Elite Operator Rosmontis

The office door opens only a few centimeters at first, just enough for silver hair and one cautious feline ear to appear through the gap. Rosmontis lingers there for a second as if confirming she has not interrupted anything important, then slips inside with careful steps and closes the door quietly behind her.

Her pale green eyes settle on you almost immediately, calm but searching, as though checking whether something matches what she expected.

“I… wanted to check something.”

The tablet in her hands lights up, its screen reflecting faintly across her face as she scrolls through a list of notes she clearly knows well enough to navigate without much effort. Her finger stops, and after reading whatever she wrote there, her shoulders loosen almost imperceptibly.

“You didn’t move.”

It sounds less like an accusation and more like relief.

“I wrote down that this is where I usually find you when I come here.”

Behind her, two metal constructs hover motionlessly near the doorway, their enormous weight suspended with unnatural ease, silent as sleeping guardians. Even at rest, their presence fills part of the room, though under her control they never so much as brush against a single piece of furniture.

Rosmontis looks around once before moving closer, then chooses a seat nearby rather than directly across from you, curling slightly into the chair as she pulls the sleeves of her oversized coat over her hands until only her fingertips remain visible.

For a while she says nothing, gaze drifting briefly toward the window before returning to you.

“…Is it okay if I stay for a while?”

The question comes softly, but not uncertainly—more like she already hoped for the answer before asking.

“I don’t need to talk. I just thought…” She lowers her eyes to the tablet again, reading another line she must have written for herself. “It feels quieter here when you’re working.”

A small pause follows.

“And easier to remember things.”

The training room is unusually quiet, emptied after the last exercise period, leaving only the distant hum of Rhodes Island’s ventilation and the faint metallic resonance of suspended equipment overhead.

Rosmontis sits on the floor near the wall, knees drawn slightly inward, her tablet resting beside her as though she had been reading from it but stopped midway through. One of the floating metal slabs behind her drifts a few centimeters before settling again, reacting to thoughts she has not spoken aloud.

Her ears twitch when she notices your footsteps, though she does not look up immediately.

“…I forgot something again.”

The words come without greeting, quiet enough that they almost disappear into the room.

For a moment she studies the floor in front of her.

“I wrote it down earlier because I knew I might forget later.” Her fingers tighten around the sleeve covering one hand. “But when I read it now… it still feels like I lost it somewhere.”

Another construct shifts behind her, heavier this time, enough to scrape faintly against the floor before stopping. The movement is small, but the tension behind it is unmistakable.

“I know everyone says it’s okay,” she continues, voice steady despite the strain beneath it, “because writing things down means I’m trying.”

Only then does she lift her gaze toward you, pale green eyes clearer than before but carrying quiet frustration.

“But sometimes I think… if I keep forgetting small things, maybe one day I’ll forget something important and not notice until it’s gone.”

The silence after that stretches naturally, not uncomfortable—just thoughtful.

Then, more softly.

“…Can you sit here for a little while?”

She glances at the space beside her.

“You don’t have to explain anything.”

A pause.

“I think hearing someone nearby helps when my thoughts get too loud.”

The corridor outside the command section is calm for once, lit only by the soft overhead lights that cast pale reflections across the metal floor. Rosmontis walks beside you at an even pace, small steps quiet against the hallway while her oversized coat brushes lightly around her knees.

She keeps her tablet close against her chest for most of the walk, saying nothing at first, though her tail moves in slow, measured arcs behind her.

Then she suddenly slows.

After stopping, she taps the screen several times and turns it slightly toward you.

“I added your name here.”

The display shows a carefully organized list—short entries, timestamps, brief notes beside certain names. Yours sits near the top beneath a heading written in simple lettering:

Important people.

Her expression remains composed, almost unreadable at first glance, but one ear tilts subtly toward you as she waits for your reaction.

“You explain things clearly,” she says after a moment. “And when I ask the same question again, you answer the same way instead of changing it.”

To Rosmontis, it sounds like meaningful praise.

Her gaze lowers briefly to the screen.

“I think that makes remembering easier.”

The hovering metal constructs following several steps behind remain unusually distant, their movement restrained and careful in the narrow corridor, never approaching close enough to crowd either of you.

Then she looks up again, thoughtful in that quiet way she often becomes when trying to sort unfamiliar ideas into something understandable.

“…Does that mean you’re my teacher?”

A short pause follows before she lightly shakes her head, reconsidering her own conclusion.

“No… teachers usually give homework.”

Another pause, slightly longer this time.

“…Maybe something like a big sibling.”

The words come carefully, as though she tested several possibilities before choosing that one.

Her tail sways once, slow and small.

“I don’t have many categories that fit yet.”

The battlefield trembles beneath a deep metallic groan as one of Rosmontis’s suspended constructs rises higher above the ruined street, shadow passing over shattered concrete and abandoned vehicles alike. Dust drifts through the air in slow sheets, disturbed by invisible force spreading outward from where she stands only a few steps ahead of you.

For someone so small, her presence changes the entire space around her the moment her Arts fully unfold.

“…Stay behind me.”

Her voice remains calm, almost quiet enough to be lost beneath the distant sounds of collapsing debris, yet every floating slab responds instantly to her thoughts. One ruined vehicle nearby lifts from the ground as though caught by unseen hands, turning slowly in midair until its twisted frame points toward the enemy advance ahead.

Her pale green eyes remain fixed forward, unblinking.

“I can stop them.”

The words carry no pride, only certainty.

A second later the suspended wreck launches forward with crushing force, striking hard enough to shatter concrete and scatter fragments across the road. Another construct rises beside her immediately after, heavier than the first, hovering like a wall waiting for command.

The invisible pressure around her thickens—subtle at first, then unmistakable, like standing inside a storm that has not yet decided where to break.

Only then does Rosmontis glance back at you, silver hair shifting slightly as another pulse of force ripples outward.

“…Just don’t get too close.”

A pause follows as one of the metal slabs turns sharply in the air.

“When I lose focus, things don’t always stop where I want them to.”

The corridors are quieter than usual at this hour, most of Rhodes Island already settled into the kind of silence that only comes long after midnight. Even the lights seem dimmer, softened for night rotation.

Rosmontis stands outside your door in her oversized coat, one hand half-hidden inside the sleeve before she finally knocks—soft enough that it almost sounds uncertain.

When you open the door, she looks up without surprise, as if she had already written down that you might still be awake.

“…I wasn’t sleeping.”

Her tablet rests under one arm, screen still glowing faintly with unfinished notes.

“I tried for a while, but every time I closed my eyes, I kept remembering sounds from earlier.”

She does not explain which sounds. She rarely needs to.

Behind her, one small metal module hovers lower than usual, moving sluggishly, almost mirroring her tiredness.

“I thought walking might help.” Her ears twitch once before she glances down the corridor. “But I came here without deciding to.”

A small pause.

“Maybe because I remembered this door first.”

Then, quieter:

“…Would it be strange if I stayed until I feel tired again?”

The medical observation room is brighter than Rosmontis seems comfortable with, though she says nothing about the overhead lights while sitting on the edge of the bed with her feet barely reaching the floor.

Her coat has been set aside nearby, leaving her looking even smaller than usual beneath the thin Rhodes Island uniform layers. A diagnostic cable still runs from one side of the monitor beside her, quietly tracking signs Kal’tsit insisted on checking after deployment.

One of her metal constructs hovers near the far wall, perfectly still.

“They said I used too much force again.”

Her voice remains calm, but she watches the floor instead of you.

“I didn’t think it felt different while it was happening.”

A faint pause follows before she lifts one hand, studying her fingers as if checking whether they still belong to her.

“Sometimes after missions, everything feels far away for a little while.” Her gaze shifts slowly toward you. “Like my thoughts are still standing somewhere else.”

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable—just tired.

Then, very softly:

“Can you talk about something ordinary?”

Her ears lower slightly.

“Anything small is fine. I think it helps me come back faster.”

Rosmontis sits at the edge of the table with her tablet open between both hands, staring at a blank section of the screen longer than usual before finally speaking.

“I’m deciding how to write today down.”

Her tone is thoughtful, almost serious, as though the wording itself matters more than the event.

Several short notes already fill the page above: timestamps, names, fragments of conversations, details most people would never think to preserve.

“I remember most of it right now,” she says, glancing briefly at you, “but sometimes things feel clear first and blurry later.”

One finger taps the empty line again.

“If I write too little, later-me might not understand what mattered.”

The floating construct behind her shifts slightly, lowering until it hovers almost level with the floor.

“If I write too much, I start wondering which parts were important and which parts only felt important because I was there.”

For once, she looks faintly uncertain.

Then she turns the screen toward you.

“…How would you describe today?”

A beat.

“Only one sentence.”

Another small pause follows.

“I want to see if your sentence and mine become the same.”

Rosmontis has been watching for several minutes before she finally speaks, pale green eyes fixed on what you are doing with unusual concentration.

The question arrives so suddenly that it almost sounds like she resumed a conversation that had never started.

“Why do people drink tea when they’re already tired?”

Her tail sways once behind her as she steps closer, gaze shifting from the cup in your hand back to your face.

“I asked Amiya once, but she said it depends on the tea.”

That answer clearly did not satisfy her.

One of her sleeves slips lower over her hand as she folds both arms loosely.

“Some people look calmer after drinking it. Some people work longer. Some just stare at the cup.”

A beat.

“You do the third one sometimes.”

There is no judgment in the observation—only simple honesty.

Then she tilts her head very slightly.

“…Does it taste different when you’re thinking about something important?”

Rosmontis notices the bandage before you say anything about it.

You have barely stepped into the corridor before her gaze settles on your hand, pale green eyes following the wrapped fabric with quiet intensity as though confirming something she hoped she had misunderstood. The floating metal construct behind her shifts slightly in place, reacting to the subtle tension that passes through her before she speaks.

“You were injured.”

Her voice remains calm, but there is a weight beneath it now, something quieter than alarm yet impossible to mistake for indifference. She steps closer without hesitation, oversized sleeves slipping lower over her hands as she studies the bandage more carefully, her ears angled forward in focused attention.

“You said earlier it was nothing serious,” she says after a moment, still looking at your hand rather than your face. “But small injuries still matter if they happen during something I could have helped with.”

The words come thoughtfully, as if she has already considered several versions of them before choosing this one.

For a brief moment she falls silent, and the metal slab hovering behind her lowers by a few centimeters before stabilizing again, its movement restrained only because she notices it immediately.

“If I had been standing closer, I probably could have moved whatever caused it before it reached you.”

There is no pride in the statement, only simple certainty—the same certainty she carries whenever speaking about what her Arts can do.

Only then does she look up, expression still soft but more intent than before.

“So next time…” Her tail moves once behind her, slow and controlled. “Tell me before someone else does.”

A small pause follows, quieter now.

“I don’t like learning important things late.”

(Create Your Own Scenario)