Saturation

The sound of Seraniti's boots cut through the air, each step landing sharply against the pavement. The rhythm echoed in her ears, steady and relentless. One. Two. One. Two. Each impact on the concrete pulsed through her chest, her heartbeat syncing to the rhythm of her stride. She ran with purpose, her gaze flicking between the chaotic news feed and the shifting red zones on her map overlay. 

Just because you're alone doesn't mean you have to be reckless, she reminded herself. This isn't the Victorian Era. The bitter thought was a necessary one—she'd long since learned that in this city, the smallest mistake could get you killed.

Her gaze hovered over a familiar name in her contacts, but she didn't call. Why isn't that lazy maid knight of mine here? she mused grimly, already knowing the answer. Zora was likely sprawled out somewhere, dead asleep with her sword within arm's reach.

Zora Presvedčenie. The name itself felt like a contradiction to the reputation of maid knights. They were fabled—the embodiment of discipline, grace, and absolute loyalty. Perfection, in theory.

But Seraniti had been stuck with her.

"ZORA!" she groaned internally, her lips pressing into a thin line as she picked up her pace. "Both lazy and a glutton! The world really has it out for me, huh?"

Despite her exasperation, a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. As much as she hated to admit it, having Zora around had made her life marginally better. Not that she'd ever voice that sentiment aloud. Not in a million years.

Zora Presvedčenie was a Feline, one year older than Seraniti, with a mischievous streak that bordered on perversion. Her soft gray ears twitched when she was amused, and her tail flicked lazily when particularly pleased with herself—which, unfortunately, was often. Unlike the rest of her kind, Zora refused to wear the traditional maid knight uniform, instead favoring what she called comfy clothes. This made her a walking embarrassment among her peers, but Zora didn't care. She thrived on being a nuisance—especially to Seraniti.

Just as she was falling back into her steady rhythm, a chime rang through her conscious—an incoming call. She didn't even need to check the name. The smugness radiating through the line gave it away immediately.

"Mashaa! Where are you? I cooked an hour ago, and it's gone cold!"

Zora's voice rang through her auditory feed, thick with feigned distress. Her image flickered to life in Seraniti's vision—a young woman with tousled gray hair, hazel eyes, and a wide, innocent smile that did not match her usual shameless behavior. Her ever-present cat ears twitched slightly, her tail swaying lazily behind her. Clad in her usual casual wear, she leaned forward with a practiced ease, making it perfectly clear that she had not been doing anything remotely productive.

Seraniti exhaled sharply through her nose, already regretting every life decision that had led her to this moment.

Seraniti rolled her eyes. Here we go again.

"Well, my dear gluttonous maid," she said dryly, voice dripping with sarcasm, "if you haven't noticed already, I'm currently tracking the visitor. So why don't you make yourself useful for once?"

Zora's smile only widened—that mischievous curve that made Seraniti's temple throb. The feline tilted her head slightly, amusement flickering in her hazel eyes. Then, without another word, she waved casually and disconnected, leaving Seraniti glaring at empty air.

A soft ping followed moments later. A new map overlay materialized in her vision, a location circled in red. Right beside it, a tiny chibi version of Zora smirked smugly, tail flicking.

Seraniti groaned. "Of course. Never ceases to amaze me."

Her gaze swept over the marked location—an abandoned storage facility, surrounded by infected residents.

Fantastic.

She clicked her tongue in frustration. Great. Just my luck. But even as irritation simmered beneath her skin, she kept moving, pace steady despite the growing weight in her chest.

Infected.

The word carried a weight unique to Terra II. It wasn't just a label—it was a sentence. Anyone whose blood saturation exceeded the safe threshold for collapse fluid was marked. 

Seraniti wasn't exempt.

Her own saturation sat at 0.16 u/L—low enough to function, but high enough to be a risk. Weekly suppressors kept the worst of it at bay, slowing the spread like sand slipping through fingers.

Not like they'd try to kill me anyway, she thought grimly. I'm infected too.

By the time she reached the port facilities gates—what felt like an eternity later—Svalinn hovered effortlessly before her, its massive structure moving as though guided by instinct. The screen floated at her side as an extension of her own body.

With her right hand, she reached for the operator handle. Her left gripped the redundancy battery rod near the top of the device. A yank downward, then a release—

A soft hiss followed as it disengaged, rising autonomously into position. Another mirrored its movements, locking into place with the silent efficiency of a machine that had done this a thousand times before.

Seraniti exhaled.

Time to get to work.

From the opening left behind, a dense, viscous liquid began to rise, defying weight itself as it coalesced midair. The fluid was black with a faint golden-brown sheen—the unmistakable signature of collapse fluid. It shimmered under the facility's dim lighting, appearing almost alive as it shifted, and coagulated.

Svalinn's primary cannon—ZeroTwo, pierced from the liquid before taking shape first, its form materializing piece by piece as though guided by unseen hands. The subsidiary cannon—ZeroThree, followed suit. Their components drifted into place with purpose—each segment slotting together.

Throughout the assembly, certain parts floated slightly away from the main chassis, suspended like puzzle pieces waiting for their turn. Wiring twisted and restructured itself. Barrels taking on their full length. Sections of varying opacity—some textured, some translucent—emerged in layers, their surfaces catching the light in the distinct sheen of modern craftsmanship.

The handles of both cannons darkened as they formed, shifting from a pale whitish-gray to a shade strikingly similar to Seraniti's own hands.

And then there was the apparatuses'—the spinning construct near the muzzle, unconnected yet undeniably part of the whole. It hovered, rotating in a slow, deliberate motion, suspended in perfect balance. 

But, most importantly, it looked cool.

Seraniti would take that detail to her grave as entire process concluded in less than five seconds.

A low hum filled the air as the cannons locked into their mounts, the surrounding atmosphere vibrating with latent potential. The final components clicked into place, completing the transformation, and as if responding to an unspoken command, the collapse fluid—now depleted of its informational potential—flowed back into the cartridge system with smooth efficiency.

The redundancy battery rod, having initiated the process, returned to its neutral position. With a soft click, it aligned toward the cannon's rear and inserted itself into its housing.

This was CS—a marvel of Óhreinn engineering and a cornerstone of modern weapon design.

At its core, CS functioned through the storage and reconfiguration of informational bodies—the very essence that defined an object's physical existence.

Seraniti's gaze flicked over the assembled cannons, her expression unreadable as her fingers brushed lightly over one of the handles. She checked every component instinctively, her mind assessing the weapon as if it were an extension of herself.

"Still flawless as ever," she murmured, her hand lingering on the grip a moment longer before pulling away.

With a final glance, she straightened and slipped behind a stack of materials a few meters from the gate, crouching low behind the jagged cover.

She peeked over carefully. Five guards. Two K9s.

Three positioned on the right, two on the left. The K9s—humanoid with dog-like heads—stood eerily still before continuing their patrol a few meters apart. Their movements were careful, their IDOL bodies precise and efficient. A reminder of what they were—what they used to be.

Seraniti could level them all in an instant if she wanted to. With ZeroTwo, the checkpoint would be nothing but rubble in seconds. But the aftermath? Not worth it.

At 26:30, the quiet elaborated everything. A single explosion would ricochet through the district, drawing more eyes and ears than she could afford. Subtlety wasn't her specialty, but who cared really? Not her.

She raised her hand slightly, flicking her fingers in a near-imperceptible motion.

ZeroTwo responded in kind, adjusting its angle midair. The apparatus on its chassis spun faster, the hum of stored potential building. With a flick of her left hand, she activated the Linearsequence stored in her ΜΙСΛ as it chimed.

Her hearing sharpened instantly.

Static-laced voices crackled through cheap radios, their murmurs carrying on the wind.

"…They're saying there's some VIP on the run," one of the guards grumbled, irritation bleeding into his tone. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"Dunno," another replied with a snort. "All I know is we're getting paid to sit here and stop anyone from getting in or out. I don't care what visitor means. Boss said to guard this place, so we guard it."

A small smirk tugged at Seraniti's lips.

Section 35. That's where they're keeping him.

She adjusted her stance, eyes narrowing as ZeroTwo shifted into firing position. The apparatus spun faster, arcs of electricity crackling along its surface. She flicked her wrist, making the slightest of gestures—

ZeroTwo responded.

A sharp discharge split the air as a sakharov fired, the projectile streaking forward in a glowing arc.

Impact.

The resulting blast scattered debris and bodies alike, cutting off voices mid-sentence. Screams tore through the air, mixing with the metallic screech of malfunctioning systems.

Seraniti exhaled slowly, already guiding ZeroThree into position for follow-up fire. The smaller cannon hovered at her side, its chassis faintly glowing in the wake of ZeroTwo's strike. She didn't need another shot, but it was better to stay prepared.

The pathway ahead was clear now—guards either incapacitated or too disoriented to regroup.

"Too easy," she muttered, stepping forward as ZeroThree reloaded and Svalinn took its place in front of her.

Gripping the operator handle, she ran from her cover, closing in on a guard struggling to get to his knees. His head hung forward, dazed from the blast.

Seraniti didn't slow.

Her boot connected sharply with the side of his skull, snapping his head to the side. He crumpled to the ground, limp.

Without missing a beat, she crouched down, plucked his ID, and straightened.