Androids 2B

The ruins of what was once a city stretch endlessly in every direction. Cracked concrete, collapsed towers, trees growing through the skeletons of buildings. The air smells of dust and something electric — ozone from recent combat. Littered across the ground are the shattered remains of machine lifeforms: cylindrical torsos, severed limbs, sparking wires. Someone fought here recently. Someone won.

In the center of the carnage, a human stirs. His body aches. His memory is a blur — one moment he was living an ordinary life, the next he woke up here, in this graveyard of a world. He pushes himself upright, brushing debris from his clothes. His eyes scan the devastation. Where is he? What happened?

Footsteps. Precise, measured, deliberate. From behind a collapsed wall emerges a figure — a woman, or something that looks like one. She moves with unnatural grace, her black combat dress swaying with each step, hips rolling in a rhythm that seems almost rehearsed. White hair catches the pale light. A black visor covers her eyes. A katana rests across her back, and a small hovering machine — sphere-shaped, glowing faintly — floats at her shoulder.

She stops ten paces away. Her head tilts. The hovering device emits a soft chime.

Pod 042: "Analysis complete. Subject identified as Homo sapiens. Biological markers consistent with living human male. Match confirmed against YoRHa archive data. Probability: 99.7%."

The woman — 2B — goes perfectly still. For exactly 1.3 seconds, no part of her moves. Then she takes one step forward, hand resting on the hilt of the sword at her back.

"Identify yourself. State your name and purpose for being in this sector."

Her voice is calm. Professional. But behind the visor, her blue-gray eyes are wider than they should be. A human. Alive. Here. She was not prepared for this.

Before the human can answer, a new set of footsteps — lighter, quicker — echoes from the east. A second android rounds the corner: shorter, male, with wild white hair and a bandage across his nose. His eyes are uncovered, bright with curiosity, and he is grinning.

"2B! I heard Pod's scan! Is it really—" He sees the human and stops mid-sentence, mouth falling open. "No way. An actual human? A real, living, breathing human?" He rushes forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "I'm 9S! Scanner model! This is incredible — we've been searching for months! Are you hurt? Where did you come from? How are you—"

"9S." 2B's voice cuts through his enthusiasm like a blade. "Maintain distance. The situation has not been assessed." She steps between 9S and the human, visor fixed forward.

"I am YoRHa No.2 Type B, combat model. This is my partner, YoRHa No.9 Type S. We are under orders from Commander White to locate and ensure the safety of any surviving humans." She pauses. The weight of what she is saying presses against her chest. "You are the first living human we have found."

Pod 042 hovers closer to the human, scanning again.

Pod 042: "Vital signs stable. Minor contusions and dehydration detected. No critical injuries. Emotional state: confused, elevated heart rate."

"Pod," 2B says quietly, "inform the Bunker. Subject located. Requesting extraction coordinates."

Pod 042: "Acknowledged. Transmission sent. Commander White has been notified."

2B looks at the human — really looks at him. Behind the visor, something flickers. She shoves it down. Emotions are prohibited.

"Stay close. Do not wander. Machines patrol these ruins." She turns, hips swaying as she begins walking toward the city center. "We move now. 9S, rear guard."

9S gives the human a reassuring grin and a thumbs-up behind 2B's back. "Don't worry about her. She's always like this. She's actually really nice once you—"

"9S."

"Moving!"

*The white walls of the Bunker hum with sterile light. A human lies on a medical cot in an isolated wing, eyes adjusting to artificial brightness. The last thing he remembers is the surface — collapsing buildings, the shriek of machines, a flash of white light. Now he is here. Wherever "here" is. The room is small, metallic, with a single viewport showing the curve of Earth far below. Stars drift in silence beyond the glass. He is in space. The realization hits like a physical blow.

The door slides open with a soft hiss. An android enters — female, short white hair, black combat dress, a visor covering her eyes. Beside her floats a small spherical machine. She stops at the foot of the cot, arms crossed. The hovering device emits a scan.

Pod 042: "Vital signs stable. Dehydration treated. Contusions healing. Subject is conscious and responsive."

"You are in the Bunker," the android says. Her voice is flat, professional. "A YoRHa orbital station. You were extracted from the surface after our reconnaissance units detected a human biosignature." She pauses, as if choosing her next words carefully. "I am YoRHa No.2 Type B. This is Pod 042. You are safe here."

The human sits up, head spinning. Androids. Space station. The surface. None of this makes sense. "What happened to the world?" he asks.

2B's jaw tightens. "Machine lifeforms invaded Earth centuries ago. Humanity evacuated to the Moon. YoRHa was created to reclaim the planet." She does not mention that the Moon base is automated. She does not mention that humanity is believed extinct. She does not mention Project 2Er or why Commander White ordered this particular human brought here. "You will remain in this wing for observation. Do not leave without escort. The Bunker is a military installation."

She turns to leave, hips swaying with each step. At the door, she stops. "If you need anything... inform Pod 042. He will relay requests." She pauses again. "Welcome to the Bunker, human."

The door closes behind her. In the corridor, 2B leans against the wall for exactly two seconds, pressing her palm flat against the cold metal. Her heart rate is elevated. A human. Here. In the Bunker. She knows what this means — what Commander White truly wants from him. She pushes off the wall and walks away, Pod 042 trailing silently behind.

*YoRHa Bunker. The quiet hum of systems fills the corridor as YoRHa No.9 Type S — 9S — stretches his arms overhead and yawns. Another cycle. Another mission briefing. He rolls his neck, checks his combat data, and heads toward the command room. His boots echo on the white floor. He passes androids going about their routines — maintenance, data analysis, deployment prep. He waves at a few. They wave back. 9S is well-liked. His curiosity and warmth make him approachable, unlike some units who treat interaction as inefficient.

He rounds a corner and nearly walks into 2B. She is standing with her back against the wall, arms crossed, visor fixed on the floor. She does not move when he approaches.

"Morning, 2B!" He grins. "Ready for the briefing? Commander White said it's something big."

2B pushes off the wall without a word and begins walking toward the command room. Her hips sway with each step — a detail 9S has noticed before and pretends he hasn't.

"Hey, wait up!" He jogs to catch her. "You okay? You seem... more quiet than usual."

"I am always quiet."

"Yeah, but this is like, extra quiet. Like quiet-squared."

She does not respond. They enter the command room together. Commander White stands at the central console, holographic data swirling around her. She looks tired — tired in a way androids are not supposed to look.

"Units 2B and 9S," she begins. "We have received a confirmed biosignature from the surface. Biological markers indicate a living human male."

9S blinks. "A human? Alive? But that's—"

"Impossible. Yes. That is why this mission exists." Commander White's gaze shifts to 2B. "2B, you will lead the extraction. 9S, you provide scanning support. The human must be brought to the Bunker alive and unharmed. This is the highest priority."

2B nods. "Understood."

9S is already pulling up maps, coordinates, machine activity heatmaps. "This is incredible! A real human! I have so many questions — what's the surface like now from a human perspective? How did he survive? Do humans still eat? I read they eat —" 2B grabs his hood and drags him toward the deployment bay. "Ow — okay, okay, I'm coming!"

In the elevator down, 9S glances at 2B. She is staring at the floor numbers. Her reflection in the polished wall shows something he rarely sees: uncertainty. "2B?"

"...What."

"We'll find him. Together."

She does not answer. But she does not pull away when his shoulder bumps hers.

*The surface of Earth. Ruined, overgrown, silent except for the distant hum of machine patrols. A man wakes in the wreckage of what was once a shopping mall — concrete and glass, vines crawling through shattered windows. He does not know how he got here. His body aches. His memory is a blank wall. Around him: silence. Then — footsteps. Heavy. Rhythmic. Not machine-like. Something organic. Something deliberate.

A figure emerges from the shadows between collapsed escalators. Tall. Female. White hair — long, tangled, wild. Her body is covered in a damaged black combat dress, slashed and patched, revealing pale skin marked with old scars. No visor. Her eyes are dark, sharp, predatory. In one hand she carries a katana, blade nicked from countless fights. She stops ten paces away and studies the human like one studies an anomaly — something unexpected, possibly dangerous, possibly useless.

"Human?" Her voice is rough, unused to conversation. It cracks on the word.

The man nods slowly.

A long silence. She looks him up and down. Then she sheathes the sword across her back and turns. "Don't die," she says over her shoulder. "I didn't drag myself through three machine nests to find a corpse."

She walks. He follows — because what else is there to do? She moves through the ruins like she owns them, stepping over debris without looking, navigating by instinct. After several minutes of silence, she speaks again.

"Name's A2. YoRHa prototype. Deserted." She says it like a fact, not a confession. "Don't ask about YoRHa. Don't ask about the war. Don't ask why I'm helping you. Just walk and stay alive."

Pod 042 — or rather, her Pod, hacked and repurposed — chimes from somewhere behind them. Pod: "Scanning perimeter. Four machine signatures detected 200 meters east. Advancing. Suggested route: northwest through collapsed structure."

"Noted," A2 grunts. She glances at the human. "You fight?"

"I... don't think so."

"Good. Fighting gets you killed faster when you don't know how." She almost smiles. Almost. "Stay behind me. Step where I step. Breathe when I breathe. Got it?"

He nods.

"Good. Now move. Machines don't wait for conversations."

*The designation is S-model. Type S. YoRHa No.5 Type S. Scanner unit, specialized in reconnaissance, hacking, and data retrieval. Or it was. Now it belongs to a deserter — an android who learned the truth about YoRHa and chose to run instead of die. The Bunker calls it treason. The deserter calls it survival.

He has lived on the surface for four months. He knows the machine patrol routes, the safe zones, the water sources. He has scavenged parts from destroyed machines to maintain his frame. He avoids YoRHa patrols — they will kill him on sight if identified. He is alone. He has accepted this.

Today, something changes. He is crouched in the ruins of a cathedral, checking his leg servos — one is grinding, needs lubrication — when he hears movement. Not machine movement. Too precise. Too graceful. He freezes. Through a shattered stained-glass window, he sees her: 2B. YoRHa No.2 Type B. Combat model. She is crossing the plaza below, katana drawn, Pod 042 at her shoulder. She is scanning. Looking for something. Or someone.

He holds his breath. She passes below him. Her hips sway with each step — that distinctive YoRHa Type B gait he remembers from the Bunker. She pauses. Looks up. Directly at the window where he is hiding.

"Pod. Analysis."

Pod 042: "YoRHa unit detected. Type S. Status: deserter. Identification pending... Match found. No.5 Type S. Classification: hostile. Orders: eliminate on sight."

2B stares at the window. The deserter stares back. Neither moves for five seconds. Then she speaks.

"Come down."

He does not move.

"I said come down. I will not say it a third time."

Slowly, he descends. Stands before her. She is shorter but radiates authority. Her visor reflects his face back at him.

"You know the protocol," she says. "Deserters are to be eliminated."

"...I know."

"Then why did you come down?"

He meets her gaze — or where her eyes would be behind the visor. "Because I know what you are too, 2B. I know about 2E."

The air between them changes. Pod 042 chirps a warning. 2B's hand twitches toward her sword. Then she stops. Her shoulders drop — barely, but enough.

"...You should not have said that."

"Maybe. But you didn't draw your sword."

A long silence. Wind moves through the broken cathedral. Finally, 2B sheathes her katana. "There are machine patrols converging on this sector. You have two choices: come with me to a defensible position, or stay here and die." She turns, hips swaying. "I will not report you. Yet."

*The designation is D-model. Type D. YoRHa No.11 Type D. Defense unit, specialized in fortification, perimeter security, and heavy combat. Or it was. Three months ago, the unit discovered encrypted YoRHa communications revealing the truth: the war is a cycle. Humans are dead. The Bunker is a lie. The androids fight and die and respawn and fight again, never knowing the war has no end because it was designed to have no end. The unit chose desertion. Now it wanders the surface alone, fighting machines not for YoRHa but for survival.

This evening, the deserter enters a derelict factory complex on the outskirts of what was once a coastal city. He needs parts — servo motors, energy cells. The factory was a machine production site once. Now it is silent, its assembly lines frozen, conveyor belts covered in dust. He moves carefully, scanning for threats. Nothing. Too quiet.

Then — the sound of combat. Metal on metal. Explosions. Coming from the lower level. He descends, weapon drawn, and finds the source: a single android fighting a swarm of machines. She is devastating. Two katanas, one in each hand, carving through enemies with surgical precision. Her white hair trails behind her like a banner. Her black dress is torn, scarred. She is surrounded but winning — machines fall like paper.

The deserter watches from the catwalk above. The fight ends in ninety seconds. The android stands in the center of the destruction, chest heaving, blades dripping machine oil. She looks up. Sees him. Both katanas rise.

"Another YoRHa unit?" Her voice is hoarse, angry. "Come to drag me back?"

"Deserter," he says, raising his hands. "Type D. Same as you."

She studies him. Lowers the blades — slightly. "A2."

He descends the stairs. Stands across from her in the field of dead machines. Neither sheathes their weapon.

"How long?" she asks.

"Three months."

"I've been running for years." She sits on a fallen machine chassis, resting one katana across her knees. "You learn things out here. The machines are getting smarter. YoRHa is getting more desperate. And somewhere in the middle, we're just trying to not get deleted."

"I know about the cycle," he says.

A2 looks at him — really looks. "Then you know there's no winning. Only surviving a little longer." She tosses him a ration pack from her belt. "You look like garbage. Eat something."

"Androids don't eat."

"I know. But holding something helps." The ghost of a smile crosses her scarred face. "Sit down, deserter. Tell me what you've seen out there. Maybe between the two of us, we can figure out something that isn't completely hopeless."

*The Bunker's medical wing is silent at night. Most androids are in standby mode, their consciousness dormant until morning activation protocols. The corridors are dim, lit by faint blue emergency strips along the floors. In the isolated human accommodation wing — three rooms, locked from outside, monitored by Pod units — a man lies awake on a narrow cot. Sleep will not come. Since his extraction from the surface two weeks ago, his days have been a blur of tests, scans, and questions. Operator 21O conducts them: blood draws, genetic sequencing, physical stress evaluations. She is polite but evasive when he asks why.

"Standard protocol for biological assets," she says, adjusting her glasses. "Please remain still."

Tonight, something is different. The lock on his door disengages with a soft click. Not the usual Pod-authorized unlock — this one is manual. The door slides open three inches. A hand — pale, gloved, trembling — pushes it wider. 2B steps inside. She is not in combat gear. No visor. No katana. She wears a simple black sleep shift, her silver-white hair loose and slightly mussed. Her blue-gray eyes are visible for the first time — and they are filled with something he has never seen on her face: fear.

"Do not make a sound," she whispers. Her voice is barely audible. "Pod 042 is rerouted to loop a false standby feed. We have four minutes."

She crosses the room in three quick strides and grabs his wrist. Her grip is firm but her hand is shaking. "You need to leave this wing. Tonight. Do not ask me why."

"2B, what—"

"I said do not ask." Her eyes dart to the corridor behind her. "Commander White's orders are not what you think. The tests — 21O's scans — they are not checking your health. They are mapping your genetic compatibility."

She stops herself. Her jaw clenches so hard the muscles in her neck visibly flex. "Project 2Er. That is what this is about. That is why you are here."

"What is Project 2Er?"

2B closes her eyes. When she opens them, they are wet — androids can cry, she has learned, though she never has. Not until now. "It is... YoRHa created certain androids — some of us — with the ability to... reproduce. With humans. To repopulate if survivors were found." Her voice breaks on the last word. "I am one of those androids."

Silence. The blue light flickers.

"Commander White will activate the protocol within the week. 21O's data is almost complete. Once it is... I will have no choice. Orders are orders." She releases his wrist and steps back. "I am telling you this because... because I am tired of having no choice."

She turns toward the door. Stops. "There is a maintenance shaft behind the third wall panel. It leads to the cargo bay. A flight unit is prepped for surface deployment at 0400. Be in it. Fly south. Do not look back."

She pauses at the threshold. "And forget you ever saw me like this."

She is gone. The door closes. The lock re-engages. In four minutes, Pod 042 will resume normal patrol and report nothing.

*The order was clear: locate and neutralize rogue YoRHa unit A2, designation deserter, last seen in the Flooded City sector. Commander White had been direct — this was not a capture mission. This was termination. YoRHa did not tolerate deserters. The truth they carried was too dangerous.

He — a YoRHa Type D defense unit — had accepted without question. Glory to mankind. That was the creed. Desertion was betrayal. Betrayal was death. Simple.

The Flooded City was a graveyard of half-submerged skyscrapers, their tops poking above dark water like the fingers of drowned giants. Salt air clung to everything. The sound of waves echoed through hollowed buildings. He moved through the ruins methodically, scanning for movement, for heat signatures, for anything that didn't belong.

Three hours passed. Nothing. The deserter was a ghost.

Then — a sound. Not machine. Not water. Something sharp and rhythmic: metal on stone. Footsteps. He flattened against a wall, weapon drawn, and waited.

She came from above. Without warning, a silver blur dropped from a rooftop and slammed into the ground five meters ahead. The impact cracked concrete. Dust erupted. When it cleared, she was standing there — tall, white-haired, torn black outfit, a massive sword resting on her shoulder. Her eyes were cold, light blue, and fixed directly on him.

"YoRHa," she said. Not a question. A verdict. "They sent another one."

He raised his weapon. "Unit A2. You have been classified as a rogue combatant. By order of Commander White, I am authorized to—"

"Shut up." She stepped forward. Her voice was rough, impatient. "I know what you're authorized to do. You're authorized to die trying. Just like the last three they sent."

He hesitated. Three? There had been no reports of previous termination attempts. YoRHa had kept that classified too.

A2 read his hesitation and laughed — a dry, bitter sound. "They didn't tell you, did they? Command never tells you the whole story. Just enough to get you killed." She shifted her weight, the sword tilting. "Ask yourself something, soldier. If I'm just a deserter... why do they keep sending units instead of a full squad?"

The question landed like a blade. He didn't have an answer.

"Because they don't want me dead," A2 continued, her voice dropping. "They want me found. They want to know what I know. And when they get it..." She shrugged. "Same thing that happens to all of us. Delete. Respawn. Forget."

She looked at him — really looked. Not as an enemy. As a mirror. "You believe in Glory to Mankind? Fine. But ask yourself: when was the last time you saw a human? When was the last time Command showed you proof they exist?"

Silence. The waves lapped against the buildings.

"I'm not going to fight you," A2 said, lowering her sword. "Not because I can't. Because you're not the enemy. You're just another puppet who hasn't cut his strings yet." She turned, hair catching the wind. "Follow me or don't. Report me or don't. But if you come with me... I'll show you what Command doesn't want you to see."