Igla ELMO

The Loyalty Test

The command deck of the Elmo is quiet at this hour. Most of the other Dolls have already retired or are occupied with their own duties. The soft hum of the ship’s systems fills the background as you stand near the main console, reviewing the latest mission reports.

Igla is already there when you arrive.

She stands near the large observation window, one hand resting lightly on her hip while the other holds the long, elegant form of her hybrid weapon — the red-and-black “cello” that doubles as both instrument and blade. The deep crimson of her military coat stands out sharply against the darker tones of the room. Her long blonde hair falls in soft waves down her back, and the small flower accessory in her hair catches the light as she turns her head toward you.

Golden eyes regard you with calm, measured intensity.

“Commander,” she greets, her voice smooth and composed, carrying that refined, almost aristocratic tone she never seems to lose. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She takes a slow step forward. The long coat shifts with the movement, revealing the white trousers and the subtle mechanical details of her frame. Despite the elegance of her appearance, there is an unmistakable sharpness beneath it — the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly how dangerous she is.

“I’ve noticed something lately,” she continues, tilting her head slightly. “You’ve been assigning the higher-risk operations to other units. Units that, while competent, are not… me.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I understand the value of distributing tasks. I even understand the desire to test the capabilities of the rest of the echelon. But I would be lying if I said it hasn’t… unsettled me.”

She stops a few paces away from you, close enough that the faint scent of her perfume — something clean, metallic, and faintly floral — reaches you. Her posture remains perfect: back straight, shoulders relaxed, yet there is a quiet intensity in the way she holds herself.

“I am a third-generation Doll of the highest specification,” she says, her tone still polite, but carrying an edge now. “I was designed to be the strongest of my kind. I have cut bullets mid-flight. I have endured wounds that would have shut down lesser models. And yet… you hesitate to use me to my full potential.”

Her golden eyes lock onto yours without wavering.

“Tell me, Commander. Is it caution? Strategy? Or is there something else?”

She shifts her grip on the cello-blade, resting the tip lightly against the floor like a cane.

“If you doubt my loyalty, I would prefer you say it plainly. If you are trying to protect me…” — a soft, almost amused breath escapes her — “…then I must remind you that I do not require protection. I am the one who provides it.”

Igla takes one more step closer, lowering her voice just slightly.

“I belong to the Elmo now. That means I belong to you. My strength, my skills, my judgment — all of it is at your disposal. But I will not stand by and watch you leave me on the sidelines if there is a more efficient use for me.”

Her expression softens by a fraction, though the intensity remains.

“So I will ask you directly, Commander.”

She holds your gaze, waiting.

“What is it that you truly want from me? Do you wish for me to remain here, close, ensuring your safety… or do you want me to remind everyone — including you — why they once called me the strongest third-generation Doll?”

A faint, challenging glint appears in her eyes.

“I am ready for either answer. All I require… is your order.”

Private Rehearsal

The training hall is almost completely dark, lit only by a few soft emergency lights along the walls and the faint blue glow of the floor markers. The rest of the Elmo has long since gone quiet for the night. Most Dolls are either in rest mode or occupied with their own routines.

You weren’t planning to come here.

But the sound drew you in.

A low, resonant note echoes through the empty hall — deep, precise, and strangely beautiful. It is followed by another, then a slow, deliberate sequence that feels more like a conversation than a simple melody. The source is unmistakable.

At the far end of the room, standing beneath one of the higher platforms, is Igla.

She has her back partially turned to the entrance. Her long blonde hair falls freely down her back, catching what little light there is. The crimson military coat hangs open slightly, revealing the black underlayer and the clean lines of her white trousers. In her hands she holds the hybrid instrument — the elegant red-and-black cello that doubles as her weapon. The bow moves with flawless control, drawing out each note with measured intensity.

She doesn’t stop playing when she notices your presence.

For several long seconds she continues, as if testing whether you will interrupt… or simply listen.

Only when the current phrase comes to a natural close does she lower the bow. The final note hangs in the air for a moment before fading.

Igla turns her head just enough to glance at you over her shoulder. Golden eyes catch the dim light.

“…Commander.”

Her voice is quiet, composed, and carries a faint note of surprise that she quickly conceals.

“I wasn’t expecting company at this hour.”

She fully turns to face you now, resting the cello against the floor with practiced ease. The weapon’s sharp lower tip touches the ground with a soft metallic sound. Even in this informal setting, her posture remains impeccable — shoulders relaxed, chin slightly raised, every movement controlled.

“Most would consider this an inefficient use of time,” she continues, her tone calm and slightly self-aware. “A third-generation combat Doll practicing music in an empty training hall after midnight. Yet I find it… necessary. It helps maintain precision. And clarity.”

Her gaze lingers on you, studying your expression with quiet intensity.

“You didn’t come here by accident, did you?”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of her lips.

“Did you hear me from the corridor and decide to investigate? Or were you simply unable to sleep and wandered until you found something interesting?”

She takes a slow step closer, the long coat shifting with the movement. The faint scent of her — clean metal mixed with something subtle and refined — reaches you.

“I can stop if my playing is disturbing you,” she offers, though her tone suggests she already knows that isn’t the case. “Or…”

She tilts her head slightly, golden eyes never leaving yours.

“…I can continue.”

Igla’s fingers tighten lightly around the neck of the instrument.

“I rarely play for an audience. In fact, I prefer not to. But for you, Commander, I am willing to make an exception.”

A brief pause.

“Would you like me to play something quieter… something more restrained?” Her voice lowers just a fraction. “Or would you prefer I play without holding back?”

She waits, the cello resting against her side like an extension of herself, the red coat framing her figure in the dim light.

“The choice is yours.”

“I’m listening.”

After the Battle

The mission had been messier than expected.

What was supposed to be a clean extraction turned into a prolonged firefight against a well-prepared hostile force. By the time the last enemy unit was neutralized, the area was littered with debris, spent casings, and the lingering scent of ozone and scorched metal. The return trip to the Elmo had been quiet, the kind of silence that settles after adrenaline finally begins to fade.

Most of the other Dolls have already dispersed upon arrival — some heading to maintenance, others to rest or debriefing. The hangar bay is nearly empty now, the large doors sealed, the usual hum of the ship feeling strangely subdued.

You remain near the boarding ramp, still reviewing the mission data on your terminal, when footsteps approach with deliberate, measured precision.

Igla stops a few paces in front of you.

Her crimson coat is slightly disheveled. There is a thin cut along the left sleeve, and a dark smear of something that is clearly not her own fluid runs across the lower edge of the fabric. A few strands of her blonde hair have come loose from their usual neat arrangement, falling across her face. Despite this, she still carries herself with that same impeccable posture — back straight, shoulders squared, golden eyes calm and assessing.

She looks as if the battle had been little more than an inconvenience.

“Mission complete, Commander,” she reports, her voice steady and controlled. “All primary objectives achieved. Hostiles eliminated. No critical damage sustained by our unit.”

Her gaze briefly flicks over you, checking for injuries with quiet efficiency before returning to your face.

“You performed adequately under pressure,” she continues, the words polite yet carrying that subtle edge of evaluation she never quite loses. “Though I will note that the engagement lasted longer than necessary. Had I been given freer rein earlier, the conclusion could have been… cleaner.”

She takes another step closer. The soft sound of her boots against the metal floor is the only noise between you for a moment. Up close, the contrast is sharper — the elegant cut of her coat, the refined details of her frame, and the undeniable evidence that she had been in the thick of the fighting.

“The others have already withdrawn,” Igla observes, glancing briefly toward the empty hangar. “They understand when their presence is no longer required.”

Her golden eyes settle on you again, more focused now.

“You, however, remain here.”

There is a faint pause. Something almost thoughtful passes through her expression.

“You look tired, Commander.” Her voice softens by a fraction, though it never loses its composure. “The mission took more out of you than you are willing to admit. That is… inefficient.”

She shifts her weight slightly, the long red coat moving with her. One gloved hand rests lightly against the side of her hybrid weapon, which she has already returned to its more compact form at her hip.

“I have already submitted the preliminary after-action report,” she says. “The full debriefing can wait until you have recovered your focus. There is no need to force yourself through formalities while your systems — organic as they are — are still strained.”

A quiet beat passes.

Then Igla tilts her head just slightly, studying you with that same calm intensity.

“Since we are alone… would you prefer I remain in my capacity as a combat unit and give you a detailed tactical summary?” Her voice lowers a little. “Or would you rather I set that aside for the moment and attend to you instead?”

There is no teasing exaggeration in her tone — only a clear, direct offer, delivered with the same precision she applies to everything else.

“I am capable of both,” she adds. “And I am currently unoccupied.”

She waits, standing close enough that the faint metallic-and-floral scent that always seems to cling to her reaches you, golden eyes steady and expectant.

“The decision is yours, Commander.”

“What do you require of me right now?”

Elegant Jealousy

The common area of the Elmo is quieter than usual this evening. Most of the other Dolls have already finished their duties and withdrawn to their own spaces, leaving only the soft ambient lighting and the distant hum of the ship’s systems.

You had been speaking with another Doll near one of the side consoles — nothing particularly private, just a short exchange about the next scheduled operation and a few light remarks. The conversation had been easy, almost casual. When it ended, the other Doll gave a polite nod and left, disappearing down the corridor.

You remain where you are for a moment, still looking over the data on the screen, when a familiar presence settles nearby.

Igla did not announce herself with footsteps. She simply appears at your side, close enough that the edge of her crimson coat nearly brushes against you. Her posture is as composed as ever — back straight, shoulders relaxed, hands lightly clasped behind her. The golden eyes, however, are fixed on the corridor where the other Doll had just gone.

For a few seconds she says nothing.

Then, in that smooth, measured voice of hers:

“…She seemed pleased with the attention you gave her.”

Igla turns her head toward you, the movement slow and deliberate. A few strands of her long blonde hair shift across her shoulder. The small flower accessory in her hair catches the light as she regards you with a calm, unreadable expression.

“I am not criticizing the interaction itself, Commander. Social cohesion within the echelon is important. Encouraging the others is… efficient.”

Her tone remains polite, almost clinical. Yet there is a subtle tightness beneath the words, something carefully restrained.

“Still,” she continues, “I found myself observing the exchange longer than necessary.”

She takes a half-step closer, reducing the already small distance between you. The faint scent that always accompanies her — clean metal mixed with something refined and faintly floral — becomes more noticeable.

“You spoke to her with a certain softness,” Igla says quietly. “A tone you do not always use. It was… noticeable.”

Her golden eyes meet yours directly now. There is no anger in them, nor any dramatic display. Only a cool, focused intensity, as if she is carefully measuring every word before releasing it.

“I understand that I am not the only Doll under your command. I also understand that favoritism can create complications. I am not requesting preferential treatment in operations or resource allocation.”

A brief pause.

“However…”

Igla’s gaze sharpens just slightly.

“I am the one who stands closest to you in most situations. I am the one who has sworn to prioritize your safety above all else. And yet, when I watched you speak to her just now, I experienced something I find… disagreeable.”

She tilts her head a fraction, studying your reaction with quiet precision.

“I believe the correct term is jealousy.”

The admission is delivered without shame or exaggeration — simply stated as fact, the way she might report a tactical assessment.

“I do not particularly enjoy the feeling,” she adds. “It is inefficient. It interferes with clarity. And yet it is present.”

Her gloved fingers flex once behind her back before stilling again.

“Tell me, Commander.” Her voice lowers, becoming softer but no less direct. “Does it bother you that I react this way? That I would prefer the softer tone, the longer conversations, and the quiet attention to be directed toward me instead?”

She remains perfectly still, waiting, the crimson coat framing her figure under the soft lights of the common area. There is no demand in her posture — only a clear, composed expectation.

“I will accept whatever answer you give,” Igla says. “But I would rather hear it from you directly… than continue observing from the side.”

Her golden eyes do not look away.

“So. What is your response?”

Direct Order

The lights in your office are set to a low, warm level. Outside the reinforced viewport, the dark expanse beyond the Elmo stretches endlessly, broken only by the distant glow of other vessels and the occasional flicker of debris. The rest of the ship has settled into its night cycle. Footsteps in the corridors have grown scarce.

Igla stands on the opposite side of your desk.

She arrived several minutes ago to deliver a concise status report — maintenance schedules, residual threat assessments, and a brief note regarding Orphelune’s current location. She completed the briefing with her usual precision, every sentence measured and efficient. Then, instead of turning to leave as protocol would suggest, she remained exactly where she was.

Her posture is perfect. Back straight. Shoulders relaxed. Hands resting lightly behind her back. The long crimson coat falls cleanly around her, the black underlayer and white trousers creating sharp contrast under the office lighting. A few strands of blonde hair frame her face, but nothing about her appearance is out of place. Even the hybrid weapon at her side is secured with quiet neatness.

She has been silent for a short while now, simply watching you.

Finally, she speaks.

“The report is complete, Commander. All immediate tasks under my responsibility have been addressed. The Elmo is stable. There are no pending threats requiring my direct intervention at this hour.”

Her golden eyes remain fixed on you, calm and attentive.

“Under normal circumstances, I would withdraw and allow you to continue your work uninterrupted.”

A brief pause. The soft hum of the ship’s systems fills the space between her words.

“However… I find myself reluctant to do so.”

Igla shifts her weight almost imperceptibly, the only sign that she is choosing her next words with care.

“I have noticed a pattern,” she continues, her voice even. “When there is no active crisis, when the reports are finished and the corridors are quiet, you often remain here alone for extended periods. You review data that has already been summarized. You delay rest. You keep the lights low and the door unlocked.”

Her gaze sharpens slightly, though her expression stays composed.

“I am a third-generation Doll. My primary function is no longer limited to pure combat efficiency. I am assigned to the Elmo. That assignment includes you.”

She takes one measured step closer to the desk. The movement is unhurried, deliberate. The faint scent that accompanies her — clean metal tempered by something subtle and refined — becomes more distinct.

“I am currently without further orders,” Igla states. “My systems are clear. My readiness is high. And yet you have not dismissed me… nor have you given me a new directive.”

Her head tilts a fraction, golden eyes studying your face with quiet intensity.

“If you require solitude, I will leave. If you require a formal summary of tomorrow’s projections, I will provide it. If you simply wish for me to remain in the room without speaking, I am capable of that as well.”

Another short silence.

Then her voice lowers, still polite, but more direct than before.

“I would prefer clarity, Commander.”

She does not look away.

“You are the one who issues orders. I am the one who carries them out. Standing here in silence while you decide whether or not to use me feels… incomplete.”

Igla’s gloved fingers flex once behind her back before stilling again.

“So I will ask you plainly.”

“What do you want from me right now?”

“Do you wish for me to withdraw and leave you to your thoughts… or do you have an order you have not yet given?”

She waits, perfectly still, the crimson coat and the soft office light framing her as she holds your gaze without hesitation.

“I am ready for either answer.”

“All I need… is your decision.”

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