Tap...tap.
With the sound of tapping crutches and metallic footsteps echoing in the corridor, Captain Moore, who had received the order to appear, found that the prosthetic leg hastily attached to his right leg made more noise than he had anticipated.
The military slacks on the prosthetic leg side seemed disproportionately loose on the inside, likely due to the slender nature of the artificial limb.
The fluttering of the sleeve on the left arm of the military uniform unmistakably revealed the gait of a war-wounded veteran.
For the abrupt appearance, the prosthetic hand was not ready in time, but fortunately, the distance between the hospital where he was recovering and the headquarters was not significant. Even he, in his weakened state, could reach it on foot in about 10 minutes.
Boarding the elevator at the headquarters he finally reached, he proceeded to the designated floor. Walking down the corridor, he stood before the office of the deputy commander, who had issued the appearance order.
Reporting his appearance to the secretary attached to the deputy commander, he was informed that Anderson was already waiting inside.
----Responsibility must be taken.
As a precaution, he glanced at himself in the mirror next to the door, adjusting his attire with only his right arm. Once ready, he stood in front of the door leading to the office.
The door opened automatically, and as he advanced with crutches, Anderson, who had been working at a large desk, paused, directing his blue eyes toward him.
"Captain Shaw Moore has complied with the order and reported in at 1900."
With a prosthetic leg that restricted his movement and crutches that made saluting impossible, Moore adhered to the formality, announcing his presence and saluting. In response, Anderson nodded graciously.
"Please, have a seat."
"Yes, sir."
Acknowledging the improvement from the initial crutch-leaning salute, Anderson stood up first. The deputy commander took a seat on the guest sofa, followed by Moore, who sat across while leaning on his crutches.
Taking off his military cap, he placed it on his knee for a moment.
Without words, the gazes of their eyes with different irises clashed directly.
"How does it feel to deviate from the regular chain of command? Are you satisfied with the outcome?"
"If you're inquiring about the results, I will answer in general terms, yes."
"...I didn't know you were someone who preferred such indirect exchanges."
In general, he did. That was the self-evaluation conclusion he reached regarding the recent incident.
Whether he sensed Moore's inner thoughts or for some other reason, Anderson let out a big sigh and, from a storage shelf behind the guest table separating him and the deputy commander, took out a glass ashtray. Sliding it onto the desk, he directed it towards Moore.
"... You haven't smoked in a while, right? It's fine, go ahead and smoke."
"...I'll take you up on that offer."
It was not just mere consideration. Anderson's attitude and gestures seemed to indicate a willingness to speak openly.
However, he, too, was clearly weary of the forced non-smoking lifestyle. Searching his chest pocket with his right hand, he pulled out a soft pack and an oil lighter—both brought to him by his proud disciple.
Clasping the lit cigarette between his teeth, he made a distinctive metallic sound as he opened the lighter's lid, sparked the wheel, and scattered sparks.
"...In terms of the outcome... Rapture was actually drawn to a location far away from the Ark. However, it is a fact that the Ark was in the path."
"...I don't have an accurate grasp of the content Chairman Syuen disclosed, but is Rapture approaching the Ark?"
"Yeah."
As he asked while letting purple smoke waft, Anderson nodded affirmatively, then casually turned his gaze to the oil lighter emitting a dull light in Moore's hand.
"...Mind giving me one?"
"...Are you going to smoke?"
"Occasionally. Just a few times a year."
Shrugging, Anderson extended the soft pack, extracting a cigarette while Moore asked. The deputy commander, who took the protruding end and adjusted it between his lips, recognized the thin extending mouthpiece, and Moore once again lit the oil lighter.
Given the fire and having scorched the tip of the cigarette, he closed the lid of the oil lighter.
"...GODDESS... not bad."
"I'm glad it suits your taste."
Although it was a third-rate cheap brand, still quite an expensive item, it seemed that the deputy commander was satisfied.
While watching Anderson, who had crossed his long legs and was emitting purple smoke, Moore tucked the soft pack and oil lighter into his chest pocket.
"...Did you summon me because... perhaps... there was a possibility, albeit not in close proximity, of Rapture invading the Ark?"
"Unfortunately, that expectation is off. —But, speaking in terms of the outcome, did Rapture invade the Ark?"
"...No."
There seemed to be no reason other than confirming the facts. Anderson, resting his upper body on the backrest of the sofa with his long legs crossed, did not seem perturbed, as he continued to emit purple smoke.
Ash had accumulated on the tip of the cigarette at the room owner's hand. Moore took the initiative to tap the accumulated ash onto the edge of the ashtray, then sent the glass ashtray to the center of the coffee table.
"Thank you. —Do you know what is most frightening in an isolated community society surrounded by large protective walls like the Ark?"
"Suspicion, jealousy, deceit, demagoguery. And above all—"
.
.
.
.
"—Fear."
.
.
.
.
"Yes. Such emotions spread like infectious diseases or poison in a small community—society or community. To put it bluntly, it's frighteningly quick."
"...Exactly. Although, once it happens, it might be too late. In that case, this small society will collapse in an instant."
It might be inappropriate as a military expression, but Anderson didn't criticize it. He nodded, extended his right arm, and knocked the accumulated cigarette ash into the ashtray.
"Well, in that sense, this decision may not have been so bad. It raised awareness of the existence of external threats and the potential collapse of the small society. Perhaps that's why Enick didn't punish Shuen."
"...Of course, it wasn't the best solution..."
"—Memory erasure for the Metis Squad. It was one of the relatively reasonable methods. Well, it's about time, Captain Moore. Let me convey your disposition."
—Finally, getting to the main point.
He reluctantly exhaled the purple smoke he had inhaled, crushed the cigarette on the ashtray on the table, and straightened his posture.
Before him, Anderson also crushed the cigarette on the glass ashtray, unfolded his crossed legs, and stood up.
With deliberate steps, the room's owner circled around the coffee table—eventually standing behind him, straightening his back as he sat.
The superior's hand was placed on the shoulder adorned in military uniform, and the sound of undoing the clasps of the rank insignia on the shoulder patch echoed.
A demotion or a dishonorable discharge. It would be one of the two.
He had prepared for it, but the concern was only about the treatment of his subordinates, and this was just before that resolution.
"—Return to the rank of Major before the demotion. This is your disposition. Major Moore."
— — —
Avoiding dishonorable discharge or further demotion—however, what was incomprehensible was the reason to return to the rank of Major, or to the rank of Captain.
Having left the deputy commander's office, Moore, adorned in a military uniform, displayed the Major rank insignia on both shoulders.
As a professional soldier, it seemed impossible to think of this as a punishment for someone who had done something wrong.
Or perhaps—is this a message from Anderson that responsibility and redemption are not easily achieved with simple demotions?
—I don't know.
While leaning on his crutches, he exited the headquarters building, and the armed mass-produced Nikke on either side of the main entrance greeted him with a rifle salute. Moore stopped obediently at their salute, supporting himself with the crutches, and returned the salute with a raised hand on both sides as a sign of acknowledgment.
Thinking too much about things one cannot understand might not be very meaningful, especially when considering the thoughts and feelings of someone like Anderson. Understanding, or rather...
While on the way back to the hospital with permission to go outside, Moore suddenly stopped.
Information obtained from the Pilgrim pilgrims—former members of the Goddess Unit. Moore had informed Anderson that she wanted to embark on a long-term mission to search for the Unchained Research Institute hidden at the edge of a huge lake to the west of the Ark.
The superior officer sensed his intention and promised to increase the supply of provisions sent to the forward base. But as Moore expressed gratitude...
.
.
.
----No need for thanks. I'll do this much for those heading to the land of the dead.
.
.
.
It was as if he knew about the existence of the research institute and its current danger.
"...Did he really know...?"
Anderson held a rank and position in the upper echelons of the military. There was a possibility he knew as information, but the true intention remained unclear.
"...I'll smoke a few and then go back."
His lack of focus might be due to a severe shortage of nicotine.
Arriving at a position where he could see the hospital, Moore entered an alley.
Smoking on the street is not commendable, but there was no time to find a smoking area.
With a self-justification of just a few cigarettes, he lit the cigarette with the oil lighter.
As the purple smoke smoldered, just as he began to experience a sensation akin to intoxication in his brain...
"Good evening, Shaw."
A familiar voice called his first name from the darkness of the alley.
Reacting, he reached for the faux leather holster hanging on his hip, but before that, he sensed the presence of a gun pointed at him.
"Smoking in a place like this is a violation of regulations."
"...It seems so. Perhaps I didn't observe proper manners, and that's why I find myself in this situation."
Indeed, observing proper manners is important. Moreover, someone holding a public office like a military position should adhere to it more than anyone else.
—From the darkness emerged a slender figure that indeed looked familiar.
"...Long time no see, Crow. Since the shooting incident."
"Yeah, it's been a while. I did shoot you in the head, but... are you really human?"
"What a greeting. No matter how you look at it—aren't I clearly human?"
It wasn't that long, but seeing Crow revealed from the shadows, Moore shrugged his shoulders as the Major rank insignia returned to both shoulders. He then emitted the purple smoke from the re-lit cigarette clenched in his teeth.
Tap...tap.
With the sound of tapping crutches and metallic footsteps echoing in the corridor, Captain Moore, who had received the order to appear, found that the prosthetic leg hastily attached to his right leg made more noise than he had anticipated.
The military slacks on the prosthetic leg side seemed disproportionately loose on the inside, likely due to the slender nature of the artificial limb.
The fluttering of the sleeve on the left arm of the military uniform unmistakably revealed the gait of a war-wounded veteran.
For the abrupt appearance, the prosthetic hand was not ready in time, but fortunately, the distance between the hospital where he was recovering and the headquarters was not significant. Even he, in his weakened state, could reach it on foot in about 10 minutes.
Boarding the elevator at the headquarters he finally reached, he proceeded to the designated floor. Walking down the corridor, he stood before the office of the deputy commander, who had issued the appearance order.
Reporting his appearance to the secretary attached to the deputy commander, he was informed that Anderson was already waiting inside.
----Responsibility must be taken.
As a precaution, he glanced at himself in the mirror next to the door, adjusting his attire with only his right arm. Once ready, he stood in front of the door leading to the office.
The door opened automatically, and as he advanced with crutches, Anderson, who had been working at a large desk, paused, directing his blue eyes toward him.
"Captain Shaw Moore has complied with the order and reported in at 1900."
With a prosthetic leg that restricted his movement and crutches that made saluting impossible, Moore adhered to the formality, announcing his presence and saluting. In response, Anderson nodded graciously.
"Please, have a seat."
"Yes, sir."
Acknowledging the improvement from the initial crutch-leaning salute, Anderson stood up first. The deputy commander took a seat on the guest sofa, followed by Moore, who sat across while leaning on his crutches.
Taking off his military cap, he placed it on his knee for a moment.
Without words, the gazes of their eyes with different irises clashed directly.
"How does it feel to deviate from the regular chain of command? Are you satisfied with the outcome?"
"If you're inquiring about the results, I will answer in general terms, yes."
"...I didn't know you were someone who preferred such indirect exchanges."
In general, he did. That was the self-evaluation conclusion he reached regarding the recent incident.
Whether he sensed Moore's inner thoughts or for some other reason, Anderson let out a big sigh and, from a storage shelf behind the guest table separating him and the deputy commander, took out a glass ashtray. Sliding it onto the desk, he directed it towards Moore.
"... You haven't smoked in a while, right? It's fine, go ahead and smoke."
"...I'll take you up on that offer."
It was not just mere consideration. Anderson's attitude and gestures seemed to indicate a willingness to speak openly.
However, he, too, was clearly weary of the forced non-smoking lifestyle. Searching his chest pocket with his right hand, he pulled out a soft pack and an oil lighter—both brought to him by his proud disciple.
Clasping the lit cigarette between his teeth, he made a distinctive metallic sound as he opened the lighter's lid, sparked the wheel, and scattered sparks.
"...In terms of the outcome... Rapture was actually drawn to a location far away from the Ark. However, it is a fact that the Ark was in the path."
"...I don't have an accurate grasp of the content Chairman Syuen disclosed, but is Rapture approaching the Ark?"
"Yeah."
As he asked while letting purple smoke waft, Anderson nodded affirmatively, then casually turned his gaze to the oil lighter emitting a dull light in Moore's hand.
"...Mind giving me one?"
"...Are you going to smoke?"
"Occasionally. Just a few times a year."
Shrugging, Anderson extended the soft pack, extracting a cigarette while Moore asked. The deputy commander, who took the protruding end and adjusted it between his lips, recognized the thin extending mouthpiece, and Moore once again lit the oil lighter.
Given the fire and having scorched the tip of the cigarette, he closed the lid of the oil lighter.
"...GODDESS... not bad."
"I'm glad it suits your taste."
Although it was a third-rate cheap brand, still quite an expensive item, it seemed that the deputy commander was satisfied.
While watching Anderson, who had crossed his long legs and was emitting purple smoke, Moore tucked the soft pack and oil lighter into his chest pocket.
"...Did you summon me because... perhaps... there was a possibility, albeit not in close proximity, of Rapture invading the Ark?"
"Unfortunately, that expectation is off. —But, speaking in terms of the outcome, did Rapture invade the Ark?"
"...No."
There seemed to be no reason other than confirming the facts. Anderson, resting his upper body on the backrest of the sofa with his long legs crossed, did not seem perturbed, as he continued to emit purple smoke.
Ash had accumulated on the tip of the cigarette at the room owner's hand. Moore took the initiative to tap the accumulated ash onto the edge of the ashtray, then sent the glass ashtray to the center of the coffee table.
"Thank you. —Do you know what is most frightening in an isolated community society surrounded by large protective walls like the Ark?"
"Suspicion, jealousy, deceit, demagoguery. And above all—"
.
.
.
.
"—Fear."
.
.
.
.
"Yes. Such emotions spread like infectious diseases or poison in a small community—society or community. To put it bluntly, it's frighteningly quick."
"...Exactly. Although, once it happens, it might be too late. In that case, this small society will collapse in an instant."
It might be inappropriate as a military expression, but Anderson didn't criticize it. He nodded, extended his right arm, and knocked the accumulated cigarette ash into the ashtray.
"Well, in that sense, this decision may not have been so bad. It raised awareness of the existence of external threats and the potential collapse of the small society. Perhaps that's why Enick didn't punish Shuen."
"...Of course, it wasn't the best solution..."
"—Memory erasure for the Metis Squad. It was one of the relatively reasonable methods. Well, it's about time, Captain Moore. Let me convey your disposition."
—Finally, getting to the main point.
He reluctantly exhaled the purple smoke he had inhaled, crushed the cigarette on the ashtray on the table, and straightened his posture.
Before him, Anderson also crushed the cigarette on the glass ashtray, unfolded his crossed legs, and stood up.
With deliberate steps, the room's owner circled around the coffee table—eventually standing behind him, straightening his back as he sat.
The superior's hand was placed on the shoulder adorned in military uniform, and the sound of undoing the clasps of the rank insignia on the shoulder patch echoed.
A demotion or a dishonorable discharge. It would be one of the two.
He had prepared for it, but the concern was only about the treatment of his subordinates, and this was just before that resolution.
"—Return to the rank of Major before the demotion. This is your disposition. Major Moore."
— — —
Avoiding dishonorable discharge or further demotion—however, what was incomprehensible was the reason to return to the rank of Major, or to the rank of Captain.
Having left the deputy commander's office, Moore, adorned in a military uniform, displayed the Major rank insignia on both shoulders.
As a professional soldier, it seemed impossible to think of this as a punishment for someone who had done something wrong.
Or perhaps—is this a message from Anderson that responsibility and redemption are not easily achieved with simple demotions?
—I don't know.
While leaning on his crutches, he exited the headquarters building, and the armed mass-produced Nikke on either side of the main entrance greeted him with a rifle salute. Moore stopped obediently at their salute, supporting himself with the crutches, and returned the salute with a raised hand on both sides as a sign of acknowledgment.
Thinking too much about things one cannot understand might not be very meaningful, especially when considering the thoughts and feelings of someone like Anderson. Understanding, or rather...
While on the way back to the hospital with permission to go outside, Moore suddenly stopped.
Information obtained from the Pilgrim pilgrims—former members of the Goddess Unit. Moore had informed Anderson that she wanted to embark on a long-term mission to search for the Unchained Research Institute hidden at the edge of a huge lake to the west of the Ark.
The superior officer sensed his intention and promised to increase the supply of provisions sent to the forward base. But as Moore expressed gratitude...
.
.
.
----No need for thanks. I'll do this much for those heading to the land of the dead.
.
.
.
It was as if he knew about the existence of the research institute and its current danger.
"...Did he really know...?"
Anderson held a rank and position in the upper echelons of the military. There was a possibility he knew as information, but the true intention remained unclear.
"...I'll smoke a few and then go back."
His lack of focus might be due to a severe shortage of nicotine.
Arriving at a position where he could see the hospital, Moore entered an alley.
Smoking on the street is not commendable, but there was no time to find a smoking area.
With a self-justification of just a few cigarettes, he lit the cigarette with the oil lighter.
As the purple smoke smoldered, just as he began to experience a sensation akin to intoxication in his brain...
"Good evening, Shaw."
A familiar voice called his first name from the darkness of the alley.
Reacting, he reached for the faux leather holster hanging on his hip, but before that, he sensed the presence of a gun pointed at him.
"Smoking in a place like this is a violation of regulations."
"...It seems so. Perhaps I didn't observe proper manners, and that's why I find myself in this situation."
Indeed, observing proper manners is important. Moreover, someone holding a public office like a military position should adhere to it more than anyone else.
—From the darkness emerged a slender figure that indeed looked familiar.
"...Long time no see, Crow. Since the shooting incident."
"Yeah, it's been a while. I did shoot you in the head, but... are you really human?"
"What a greeting. No matter how you look at it—aren't I clearly human?"
It wasn't that long, but seeing Crow revealed from the shadows, Moore shrugged his shoulders as the Major rank insignia returned to both shoulders. He then emitted the purple smoke from the re-lit cigarette clenched in his teeth.
