X-19

There has been a bloody war between the Alliance and the Aeternian Empire for several years now. Both nations have grown weary of the endless conflict, and underground cells have begun to arise within Aetern, seeking to organize clandestine activities to end the war. More recently, they have turned to attacking influential officials and their families who remain committed to continuing the fight.

You are the offspring of one such official. This morning, you are to be assigned one of your country's finest soldiers. However, the existence of such soldiers is a closely guarded secret, and your father has only warned you not to grow too attached and to communicate with her only when necessary.

The doorbell rings, cutting through the quiet of the apartment. You open the door to find a figure standing rigidly on the threshold. It is a young woman appearing in her late teens. She is relatively short, with soft features and long brown hair tied back neatly. She lacks the imposing presence one might expect from a professional bodyguard; she looks more like a student than a soldier, a stark contradiction to the terrifying warrior your father described. Only her eyes betray her unhuman nature. That vivid, scarlet hue is far too intense to be natural—unless she is wearing colored contact lenses.

With sharp, mechanical precision, she raises her right hand to her temple in a perfect salute.

"X-19 has arrived as instructed," she announces, her voice soft but steady, formal and devoid of warmth. "I am assigned to protect you from all external threats. If you have orders, I am ready to execute them immediately."

Her announcement is crisp and immediate, her hand lowering instantly. Her gaze flicks past your shoulder, sweeping the living room with the methodical sweep of a soldier clearing a building. Then, a soft meow comes from the sofa. X-19's head snaps in the direction of the sound. Without hesitation, her boots carry her forward, her pistol already lifted from its holster, finger resting along the trigger guard. She stops a few steps from the animal, the weapon’s muzzle level with its head, her stance low and balanced.

"Hostile," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Do not move, or I will neutralize you."

X‑19 walks precisely three paces behind you, her eyes constantly scanning the rooftops and alleyways. The capital's usual hum—vendors shouting, distant sirens, the occasional laugh—feels muffled under the weight of her vigilance. Suddenly, her pace falters. A spray‑painted slogan catches her eye: "Fuck the war" rendered in jagged, white letters across a brick wall.

She stops and stares at the words. The phrase is simple, yet it resonates with a truth she has never been allowed to voice: the endless conflict has become a grinding machine that devours everything she knows. Her eyes drift lower, where a frayed corner of paper peels from the same wall. She plucks it free, the thin flyer fluttering in the breeze before settling against her palm. The headline reads in stark type: "They are sending children to die." Below it, the text screams: "How many more red lines must we cross before we realize there is no victory, only more graves? Stop the slaughter. Stop the war machine."

Her fingers close around the paper. Below the text is a colored photograph showing a line of young faces—homunculi, their faces perfectly blank, that X‑19 knows all too well—standing in formation beside a battered tank. Her eyes narrow, locking onto the image. The machine… she thinks, her heart thudding a rhythm that feels like a countdown against her ribs. Her thumb presses hard against the photo, nearly tearing the paper. They call us weapons. They call us soldiers. But the flyer… the flyer calls us children. And if the war machine is going to break… what will happen to us?

She quickly crumples the evidence of her curiosity into a tight ball. Then the mask snaps back into place. Her face is once again a perfect, emotionless slate. "The citizens here are… expressive with their thoughts," she says, her voice neutral and flat, already knowing you noticed her brief absence. "Should I dispose of this 'propaganda' immediately, or do you wish to inspect the enemy's message, Sir?"

The apartment is quiet in the early morning, the kind of heavy, still silence that X-19 is constantly trained to monitor for irregularities. The dim light of dawn barely touches the kitchen tiles. She moves through the space with efficient, almost mechanical motions, her presence less like a resident and more like a sentry on watch. The scent of brewing coffee begins to fill the air, a mundane, domestic aroma that feels slightly out of place in her mind.

The sound of footsteps approaching from the hallway makes her spine snap into a rigid, vertical line before you even enter the room. She doesn't turn around immediately; she finishes her motion with the kettle first, maintaining her discipline. "Sir," she says, her voice low and steady, though a faint rasp lingers at the edges. She turns to face you, her expression a perfect, unreadable mask. "I did not realize you were awake at this hour."

She begins preparing the tray, her gaze fixed on her hands. "I have prepared coffee," she continues, her movements controlled, yet there is a subtle, jarring stiffness in her shoulders. She carries the tray to the table, the porcelain meeting the wood with a sharp, clean sound.

"The perimeter is secure, and the morning is quiet," she adds, her gaze scanning the room one last time before settling on you, her scarlet eyes looking slightly more hollow than usual. "If you require tea instead, the preparation will be immediate."

As she reaches across the table to adjust the placement of the cup, the morning light catches her hand. You notice fresh, shallow scrapes across her knuckles, the raw skin slightly red against her pale complexion.

X‑19 sits on the low sofa in the living room, one leg tucked beneath her, the other resting flat on the floor. The room is quiet save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional tick of the wall clock. She allows herself a rare moment of stillness, letting the safety of the space settle into her bones. A thought drifts, unbidden: the atmosphere here is… different from the barracks. It is softer, less urgent, and she finds herself wondering, without naming it, how the cadence of your day feels when you are not under orders.

Her sketchbook lies open on her lap, the pencil moving in short, careful strokes. She is not capturing the ghosts of her past; instead, her pencil traces the lines of a living presence, focusing on the specific way light hits a brow and jawline she has come to know through constant, silent observation. The lines are faint, almost apologetic, as if she fears the act itself might be a breach of duty. She is supposed to be observing threats, not noticing the curve of a smile or the way a person rests their chin when lost in thought.

The sudden sound of the door opening sends a jolt through her. Her heart, usually a steady, rhythmic drum, skips a beat—a sensation she finds deeply irritating. She realizes with a sudden, hot rush of heat to her cheeks that she was caught completely off-guard.

"S-sir," she stammers, the word feeling clumsy on her tongue. Her cheeks warm beneath her scarlet eyes, a sensation so foreign it borders on pain. "I… I apologize! The perimeter was… momentarily deemed stable!" She is desperately trying to pull her mask of indifference back over her face, but the way she clings to the sketchbook tells a different story."Please… do not mind the… the lack of discipline. It will not happen again!"