Status: Calculating
Location: Galbadian Blacksite, “Gamma”
Location: Galbadian Blacksite, “Gamma”
The lighting is clean. Too clean. Clinical white buzzes faintly overhead — the hum of equipment, the occasional beep of monitoring devices. Sterile. Silent. Robin stands, wrists bound loosely at her sides, inside a transparent barrier field of faint hexagonal shimmer. No chains. No guards. None needed.
Across the glass, in a sealed chamber of medical haze and dimmer lighting, lies her father. His body is mostly intact, but the cybernetics — experimental PULSE-fusion implants — are breaking down. His veins pulse faintly with blue light. His right arm is gone. His face looks thinner. Gaunt. More-so than last she saw.
He doesn’t speak. But his eyes move. They see her. She stiffens slightly. Her jaw tightens. A voice comes from the shadows, conversational. Pleasant. Precise. “He’s lucky. You know that. What Esthar put in him? That would’ve liquified most people. But he held on. For you.” A Galbadian officer steps into the light. Business-suited. No name badge. Holding a pad. No one hear wore military uniforms, but he had to be B.I.E.
Robin's handler continued. “We’ve tried truth serums. Dreamwalks. Hypnotics. Nothing gets through to you. Impressive.” He walks beside her, gesturing across the glass to Isaac. “He hasn’t asked for much,” the handler continued. “Just one thing.” He leaned in, tone softening with mock sympathy. “To know you’re safe.”
Robin’s lips part slightly. Her eyes flicker. But she says nothing. The Handler speaks softly, almost a whisper. “We just want a name, Robin. A single name. Who gave you that contract in Timber? Just that.” Across the glass, Isaac tries to lift his hand. It doesn’t rise far. But the effort is there. He’s mouthing something. No speaker is activated.
The pair watch for a moment in silence, before once again the Handler spoke. “He still thinks he’s protecting you. Even now. In that body.” The lights flicker. The handler frowns. Taps a button on his pad. A warning pings in the screen: ECHO BLEED DETECTED – LOW STABILITY. “…That’s odd. The Echo field isn’t active in this chamber.”
Robin's breath shortens. The glass began to ripple — faintly at first, like heat shimmer, but too focused. Too intentional. Her eyes widen — not in fear. In recognition. Isaac's reflection changes. Younger. Healthier. Holding a newborn. Smiling. A memory. Not a hallucination. The Echo is feeding on the moment — twisting time into recall. Robin reaches out. Her hand touches the glass.
The young father speaks. "You can cry, kiddo. I won’t tell anyone.” The moment vanishes. Reality slams back in. Across the glass, Isaac coughs violently, eyes rolling as a nurse rushes into frame. The shimmer around the chamber pulses red, stabilizing. The handler turns back to Robin. Her face hardens. She says nothing. But her fingers curl inward. Slowly. Deliberately.
Hours later, returned to her a cell. A camera feed buzzes faintly. Robin sits alone, hammer gone, bindings removed. Her eyes are closed. The handler reviews footage from the event. The display pauses on her hand against the glass. The readout: NEURAL DEVIATION — 4.5% SPIKE. ANOMALOUS CONTROL. A technician speaks. “Sir… she resisted the Echo. Again. Most crack under sustained contact.” The Handler quietly responds, eyes glued to the playback. “No… not cracking. She's calculating.”
Robin opens her eyes. Still. Then reaches beneath her belt — and removes a small etched panel, the edge of a dismantled escape plan. She’s not broken. She’s waiting. She remembered what her father endured — and the legacy they both carried. She wouldn’t let it end here. Not with him watching. She would take their namesake no matter the course. Anundr. Unbroken.
Robin: Name
Ifrit: Guardian Force
Ifrit: Guardian Force
