It wasn't my intent—but it was, in a way, because of me." Alice lowered her eyes, and her heterochromatic gaze softened with genuine sorrow. "Time is short. This facility's backup power won't last much longer. Please come with me, Scholar. We can talk as we walk."
She turned and waited quietly, not forcing him.
Arran hesitated. He looked back at the eerie cell, then at the girl before him—unarmed, fragile-looking. Finally, he grit his teeth and followed.
Outside the cell, the sight took his breath away.
It was an enormous underground complex, with massive pipes snaking along the walls like blood vessels, and intricate cable systems overhead. Though most of the facility was cloaked in darkness, the humming panels and occasional sparks made it clear—this place had a higher level of tech than even the advanced Capitano.
"This was once the Doctor's research base," said Alice, leading the way. Her steps were steady, her voice echoing in the empty corridor. "The Doctor was… eccentric. His worldview clashed with that of the people of Port Alexandra."
"The Doctor?" Arran echoed.
"Yes. While the city prided itself on chaotic collisions of free will, the Doctor believed that was the root of disorder. He advocated for a more efficient, unified social structure—seen by others as a suppression of individuality." Her tone remained calm, like recounting another's story. "Because of these radical views, he was branded a threat. The so-called 'free' city voted to exile him."
Arran recalled what Ilo once said: that even peaceful societies retain some feudal remnants from their barbaric past.
An exiled heretic, building a kingdom underground.
"But the Doctor never gave up on his ideals," Alice continued. She passed a humming generator, her hand brushing its cold metal surface with fondness. "With his brilliance, he sold technology to black markets and greedy merchants, amassing enough funds to build this lab in the depths. All of it was for…"
She stopped at a fork in the path, turning right.
"…For the creation of beings like me."
Arran froze. "For the creation… of you?"
He looked her up and down. Steady breathing. Soft skin. Even the breeze lifting her skirt seemed real. Aside from her eerily perfect eyes, she looked like a normal human girl.
"Yes." Alice faced him. In the dim light, the red in her right eye flickered slightly.
"It's hard to say… and may sound strange, but I am not human."
Arran swallowed. "Is this… some kind of literary metaphor?"
"No. I have no intention to mystify." Alice gently shook her head and raised her right hand. With a click, the tip of her index finger popped open, revealing intricate metal parts and microdata cables. "I am indeed a machine built by the Doctor. Designation: Unit 4. What you see now is merely the mobile terminal interface. Though he used biomimetic materials for realism…"
Arran's eyes widened at the sight of the metal. His mechanic's instincts overtook his fear—he was in awe.
That craftsmanship… the seamless fusion of robotics and bionics… it was divine.
"I know it's hard to believe, but it's the truth." Alice closed her finger, skin sealing over the metal. She seemed uneasy, as if afraid to scare off her only audience. "And… there's an even darker truth. I'll explain why you were brought here—but I must ask that you be mentally prepared before seeing 'something'."
"Mental preparation?…" Arran's chill returned. "Where are you taking me?"
Alice turned to face a heavy lead door at the corridor's end.
"To the place the Doctor was most proud of… what he called my 'brain'."
"…Your… brain…" Arran repeated, dry-mouthed.
"Previously, his assistants brought two other scholars to that room." Alice's voice dropped, trembling. "One fled in madness. The other collapsed in prayer… In the end, they both died."
"Died?!" Arran exclaimed.
"Yes." Alice turned. Her sorrowful gaze pierced him. "The Doctor died around 72 hours ago—overwork. The assistants failed to revive him. To keep the lab running, and to find a way to use me… they devised a desperate plan. That's why you and the others were kidnapped."
"But just now… due to a foolish accident, they all died." Her voice took on a bleak calm. "There is no 'they' anymore. Only you and me remain. You are Alice's last hope."
Arran's legs went weak. The assistants died? The scholars too? Even the Doctor?
In this underground world of corpses and mad machines… he was the only living person?
"What did you… do to them?" he asked, shaking.
"Not me," Alice replied. "Greed and fear killed them. But there's no point dwelling. Whether to continue the experiment or end it… the choice is yours."
"…What do you want me to do?"
"Ah… turn right at the bottom of these stairs… we're nearly there."
Alice didn't answer directly. She led him down a spiral staircase. The air grew colder, and the chemical stench intensified.
At the base was a plain gray metal door, unmarked. It stood like a sealed mouth.
Alice placed her pale hand on the panel. Her body trembled—not with mechanical fault, but with human-like fear.
"When this door opens, I ask you to remain calm and rational." She stood with her back to Arran, her voice barely a whisper. "For no matter how absurd or unethical the experiment may be—what was born from it… wishes to live."
Then she turned around.
In the blue light of the door's scanner, Arran saw a single clear tear sliding from Alice's eye.
"…Machines can cry?"
The thought flashed through his mind.
And then—with a hiss of pressure—the door to the truth began to open.
Meanwhile, outskirts of Port Alexandra.
The sun had fully set, stars scattered across the sky. Far from the bustling city center, there were no steam pipes hissing or neon lights flashing—only desolate land and howling wind.
Veronica darted like an untiring hound, leading the group through the complex city sprawl. They passed business districts, crossed filthy outer slums, and reached a gravel-strewn wasteland.
"No problem, right? We've run pretty far out," Miguel said, panting and gripping his sword hilt. "Would they really hide a base in a place like this?"
"No problem," Frank replied lazily, though his eyes were sharp. "And don't these tracks in the sand look like… wheels carrying heavy cargo? Like robot carts?"
He pointed to the ground. Under moonlight, deep wheel ruts stretched into the barren distance.
"Hey, Veronica, you sure?" Miguel called.
Up front, Veronica knelt, scooped a handful of sand with tracks, and sniffed deeply.
"No mistake!" she said, eyes gleaming despite the dust. "Arran's scent—machine oil and that awful antiseptic smell—he's been here!"
Miguel grinned coldly, fists cracking. "Heh. Kidnappers, brace yourselves. Touch my people, and you'll regret being born."
"Don't get cocky, Miguel," Ilo warned, carrying a gas lamp. "If they dared hide here, they've prepared defenses."
Led by Veronica, they walked two more kilometers.
Then the smell changed.
At first, a faint stench. But as they crested a sandy hill, a foul odor overwhelmed them.
A massive lake came into view.
Not scenic. The water was a sickly yellow-green, with thick white foam on the surface. Bubbles rose constantly, releasing plumes of white gas. The surrounding rocks were scorched black, lifeless.
"Ugh, what is this? Disgusting…" Miguel covered his nose, retching.
Frank stopped, his face turning grim.
"Sulfur lake," he said. "This is bad. Likely caused by underground volcanic activity."
"Veronica!" Miguel turned to call—but the girl was already crouched, clutching her nose, tears streaming down her face.
"Frank… it stinks… like rotten eggs… I can't smell anything else!"
"Fall back! Upwind!" Frank ordered, dragging her back.
Once clear, Frank explained, "That's hydrogen sulfide. In sulfur lakes like this, anaerobic bacteria produce high concentrations of it. If you still smell it, the concentration's 'low.' But if it gets stronger, your smell shuts off—deadly levels."
Miguel turned pale. "Lethal? Then Arran—"
"If he was inside a sealed robot, he's fine for now," Ilo said. "But for us…"
"Then how did the kidnappers cross?" Miguel demanded, pointing to the tracks leading into the fog.
"They probably had full gear—gas masks, oxygen tanks." Frank knelt by some footprints. "See? Deeper prints, shorter strides. They likely paused to change equipment."
"So what do we do?" Miguel asked, desperate. "Arran's right there, and we're blocked by a toxic swamp?!"
"Charging in is suicide," Frank said. "We need to go back for gear."
"Back? That'll waste time!"
"Better than dying," Frank cut in. He turned to Veronica and handed her chocolate. "Can you still run?"
The girl nodded, red-eyed but determined.
"Good." Frank patted her head. "Go to Director Victoria at the Great Library. Tell her everything. We need gas masks, oxygen tanks—and fast transport. As many people as possible, as fast as possible."
"No problem!" Veronica stuffed the chocolate in her mouth and bolted into the night.
Watching her disappear, Miguel slammed a rock.
"Damn it…"
"Calm down," Frank said, lighting a cigarette. The smoke was drowned by sulfur, but it seemed to steady him. "Now that we've found the trail, the prey won't escape. This waiting… is for the killing blow."
He turned to the sulfur lake, toxic gas swirling in the dark.
"And I have a feeling… what's hidden behind that poison mist is far worse than we imagined."