Ch.148

The role that he himself has been assigned – undoubtedly, it involves commanding a squad, or serving as the commander or officer of a military base, such as a forward operating base.

This role likely encompasses the command and operation of Nikke, as well as mental care.

Show Moore, a 22-year-old young officer, has been given these official duties.

However, when he talk about the role or purpose here, one could equate it with history, or, in other words, the era. If there is any kind of meaning associated with these, what is sought from him, and what is intended for him to accomplish?

In other words, is he an actor standing on the stage named history or era?

Coincidentally, he is a rare individual who directly engages in combat with Rapture. Extraordinary physical strength and an incredible recovery ability from severe injuries – one might call this a natural talent.

However, if we consider this as something given to him, what is it that he is meant to use it for, and who is trying to make him accomplish what?

Is it a modest gift to contribute to the fulfillment of his ideology?

Or perhaps – a transformation of the era.

For those who stand on the stage called history or era, it might be considered a play.

History, for those in later generations, may be a field of study or entertainment.

But for those confronting the individuals of that time, it's like an improvisational drama.

Each improvisational drama assigned to each role unfolds desperately, and before you know it, in the eyes of future generations, it looks like a kind of entertainment.

It's not a matter of good or bad. It's only natural that most boys are fascinated by hero tales, and girls dream of romance.

Works of historical fiction and history must be thought of separately. Works as literature, with science at their core, are fundamentally different from history.

To give an example, the Romance of the Three Kingdoms as a historical book and the Romance of the Three Kingdoms as literature must be distinguished.

The bold and heroic one-on-one battles on horseback between fierce generals – scenes that may not even have actually happened for the most part. More than half can be considered creations of later generations.

It's somewhat thought-provoking how it has become established as a historical fact over time, but let's return to the main point.

Years have passed since the war between Rapture and humanity began.

There were probably several individuals with talents that shone like twinkling stars from time to time.

These could be the initial commanders or those called "rising stars." Individuals whose talents were too great to be called ordinary.

While comparing such individuals to Moore may be utterly nonsensical, if people were to look for commonalities, this might be one thing that can be said.

The performer whose role is over is not even given the time to regret the passing of the performance or the stage. They are unceremoniously taken down.

History is merciless and cruel.

It leads to an abundance of bloodshed at every turning point, constructing mountains of corpses. Of course, whether everything is a result of chance or inevitability is unclear. Nevertheless, unfortunate events unfold, overlapping and chaining together.

However, if the concept or existence of history had a will, it would be a cruel force.

Forcing responsibilities onto those who would become the vanguards of change, only to discard them as if there were no attachments once their purpose is fulfilled.

How many have truly tasted that experience in the past? Of course, Moore has not fulfilled the role assigned to him, and leaving the stage is a story for another time.

But inevitably, that day will come sooner or later. Without a doubt.

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"Today might be the day I die."

Could today be that day? Moore, left alone, hides behind the wreckage of a tank with a turret blown off, where rust blooms, aiming his assault rifle at enemy aircraft as he pulls the trigger.

"How many are there?"

A thud and a deflating sound as the firing commences. Grenades fall into the midst of the Rapture group advancing, and the fragments and explosions of the detonated warheads take down several enemy aircraft together.

"Commander! Are we still not using the landmines?"

"Not yet!"

Anis, reloading grenades behind the wreckage of an adjacent armored vehicle covered in rust, asks Moore. However, he replies it's still too early, leaning out to look through the ACOG optical sight and pulling the trigger of his assault rifle.

When will they use them if not now? Annis wants to shout this out loud, but before that, she reconsiders and decides to shower the approaching swarm of enemy aircraft with grenades.

"Oh, come on! You better treat me to soda when we get back!"

"I'll treat you to ten or twenty bottles!"

In the midst of frustration, she doesn't forget to place an order with him. Whether he's being opportunistic or just letting off a light remark in a tense situation is unclear.

In any case, when Moore agrees – suddenly, the large group of Rapture starts to retreat.

Without paying any attention to their fallen comrades of the same type, the spectacle of the enemy aircraft retreating like a receding wave is even majestic.

"... They're retreating?"

"No, it can't be that simple. Probably just a power reconnaissance or something."

"The current one!?"

Moore checks the remaining bullets after removing the magazine, and as he speculates, Annis responds with widened eyes.

There were at least a hundred of them just in the grip. If so, the total number of enemy aircraft waiting in the rear must be – as this thought crosses his mind, he suddenly appears by her side and pats Annis on the shoulder with the hand he has free.

"Let's pull back for now."

Moore doesn't have a backpack on his back to move more agilely. It was necessary to reload the spare ammunition stored inside into the empty magazine.

Moreover, now that the enemy's onslaught has subsided, it's time for a break.

Anis, who was tapped on the shoulder, nods and follows his back as he starts running.

"How was it on your end, Baby?"

"Caught about a hundred."

"Then it's not much different from us."

Trenches leading to a reinforced concrete bunker, were probably used in the defense battles of the old era.

Perhaps due to low rainfall in this area, rainwater does not accumulate in the trenches, and as Moore and Annis run through the dry ground and jump into the bunker, a slightly delayed Rapi, Neon, and the members of the Metis squad also show their presence.

While relieved to see their figures, he approaches the backpack he had placed, pulls out spare ammunition, and reloads the empty magazines one by one using the loading tool.

Creating loaded magazines, inserting them into the pouches of the body armor one by one, Moore glances sideways at the hooded Laplace.

"Laplace."

"Eh!?"

After filling the last empty magazine with ammunition and inserting it into the pouch, he calls out to her, and her slender body jumps in surprise. He hadn't meant to startle her, but she showed an excessive reaction.

"... Are you okay?"

"..."

To his concerned question, Laplace remains silent and instead averts her face.

It might be better not to count her as a combat force this time – Moore thinks again while almost closing the backpack, and at that moment, a silver case comes into view.

Inside is the infamous needle-free syringe.

The memories after using this thankfully remain, but there is a memory of excruciating pain, as if being beaten to a pulp, disappearing with an incredible surge of excitement.

Depending on how it's used, it seems to be a drug that can allow one to continue fighting for a while even with serious injuries. It might be better not to know the contents or ingredients for one's own good.

While considering that they should retreat early before the need to use this arises, he stands up.

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"Just in case, take this."

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A slightly dull and familiar low voice echoed in his mind at the moment of a throbbing headache.

"There should be preparations."

He doesn't follow that warning. But just in case.

Once Moore stands up, he bends down again and stores the single needle-free syringe he took out into one of the pouches attached to his body armor.

"But at this rate, we should be able to manage somehow."

"...We should prepare to retreat at a good time, though."

"True."

He stands up and, whether it's a casual remark or an intentionally optimistic thought, he turns to Maxwell, who uttered ambiguous words, and shrugs his shoulders.

He lightly shakes the soft pack of cigarettes he took out from the pouch, bites one that jumped out, and just as he's about to light it, a slender arm reaches out from the side.

"Thanks as always."

"No problem."

Rapi, who stood by his side, handed him a turbo lighter.

While expressing gratitude, he shrouds one hand in the windbreak, and right after creating a windbreak, a blue flame bursts out in a practiced manner. With that, he scorches the tip of the cigarette, producing purple smoke.

The gently exhaled purple smoke heads towards the broken reinforced concrete, beside the wall with holes pierced. There, graffiti is reflected in the corner of his vision.

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"Go kick their asses!"

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Did someone, a soldier from the time of the first Rapture invasion when they fought here, graffiti this?

The words written in an oil-based marker have already faded, but strangely, the rough and bold handwriting suggests the character of the soldier who wrote it.

"Heh, I'll kick their asses for sure."

Responding to that spirit, Moore lightly punches the graffiti with his left clenched fist while still holding the cigarette in his mouth.

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"...We didn't see any Lord-class in the recent battle, but..."

"I think it was a power reconnaissance, so they're probably holding back in the rear. They likely grasped our strength in the recent battle, so..."

"...The Lord-class is coming out... Are we going to fight?"

"Of course. Yes, that's the plan—here."

After finishing the ammunition reload, Neon exchanges words with Maxwell, and Drake, looking pleased, smiles.

Most likely, Maxwell puts her stamp of approval on the fact that a battle with a Lord-class is imminent—casually, she presses a pistol she took out against Laplace.

"...What's this?"

Laplace alternates her gaze between the pressed pistol and Maxwell. The person who handed the pistol to the bewildered leader shrugged her shoulders.

"Your gun is connected to the armament, so I can't just hand over the gun alone. Fight with this for now. Otherwise, protect yourself."

"...Even if I have...this?"

Even in Maxwell's cold tone, Laplace couldn't afford to be bothered. The pistol pressed and forced into her hand was trembling.

Seeing her in that state, Maxwell lets out a sigh.

"Hey, Laplace. Can I say just one thing?"

"...I'll accept any criticism."

"—Hah, funny for you to say that. If I were to thoroughly question you, your glass mind would break in an instant, you know?"

—Scary.

Moore, who has nothing to do but watch their one-sided exchange, while puffing on purple smoke, suddenly realizes that Rapi's gaze is directed at him from a slightly lower angle.

Her red eyes seem to be asking whether she should stop, but he shrugs his shoulders as if to say, "Let her do as she pleases."

"—You're a hero wannabe suffering from end-of-hero syndrome, you're stupid, noisy, monopolizing Shuen's affection, and lecturing the others to become heroes, causing everyone to be jealous. But..."

—Is... that really necessary to say?

It was quite a straightforward remark.

Perhaps she was struck by that remark. Laplace's expression gradually darkens, and she lowers her face.

On the other hand, Maxwell, after roughly scratching her orange hair, eventually lets out a deep sigh.

"—...Geez. I think the power of justice you advocated for, the longing for heroes, was genuine."

"—Huh?"

"Purely looking at numerical specs, I thought you were strong enough to believe that there's no one in the Ark stronger than you."

Maxwell has a strong tendency as a researcher, developer, or scientist. Whether this is due to the influence of her work before becoming a Nikke is not certain, but she, in her own way, evaluates Laplace as a benchmark.

It's not comfort or anything like that; it's a clear fact derived from her own scale.

However, the person herself—Laplace shakes her head repeatedly and denies it.

"N-No! I'm not such a strong Nikke—"

"—Don't arbitrarily judge whether my thoughts are correct or not, okay? It's annoying. I hate being evaluated by kids with lower intelligence than me. I really hate it."

—She really has no reservations.

Watching Maxwell spit out her words to the point that one might even be impressed, Moore throws his shortened cigarette into a portable ashtray and then casually exhales the lingering purple smoke from his lungs.

"─I'm higher than you, too! So, don't evaluate me either!"

"What are you talking about? You're not that different."

"─Hmm, true."

"...You're quick to change."

"─Hey, Commander...!"

Anis voices her displeasure at him not reading the room, but it's unclear whether he's intentionally not reading it or if he's unaware. Seeing Rapi, who stands next to Moore, let out a sigh, it seems more likely that he genuinely doesn't read the atmosphere.

"─So, instead of crying and screaming for NIMPH, just use this gun and do whatever. Protect your own life if you have to."

"─Then, temporarily, Laplace will be entrusted to my squad, Counters."

"...Huh?"

Interrupting, Moore's words cause Laplace to widen her eyes, blinking repeatedly.

"...Unfortunately, I'm inferior to Nikke in Rapture combat. Stick with me. Well... you can even watch my back. If I hesitate to step forward for a moment, shoot me in the back with that gun. I don't have NIMPH. Theoretically, it should be possible, right? ─Rapi, you don't mind?"

Moore directs the question to the squad leader as the commander. She emits a small sigh as if saying she can't help it. After emitting that kind of expression, she eventually nods slightly.

"I don't mind."

"So be it. ─Anis, team up with Neon."

"...Are you sure?"

"If it gets dangerous, run. ...Now, let's move."

There's unfortunately no guarantee that the enemies will wait indefinitely. Resting and replenishing ammunition moderately, they need to return to their positions.

Encouraging Anis and Neon to head to their positions, they exchange glances. Following that, two pairs of eyes with different irises turn towards Moore, as if praying for safety. After casting that gaze, resembling a prayer, they exit the bunker.

"─It's refreshing to hear Baby say, "if things go south, run." "

"As for me, I feel like retreating as soon as possible."

"Haha! Indeed."

Revealing his sharp canine teeth, Maxwell responds with a smile to his somewhat blunt words—no, to his true feelings.

"I'm going too. ─I'll show you that villains are greater than heroes. ...So if you want to retort, hurry up and go back to your old self."

Villain—or rather, Drake, sends somewhat ambiguous words of encouragement or provocation to Laplace, and then, following the two from before, he exits the bunker.

Watching the departing figure of Drake, Maxwell—holding her exposed belly and bursting into laughter.

"─Drake, you could say even such embarrassing things. The world really is mysterious~"

Perhaps because the tense atmosphere had been lingering, Maxwell, who unexpectedly witnessed such a sight, couldn't stop laughing, with tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

However, it's not a situation where one can keep laughing forever. After managing to control her laughter, Maxwell wipes away the tears that emerge and takes a deep breath.

"Well then, mental care is over for me. From now on, I'll somehow manage on my own, utilizing the highest technology of Misillis and becoming the strongest with my own hands. That's the way of us, Metis, right?"

"...What should I do?"

With a sigh, Laplace utters a complaint while looking down at the gun that was handed to her. Despite mental care being over, the leader is hesitant.

Exhaling mixed with a sigh, Maxwell directs her gaze to him. Moore, kneeling in front of Laplace, removes the helmet he had on, locks eyes with her, and confronts her.

"─Captain...?"

"─I forgot to mention something."

The removed helmet is wedged against the right arm holding the assault rifle grip, and the opposite left hand grabs Laplace's shoulder.

"That poem, the words of a man who, with the courage and indomitable spirit given by Invictus, achieved freedom and equality."

Deep brown eyes pierce straight through. Laplace could not avert her gaze from that stare, and she had no choice but to listen to the words that would be spun.

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The greatest glory in living

lies not in never falling,

but in rising every time we fall.

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"─What is that...?"

"I will always cover you, Laplace, and everyone else. So, hero, don't give up."

"──"

"Rapi."

"Yes. ──Laplace."

Prompted by Rapi, she nodded once, and then Rapi called Laplace. With Rapi leading the way, the two exited the bunker, and Moore raised himself while readjusting his helmet.

"...Thank you, Baby."

"No need for thanks."

As a final smoke before engaging in combat, he once again took out the soft pack, shook it lightly, and took the protruding cigarette in his mouth.

"Well then, I'll be going too."

"Take care."

"Yeah. ──Baby."

"What──"

There seems to be something more. As Moore turned his face towards Maxwell over his shoulder, the moment his turquoise blue eyes closed, her face appeared prominently in his field of vision. The instant he recognized it, something soft and moist touched his cheek.

"...Next time, make sure to shave. It hurt a bit."

"...Next time? There will be a next time?"

"Well, who knows? If you survive, perhaps?"

"Indeed."

With a wry smile, Maxwell looked up at Moore again, and at the same time, leaning up just a bit, stood on tiptoe, pressing her lips against his cheek once more.

"...Already, there's another 'next time.'"

"In that case, I'll give you an even warmer one next time."

"Looking forward to it... was it the right thing to say?"

"Hehe. ...Take care."

With a gentle smile that quickly turned serious, Maxwell's slender hand lightly stroked his stubbled cheek.

Narrowing his eyes with a reluctant gaze, Moore released the hand that had been stroking his cheek until the moment he turned on his heel. Maxwell also left the bunker after letting go of the hand that had been stroking his cheek.

Watching his departing figure, Moore lit the cigarette clenched in his teeth with an oil lighter.

Inhaling the swirling purple smoke into his lungs and savoring the bitterness and spiciness that tingled his tongue, he also gripped the assault rifle and walked toward the designated position.