Monstrous bulk
Darkness is my ally. Always has been.
But this unknown situation. The unease.
This mission requires careful planning of playstyle.
Io displays the map created by Goblet to Little Lady, licking his lips.
“What is that?”
Reaper’s whisper. Suppressing sound as much as possible, but in this silent darkness with nothing but the faint hum of an electronic device, even a silent breath echoes.
Io answers with minimal effort, keeping awareness on perimeter surveillance.
“Recording cocoon locations.”
“…When it hatches? It’ll be dead, right?”
“I don’t assume I’m a standard measure for the Karauf virus.”
Anything goes in this sci-fi shooter. Pushing realism to the extreme, but if the worldbuilding and premises allow, creators will do anything.
A human cocooning itself. The reanimation of something that should be dead. Anything is possible.
Or rather, if nothing happened after being so blatantly set up, that would be the real problem.
—Why not just fire a few rounds now, if you're so worried?
—That’s not recommended.
Vime halted, maintaining vigilance from behind.
—Why?
A natural question. Vime hesitated, pausing briefly before speaking.
—Assume the cocoon is alive. Stimulating it unpredictably could trigger anything.
—...Fair point.
Reaper seemed satisfied. Io found her suggestion compelling, but in this situation, probing the unknown felt too risky.
—Control room. Just ahead.
—Accessing. Maintain perimeter watch.
How many times now?
Reaper attaches to the locked door. Io and Vime spread out to either side.
Air is thick. The stench intensifies, numbing the nose. A clinging sensation on the skin won’t fade.
(……I hate horrors, but this setup’s undeniably stimulating.)
“Agent Io, enjoying yourself?”
(…Did I overstep?)
“No, Blue Goblet is recording.
‘A strong opponent and difficult circumstances excite you.’”
(…Did they add something? …Well, not wrong, anyway.)
The immersion VR provides. The thrill, the stress, and the catharsis of overcoming it.
This isn’t horror in the traditional sense—more like monster panic—but it’s not bad either.
Thinking positively, Io took a deep breath.
“Confirm counter-program. Stop Reaper.”
Io accepted Goblet’s words without question and acted immediately.
“Reaper, halt.”
What’s this? It’s already over.
Shut it down—cut the access.
Reaper tried to comply without understanding. Too late.
The program won’t stop. Damn it, it’s being reverse-engineered.
Show me—Sinclair.
Vime yanked Reaper’s arm forcefully and peered into the attached terminal.
Then tossed it aside with a cold, dismissive flick.
This won’t work.
The lamp above the control room entrance flashed violently, emitting a high-pitched alarm—kwee, kwee—resembling a dolphin’s call.
A shrill, grating noise. The silence before had been so thick, so suffocating, that even breathing felt like a violation—now the sound amplified the tension.
Yet Io heard it. From the left passage branching off the control room—where Io had been watching.
The flickering red warning lights through the night-vision feed blazed into his vision—eyes burning.
Nothing within visual range. But farther in.
A heavy, dragging sound—something moving.
“Hear it. Something’s moving. Walking.”
“What is it?”
Vime speaks without turning.
“Something’s registering here too. Sinclair, get the link re-established—now.”
“Can’t. The program’s corrupted.”
“Switch it—now.”
Io shoves the Reaper aside and steps in front of the door. The Reaper takes over the corridor surveillance.
(“Goblet, alarm can wait. Threats inside?”)
‘No detection within control room. Two units right, four left.’
(“Open it. Fastest possible.”)
‘Lock disengagement in seven seconds.’
The footsteps grew louder—drip, drip, thud. Heavy. Wet.
Seconds stretch into eternity. The Reaper shouts, drowning out the alarm.
Shoot anything dangerous. Anything at all.
Opening.
Precisely seven seconds after Goblet’s command, the thick door slides open.
Io thrusts Raven’s rifle muzzle into the room, glances inside, then grabs both by the backs of their jackets.
Get in. Fast.
Slosh, slosh, splatter—something is moving. Groaning.
Multiple units.
Aoooooo!
What the hell is that?
Move!
Dragging the two inside, Goblet gives the order.
Close it!
Received.
The door seals shut with a motorized whir. Footsteps are now right beside—mere meters away.
Boom!
Impact. The door shudders. The assault is relentless.
Boom. Boom.
Even Vime shows signs of strain. Suppressing a ragged breath, he asks Reaper.
“What did you see”
“…No time to confirm. Two limbs each, I think”
Boom, boom, boom!
“This is a secured compartment. Won’t yield unless breached by explosives”
Io ignores the two, scanning the interior. Scattered documents, tools, a chair. Half the terminals on the desk are shattered.
And one fleshy cocoon in the corner.
The alarm continues. Io draws his sidearm, aims it.
“What are you doing?”
“Too much noise already. Too late to hesitate.”
“Eliminate the uncertainty.”
Fire. Adjusting the muzzle slightly, firing in rapid succession.
A kick to the ruptured cocoon. The mass disintegrates, spilling its contents.
Yeah, that’s about right.
It was once human—now swollen, distorted, and liquefied beyond recognition.
Io aimed again, pressing the muzzle firmly into the face that had sprouted grotesquely enlarged canines, and fired a final round.
—
Dong, dong, aoooooo.
A dull impact, a low howl. Even Io, unflappable in crisis, could not hide the cold sweat trickling down his spine.
Io and Vime each secured their terminals. Reaper kept adjusting his grip on the rifle, watching the control room entrance.
Alarm’s off. Don’t expect the outside lot to lose interest just because of that.
Vime’s movements were stiff, awkward. Io issued a command to Goblet.
(Seize control.)
‘Restoring and seizing control room functions. Reconnecting surveillance cameras. Confirm?’
(Do it.)
Displaying feed from control room corridor.
Lights flicker on. Monitors breathe back to life. Disabling night vision.
Io's lips curl into a dark smile at the image.
Seized their functions. Getting interesting.
Overhead view, angled from the T-junction.
The grotesque forms still pounding at the door.
Skin melted away. No hair. Back and limbs grotesquely swollen. Twisting in agony.
The ridge of the back, viewed from behind, forms a clean rhomboid.
Head flattened. No human contours. Smooth, featureless.
A disproportionately long turtle neck extends from a tiny rhomboid shell.
This... even if they say it was once human, I wouldn't believe it.
Reaper swallows hard, peering into the monitor. Thud, thud, thud—the collision sounds continue.
“This wasn’t how it was in Yoldbyk.”
“What kind of research were they doing here?”
“That’s why we came.”
“Cut the chatter. Don’t forget the objective.
Our situation isn’t good. We need to examine the bunker’s interior details.”
Vime keeps one eye on the entrance behind, teeth sunk into the terminal.
Reaper’s expression twists—almost a smirk.
“Not a pleasant one. But tough.”
“Hear that. Take it as a compliment.”
Goblet drifts through the visual field.
[Link established. From now on, Goblet will control the bunker’s internal functions.]
“(For example?)”
[Wall partitioning and ventilation system control.]
“(Ventilation… I see. There are ducts.
Map data. Include the ventilation ducts.)”
[Confirmed.]
Goblet’s pupils glowed gold.
At the same moment, Vime spoke.
“Data room remains independent from the bunker’s servers.
If you want information, you’ll have to go there directly.”
“Expected as much. …Still, how do we get out of here?”
—thud, thud, thud, thud—the impact sounds intensified, accelerated.
The monitor displayed a grotesque giant flailing its limbs wildly.
“Monsters… They’re desperate for our signal. Shall I send them a few lead rounds?”
“Do your fan service alone if you must.”
“Out of here? We’ll have to fight, won’t we?”
“Fight blindly, without knowing the enemy’s scale?”
Ioh kicked over the desk and stood.
“We become rats.”
The two exchanged glances, then looked at Ioh.
——
The bunker, naturally, was an underground facility. The ducts, and the ventilation fans likely located beyond them, were of substantial size.
The duct was barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. The issue was clear—impossible to navigate while wearing full armor.
Standard field gear would suffice, but not heavier armor.
Upon hearing this, the Reaper immediately began detaching her armor.
—What’s wrong? —Don’t look.
Her blond hair flared as she tossed aside her helmet.
The armor, designed to heavily protect vital points, came at the cost of practicality.
Once unfastened, the Reaper stood in nothing but a tank top, an ambitious silhouette. Sweat clung to her skin, accentuating a toned yet distinctly feminine form.
I’d appreciate a proper look under different circumstances.
Unexpected, Sergeant. I heard Boomer wouldn’t even glance at Lieutenant Harden’s type—more of a lolicon, apparently.
“Harden…? No, wait—before that.”
“We were on a public relations mission together.”
“Who’s the lolicon?”
“Hot for the golden princess, huh?”
“…Boomer, you’ll pay the price for reckless talk.”
Io growls.
Reaper shifts minimal tools and magazines into the side pouch, smiling.
Vime, likewise unstrapping armor, sighs with disbelief. Also in just a tank top, her physique sharply defined. Age around early forties, yet her body shows no signs of decay.
“Your mental fortitude is impressive. Can’t breathe unless you’re mocking someone?”
Even now, impact sounds and groans echo from the control room entrance.
“Hmph. Rookie. Ghost bastard.”
Excuse me. Let’s move.
Stiff one. Io teases Vime while checking gear.
Another chance to see Lieutenant Sinclair’s abs—rare opportunity, Lieutenant.
I’m devoted to my wife.
Vime clicks her tongue. She heads toward the duct in the corner, gripping the reinforced resin mesh blocking it.
No time. Really.