Lullaby

Even a large duct is too narrow for a human to pass through. Crawling forward, elbows, feet, and the rifle slung across the back scrape against the floor and walls, producing noise.

Clank, clank, clatter. The L-shaped duct echoes easily, the sound painful in the ears.

"IO, where does this lead to?"

"To several rooms, the large ventilation fan, and its maintenance chamber."

"Extremely hot."

"The fan’s stopped."

It felt like being inside a sauna. The air drawn in through the mouth was scorching. A difference between the heat sensed by the oral mucosa and the heat felt on the lips and cheeks. The sensory link was too precise.

Sweat ran down the cheek and fell from the chin. They didn’t bother wiping it away, conserving every motion.

"Rat or mole?"

"Reaper, did you say something?"

"Shut the hell up."

"...I see. I feel the same way."

At some point, the echo inside the duct shifted unmistakably.

The muffled resonance up to that point grew abruptly sharp. The material of the surrounding structure had changed.

No. They were no longer moving through walls. They had emerged onto the ceiling of some corridor.

……The sound changed. We’re crawling through a duct above the drink server room. That means…

That means?

Io spotted a hatch along the duct’s length—an access point for maintenance.

Drawing the knife, he used its thick tip to carefully unscrew a small fastener. Slowly, quietly, he opened the hatch and raised his head through the opening.

An endless number of cocoons filled the room, which appeared to be a break room. A foul stench. A sticky warmth clinging to the skin.

And in the center of the room, or in a corner, or along the passage—those same aberrations crouched motionless, their alien nature unmistakable even through the green-hued night vision.

(Confirmed monster via naked eye. Not moving. Not dead. Can you explain the reason for the inactive state?)

—Details unknown. But it can be considered a hibernation state designed to minimize caloric consumption.

So, like in every game, they’ll wake up if you get too close.

—Blue Goblet can present a hypothesis to Agent Io.

(Hmm? A hypothesis? Fine. Enlighten me.)

—Blue Goblet hypothesizes that the bunker’s unknown electromagnetic output is restricting functionality.

—And that output appears to be concentrated at points of high infection density.

(……I see. Got it.)

Horror. Or rather, this is a common trope in monster panic scenarios.

There’s no point going on about it—skip ahead. Regardless, Agent Io understood what Goblet was getting at, drawing from subcultural experience.

(That electromagnetic output—so they’re saying the creatures are in hibernation.

Standard trope, really. Done this before, something like it.)

‘It’s certain that some influence is at work,’ Blue Goblet considers.

‘But Agent Io, you’ve had such experience?’

(Plenty of times. Not much for horror, but I’m used to it.)

‘Excellent.

Blue Goblet is interested in your operational conduct in unobserved realms.’

(That’ll be later.)

Io narrowed his eyes, licking his lips as he pulled his head back into the duct.

Below, cocoons and abominations lie motionless—no twitch, not even a flicker.

He wasn’t going to trigger the alarm again just to confirm life or death.

“Data room?”

“Down the corridor, within fifty meters. But according to the map… this is the nearest maintenance hatch.”

“Doesn’t the duct connect directly to the data room?”

“The data room’s climate control is isolated. Entry is impossible from any point other than the official access.”

Reaper propped his cheek on his hand and exhaled.

“Squeeze through that filthy bunch and make it to the data room?”

“Stay here.”

“…! Hey, Sergeant—”

Iou threw himself from the hatch. Slid like a serpent.

Three meters and a bit. Gripped the edge of the hatch tightly. Swung slightly, suspended for a breath.

Released tension from the joints. Dropped softly. No sound. Iou landed in the midst of the fleshy cocoons.

(Just don’t wake up, please)

Agent Io, combat support readiness confirmed.

(You might just kick up a storm, depending on circumstances.)

The closer you look, the more the discomfort and pressure intensify.

A cluster of viscous, milky-white flesh masses. Surrounded on all sides by something monstrous—no smile even forms.

And worse, they’ll all turn into enemies depending on what comes next.

Those humans emerging from the cocoons inside—whatever form they take, it’ll be grotesquely fascinating.

This is insane...! I’m getting infected!

Reaper’s whisper-voice. Clearly panicked.

Io pressed a fingertip to her lips. Quiet. A gesture. She studied the grotesque form crouched before her.

(…Is it even fair to call this evolution?)

Blue Goblet sees it that way.

The virus’s method of propagation appears singular, yet it has exerted immense influence on the human species of the Karaf Continent.

Genetic manipulation by the human species intervened at some point—no doubt about it.

Predicting the extent of this virus’s danger is impossible. The human species must overcome it. Yes, by any means necessary.

Goblet answered with a voice tighter than usual. Io stared at the monster’s profile, a complicated sensation rising.

Rust from its own body, now threatening to consume it. Humans are not like the lizards—they must fight both the virus and the creatures.

Io had learned that truth firsthand in Yordbyk. And now, witnessing this new power with their own eyes. A misstep in response, and humanity will be eradicated.

(That’s right—after Karaf’s retreat, it’s zombie mode.)

Shooting zombies is one of the oldest traditions in shooting games.

I could even come up with the introduction for Chapter Two if you like.

Yeah, something like... "Once, there was war"... how’s that?

Agent Io thought that far, and only then realized he had clenched his fist without noticing.

Joint by joint, the pressure built until it hurt—muscles and tendons straining.

—Agent Io?

(No, nothing.)

Forget it. That moment never happened. I hate these people. Hate the Karaf Virus. Hate them all.

I could see every wrinkle in the face forged so close to my own, every detail up to the tip of the nose.

Conclusion reached. Even up close, still detestable.

Agent Io drew the knife with cold precision and drove it without hesitation into the creature’s throat.

W-what are you—!

Reaper’s rasping voice. Io does not turn.

Grasping the knife’s hilt with both hands, he yanks it back with full force.

In the green field of view, unusually rigid muscle fibers scatter alongside equally brittle skin tissue, squelching wetly.

The skin splits apart like unraveling thread.

Like pulling a weed from the ground, its roots drag soil with it.

Countless fine, root-like filaments sprout from the monster’s skin, clinging to scraps of flesh.

—As long as it was once human, the neck remains a weakness.

No matter how much strength it has, how ferocious, how unafraid of bullets.

Without blood flow, the brain and body cannot move.

Blood of unnatural viscosity, and something between solid and liquid—unidentifiable—spurts from the creature’s neck like a broken faucet.

And? Any signs of waking from hibernation?

Target silence. From the total volume of contents lost by this unit, it is dead.

Proved he could kill.

Wiping the monster's bodily fluid from the knife. A curse escapes—damn it.

To restrain Io’s aberrant behavior, the Reapers descended as well.

――

I understand your explanation, but where is this electromagnetic wave being emitted from?

Or is it really acceptable to link electromagnetic waves to these things so casually—

Reaper spoke as if spitting out the words, watching Vime remove the flesh cocoon.

Io keeps the barrel trained on the monster in the corner, in hibernation, eyes sharp, vigilance unbroken.

"Output unit is already located. Lieutenant, move the one on your left."

Only Vime removes the flesh cocoon, to minimize infection risk.

He efficiently clears the designated route. Io passes through, retrieves a machine the size of a man’s embrace from under the desk.

"Is this it?... Not factory-made. Feels like something an engineer built by hand.

Power source?"

Io lifts the rectangular object to eye level.

It resembles a slightly stylish wall clock. Exposed wiring in places. Cables show signs of rushed construction—poor splicing, loose crimps, as if assembled in a hurry.

One corner at each of the four corners was a one-touch connector. The power cable, visibly frail in contrast to the mechanical body, ran from beneath the creature’s flesh cocoon or along the monster’s foot, stretching all the way to the wall.

This output device, terrifyingly, appears to draw power from a personal terminal charging station.

—You’re kidding… This junk is supposed to be the great invention that saves humanity?

—Appearance doesn’t matter. In the field, it’s only about whether it performs.

Vime wipes the monster’s slime from her hands and enters perimeter alert.

Even with his ever-calm expression, the man can’t hide his curiosity toward the mysterious output device.

—So, Sergeant, if we could resolve the power supply issue and make this device portable, do you think we could keep those guys we encountered earlier at the control room quiet?

—Doubtful.

—…Why?

Goblet swims.

Energy acquisition and consumption reduction. These are the same goal, yet entirely different in direction.

If I were a bear before hibernation and a meal passed by, I’d eat it before sleeping.

If I must return to the control room again, it’d be faster to shoot them with lead.

I see. Makes sense.

Vime nods, shifting gaze between the monster ahead in the corridor and the one crouched in the corner.

That was all he wanted to know. He advances slowly, step by step, approaching the crouching creature.

He draws his knife. Cuts the throat—too gentle a description.

He plunges the blade deep, then tears through flesh, digging and tearing like plowing earth. Vime mangles the creature’s throat beyond recognition.

The second one, ahead in the corridor, meets the same fate.

Silently. Smoothly. Vime finishes.

This is not battle. Not killing. It is work. Vime was an excellent worker.

The cocoons are too numerous. Spreading virus material would only increase your infection risk.

Move forward.

——

By this point, no one dared say anything about "the成果 of virus research."

The bunker’s interior is at its worst. Overrun by filthy creatures and cocoons, all waiting, breathless, for awakening.

Salor Bunker is nothing more than a swollen balloon with a lid slapped on top — any moment it might burst, and no one would be surprised.

"Data room. Locked. Power is still on..."

"Protection is tight. This is no ordinary challenge."

Yet the data was absolutely necessary. That was why Vime had crawled through the lizard’s eye to get here.

Vime touches the terminal with a grim expression.

Security key required.

No forces left to search. No time.

Then we’ll take a different approach.

Faintly glowing terminal in Vime’s hand.

Shut down power in the bunker, then bring it back sequentially.

My terminal should be able to spoof the control-side security during the process.

That’ll work. But how do we do it?

Reaper, arms crossed, smiles—then frowns, as another problem hits.

Wait. Shutting down power?

What happens to that output unit?

...I said the power would come back sequentially. More precisely, the data room’s power segment must be the last to reboot.

Io snorts.

Reaper, how about using your lullaby instead of electromagnetic pulses?