Komatsu's head swam as the Animus disengaged, the harsh hiss of pneumatic release filling the sterile chamber. The arm holding him aloft descended slowly, its metal joints creaking under the strain as it unceremoniously deposited him onto the cold, unyielding floor. His legs wavered beneath him, the sensation of the virtual battlefield still clinging to his body, as though the very ground he stood on was unsteady. His breath was shallow, every inhale an effort.
For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, trying to steady the vertigo that clung to him like a thick fog. But his body, still tethered to the phantom aches and pains of the battlefield, refused to cooperate. The weight of his mind felt too heavy, as if reality itself were cracking under the pressure.
Sophia's sharp voice cut through the haze of his senses, her command sharp and unforgiving. "Take him to his quarters." She gestured briskly to the attendants standing by, her tone dismissive, as if she were giving orders to a mere inconvenience rather than someone who had once been a worthy adversary.
The attendants, with their stiff uniforms and practiced efficiency, moved without a word. But there was something in the way they handled Komatsu now—more like a ragged tool than a person. Their hands were firm on his arms, pulling him in opposite directions, forcing him to move despite his legs' protests.
Tadakuni, standing silent by Sophia's side, watched them with a calm, unreadable expression. There was a flicker in his eyes, something deep and calculating, but he said nothing. As the attendants began to lead Komatsu away, Tadakuni turned on his heel and followed, his boots clicking against the metallic floor with an eerie, measured cadence. The sound was so precise, it felt as if it were marking every step of Komatsu's fractured journey.
"Sir," one of the attendants began, hesitation in their voice, as they looked at Tadakuni, clearly not sure if they should allow him to follow.
"I'll see to him personally," Tadakuni replied, his voice calm but unmistakably resolute. The attendant opened their mouth to protest, but one look at Tadakuni's face—set in a hard mask of determination—silenced them. They fell back, leaving him to walk in step behind Komatsu, whose every movement seemed labored and disjointed.
Komatsu's body felt like it was moving through water—slow, unwieldy, disconnected. The walls around him shifted unnaturally, the sharp angles of the corridors bending in on themselves. He tried to focus, tried to force the world into some kind of order, but it slipped through his fingers like smoke. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears, the dull roar drowning out everything else, until it became all he could hear.
Every step was a battle against the disarray in his mind, each motion dragging him farther from clarity. The sterile scent of the metal hallways twisted into something bitter, acrid, until he could taste it in the back of his throat. His vision swam again, colors bleeding into each other like a painting left out in the rain. Was this real? Or was he still locked in the simulation?
His breath quickened, his chest tight. Focus. Focus. But his thoughts scattered like wind, evaporating as quickly as they arrived.
The attendants, sensing his growing unease, tightened their grip on him. Their hands were like iron bands around his arms, and as they dragged him forward, the weight of their touch seemed to anchor him further into the fractured reality he was struggling to make sense of. He wanted to fight, wanted to scream at them to stop, but he couldn't—his body wouldn't obey.
One of them adjusted their hold on his arm, and Komatsu flinched. The movement felt off, alien. Like they were shifting something inside him, twisting his control just slightly so that he would never be quite free.
No... something's wrong. The thought surfaced, a slow, creeping realization that started as a murmur in the back of his mind, but soon, it drowned out everything else.
His senses sharpened all at once—too sharply. The distant sound of machinery, the soft echo of footsteps on metal, the buzz of static in the air—all became too much. He could smell the faint scent of sweat in the air, feel the tension in the attendants' hands. His mind seized on every little detail, amplifying them until it felt like the walls were closing in.
And then, the fire began to stir deep inside him.
It wasn't immediate. At first, it was just a spark, a feeling—small and distant, like embers catching in the wind. But it was enough. It grew, quickly, and without warning, it became something more. His muscles tensed, his body rippling with energy, the heat building in his chest until it felt as though he were about to combust.
Fight.
It wasn't a thought. It wasn't a voice. It was a feeling, a primal, raw instinct that surged through him like an electric current. His hand twitched, fingers curling instinctively as if searching for a weapon that wasn't there. His mind could barely catch up to the sensation—the sheer intensity of the urge to break free.
The attendants, sensing the shift in him, tightened their grip. They adjusted, their hands digging deeper into his skin, forcing him to move forward. But the pressure only stoked the fire inside him, turning it into a raging inferno.
Fight.
The word repeated in his mind, like a chant, and his body responded. In one smooth motion, he twisted violently, pivoting on his left foot and using the guard's momentum to unbalance him. He didn't think. Didn't plan. He just moved, his free arm looping under the man's shoulder, pulling him close.
There was a moment of hesitation, a split second where his mind tried to catch up. The confusion inside him slowed him, made his movements feel clumsy. His legs were still weak, his body screaming in protest from the shock, but the instinct didn't care. It was more powerful than anything his mind could rationalize.
With a burst of force, Komatsu shifted his weight backward, spinning the guard off his feet. The world slowed, the moment stretching in front of him. The guard's body arced through the air, crashing into the cold wall with a sickening thud. The sound reverberated through the hall, punctuated by the startled shout of the second guard, who rushed forward with a snarl.
Komatsu barely had time to register the movement before his instincts kicked in again. He sidestepped the guard's lunge, his body already moving before he could even think. His hand shot out, gripping the guard's arm, pulling him into the center of his own momentum. He shifted his weight and spun, using the guard's forward motion to throw him, one arm snaking around the man's neck.
The throw was seamless, the weight of the guard's body twisting in the air before slamming into the cold, unforgiving floor. The impact was brutal. The sound of his body hitting the ground echoed through the hall, but Komatsu didn't pause. He was already there, his boot crashing down onto the guard's face with all the force he could muster. The guard groaned, his body twitching, but Komatsu didn't stop. Not yet.
He took a moment to breathe, to steady himself. But before he could react, Tadakuni's arm shot out, seizing him by the shoulder. The force of the grab was so sudden, so forceful, it sent a jolt of panic through Komatsu's body. He twisted, tried to resist, but Tadakuni was already on him. The world tilted as he was slammed violently to the ground. The air rushed out of his lungs, the impact stealing his breath for a moment.
Tadakuni wasted no time. A flash of metal—a stun baton crackled to life in his hand, the sharp hum filling the space between them. Komatsu's instincts screamed for him to move, to fight back, but his body felt leaden, unresponsive. He didn't have a choice.
The shock hit him like a thunderclap.
It wasn't a pain he could describe—more like an eruption, a fire tearing through his veins. Every muscle locked up, his body seizing in spasms. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and his vision darkened at the edges. His body was no longer his own. His mind screamed, but no sound came out. All he could do was brace for the next wave of electricity, which felt like it was tearing him apart, pulling at the very fabric of his being.
The world blurred, fragmented. He couldn't tell where reality began and where the pain ended. He wanted to fight. He wanted to push back, to break free. But his body wouldn't obey.
The shock stopped, but Komatsu was still frozen in place, every muscle trembling with the aftershocks. His legs buckled beneath him, unable to hold his weight. The attendants, with their cold, efficient hands, grabbed him once more, hauling him upright, forcing him to walk.
His thoughts were a mess, a blur. His body felt detached, moving on its own, like a puppet with its strings pulled by some unseen hand. His feet dragged along the cold stone floor, each step a battle, his mind caught somewhere between what was real and what was remembered.
Was this real? Or was this another memory, lost in the fog?
Komatsu couldn't say. His mind felt stretched thin, the present slipping further and further from his grasp as the guards dragged him toward his quarters.
Everything was distorting. The world around him melted and reformed, shifting between realities, each one harder to distinguish from the last. Was it just his body failing him? Or was the world itself unraveling?
He could feel it slipping away—the moment, the clarity, his control.