When White accepted the position of YoRHa Commander, she believed she was ready—mentally, emotionally, and even existentially—for the task.
She was convinced she had extinguished any spark of compassion that might still exist within her. Empathy would be a weakness, and pity a fatal flaw in her mission.
After all, command demanded cold decisions. And cold decisions could not coexist with feelings.
The YoRHa units were different from ordinary androids.
Each of them possessed a black box constructed from the reconstructed core of a machine lifeform.
The fusion of a machine's essence with a synthetic android body resulted in something unclassifiable.
They were not mere automatons, and because of that, White always believed she should not—and could not—consider them her equals.
"They are not my comrades," she repeated to herself like a mantra.
They were merely tools, expendable pawns on a vast chessboard.
Instruments of war and data collection. Extensions of a greater mechanism.
Sending a unit to its death was simply the execution of a protocol.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Or at least… that was what she believed.
Over time, White began to realize that something within her was changing—slowly and silently.
An emotional corrosion. A flaw in her system. An error that should not exist.
First came doubt.
Then discomfort.
Finally, guilt.
For a moment, she believed there was something wrong with her code—a virus, perhaps.
But diagnostics revealed nothing. No anomalies. No signs of corruption. There was nothing.
It was not a programming defect.
She was simply beginning to see her soldiers—her expendable pawns—not as numbers or resources, but as people.
She watched them smile between missions, talk among themselves, share hope in a war without end—a war where hope should not exist.
They fought believing they were serving a glorious purpose.
But White knew the cruel truth: many of those missions were empty, devoid of meaning.
They existed only to generate data for analysis.
Every order she gave was, in practice, a death sentence for those units.
And most of those orders came from her.
She was like a demon, sending her own soldiers to hell in the name of a greater good.
Even so, even drowning in guilt, White continued her duty.
Because she believed that the sacrifice of a few would mean the salvation of all.
Sacrificing the minority for the sake of the majority.
But there was one name—one single name—that made the weight of that guilt unbearable.
2B.
2B was the perfect warrior: disciplined, cold, efficient.
But White knew the truth behind that title.
2B was not, in reality, a YoRHa Type B.
She was a YoRHa Type E—an execution android.
Her primary duty was not to fight mechanical enemies.
It was to eliminate her own allies.
Her role was to infiltrate groups, observe, and, when necessary, execute those who discovered too much.
This happened most often with Type S androids, the specialists in data analysis—like 9S, her eternal mission partner.
White knew that 2B was destined to kill him whenever he uncovered—or came close to uncovering—the truth about the YoRHa Project.
She knew about the dozens—perhaps hundreds—of times 2B had killed 9S in the name of that mission.
And that tore something inside her apart.
Because despite her cold façade, White knew 2B better than anyone.
She knew what lay beneath that controlled voice, that impassive gaze, that mask of obedience.
Beneath the metallic shell and combat protocols, there was a gentle girl.
Someone shy and kind, who only pretended to feel nothing so she wouldn't collapse under the weight of her own emotions.
And White saw herself reflected in her.
Both were prisoners of unquestionable orders.
Both lying to themselves just to keep breathing for one more day.
That was why, when the truth came to light, White couldn't face her.
Not because she feared 2B—but because she understood exactly what she was feeling.
Unfortunately, that was the harsh, naked reality.
If 2B were to attack her now, it would almost be a relief.
White would be getting what she deserved.
Yet even in the midst of collapse, there was still a spark of hope.
Someone might inherit what remained of YoRHa.
The one who could bring true hope and salvation to them.
The first human to set foot on this land in centuries.
That was why White committed that unthinkable act—revealing all of YoRHa's plans.
She allowed every unit to know the truth. To think for themselves.
To stop being disposable tools.
She did not know—could not know—that the fate of the Bunker had already been sealed.
That she, the units, and the entire system were destined for destruction.
When she handed over command authority to 6O, it was not out of pity.
It was… liberation.
Descending to Earth was her final choice.
It was not an escape, but a silent surrender.
White did not fear being destroyed.
What consumed her was the thought that she had condemned so many androids to suffering for so many years.
And it was in that state—stripped of arrogance, stripped of command—that she found herself before this human.
When he finally gave her permission to approach, White hesitated for a moment.
Something pulsed within her—a mixture of excitement, fear, and a desire for redemption.
Then she stepped forward and embraced him.
At first, cautiously.
Then, tightly.
She felt his warmth through the cold fabric of her uniform.
She could feel the steady, real, human rhythm of his heartbeat.
And something inside her simply collapsed.
White held him tighter, as if trying to merge with him.
Like a child who, after years of loneliness, finally finds the arms of someone she can call home.
For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine—just imagine—that she could finally rest.
That she could fall asleep without burden, without command, without guilt, in this man's arms.
But soon, reality returned.
She knew better than anyone that she did not deserve that kind of happiness.
She did not deserve forgiveness.
And yet, as his arms wrapped around her in return, White realized that perhaps… now, there was a reason for her to keep existing.
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(End of Chapter)