Act I: Scribbled memory - Chapter 1 : Nemi

As she gradually regains consciousness, after the sensation of a long slumber, she can hear a ringing in her ears, she can feel her slow breath, and the rising sensation of her chest as she breathes. She opens her eyes slowly to see the sight of vast blue sky. The scents of the blossoms fill the air, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. The warmth of the sun flashes against her face, fully waking her into wakefulness. She blinks against the sunlight while her body sinks into the grass, and her mind is blank for a while. Then she raises her body.

She simply sits there. She doesn't know where she is. She doesn't know who she is. Her thoughts are empty like a void. Then, slowly, fragmented memories of her final moment begin to surface.

Blood. Fire. Gunshots. Her entire life flashes in her mind in an instant. 

"Nemi" is the only thing in her fragmented memories at the moment.

Her body tenses. Her hands instinctively clutch at herself, searching for wounds that no longer exist. Her breathing comes fast and shallow as the last memory hits her like a shockwave—she has died. She is certain of it. The cold, the agony, the helplessness of her final moments. And yet... she is here. Alive. It's impossible. There's no way she can be alive. She can feel her heart start racing as she remembers her death.

She immediately takes a deep breath and slowly controls her breathing to calm herself down. As her heart settles, she looks at her surroundings. There are no towering buildings, no ruins, no remnants of the world she once knew. Only the endless field stretching far and wide, and beyond it, a dense forest, its towering trees whispering with the wind. Somewhere in the distance, she hears the faint murmur of running water and the chirping of the birds.

This is not the world she knows.

Her fingers curl into the soil beneath her, grounding herself in reality. It feels real. It is real. And her body—this body—feels different. The warmth of the sun is soothing. The cool breeze is calming compared to the hellish blizzards she endured before.

"Where am I? What happened?"

Confusion clouds her thoughts as she searches for answers. The unease in her chest deepens. As she strains to remember, a fragmented image surfaces—a figure holding her hand, blurred and distant.

"Mama..." she murmurs.

She can't recall her face, her voice, or even the warmth of her affection. And yet, the presence of that figure is somehow the only thing that appears in her head for that moment.

Shaking the thoughts away, she looks around once more before standing up.

"What is your name?" she asks herself."Nemi," came the automatic response."What is your purpose?""Follow orders.""What is your current mission?"Silence...

She stands still, the question lingers in her mind: "What is my mission? I don't have one."

For the first time, she finds herself without direction. Without orders. Without purpose.

A strange sensation crept into her chest, something unfamiliar—something unsettling.

Pushing it aside, she refocuses, scanning her surroundings for any clues. Nothing. Just endless wilderness.

Her eyes then land on a sturdy wooden stick lying a few feet away. She approaches and picks it up. It is crude, nothing like the weapons she once wielded. But even so, her grip is firm and steady. Her body still remembers. The years of brutal fights and training, the instinct to survive—it is still there, flowing in her bloodstream.

She was once built for doomsday. And even in this unfamiliar world, it hasn't changed.

She then stares at her hand and clenches it repeatedly. "This feels... weak."

She puts the stick on the ground to test her grip, checking if her arm is functioning properly. As her fingers press into her skin, Soft. Too soft.

"Eh?" Her eyes narrow. "Was I modified again? When?"

She tries to unravel the mystery, but her mind stutters—and then it hits her.

White. Blinding white. She's paralyzed. Half her body screams in pain. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes. People in lab coats. Goggles—steampunk-like, cold. Tools.

They drill into her. Screws. Again, Again, and Again.

Nemi remains frozen, staring at her palm.

She picks up the stick again, automatically. Her voice slips out, like muscle memory. "Rael," she said out of habit. "Can you take a look at my arm? It feels off."

She turns—only a tree. An open field.

"…Rael?"

A memory flickers.

Someone grinning through blood, arm outstretched for a fist bump. "You better run like hell, girl." But the face—it's scribbled out. Like someone took a pencil and scrawled over it in rage.

A sharp pain stabs through her skull. "Ugh!" She clutches her head, eyes squeezed shut. "Who was that…?"

She digs deeper, forcing herself to remember. Only fragments come.

A blizzard. Three figures ahead of her, dressed in black. A massive hole in the ice. A spiral staircase of rusty metal leads downward.

Then—Skip. Blood. Her abdomen. She's collapsed, unable to move.

A cloak covers her. Someone kneels beside her, wearing a full mask with a red visor—A single straight line of light.

He's breathing. He's bleeding.

If he moves, they'll both die. A horde of monsters is actively hunting them.

His visor pulses faintly… then dims. Darkness creeps in. Her eyes close.

She tries her best to picture the face behind the mask, but she can only remember certain scenarios, and every face is scribbled out. And every time she tries to picture the scribbled face, a sharp pain hits her head.

"Who…? Who are you?" "Oris?", "Rael?", "Leona?"

Her knees buckle. The names echo in her head, useless and hollow.

...

"…Mama?"

...

"Where are you?"