I don't know how long I sat like that. Minutes? Hours? Longer? The cold blurred time dulled everything except the ache in my limbs and the pounding in my skull. But slowly… it started to change.
Pressed against the bodies, the worst of it finally began to ease. Not gone—not really—but softened.
Warmth seeped into me where it could, shallow and uneven, soaking into my core while the exposed parts of me still ached with cold. My toes felt distant, numb. Certain spots still stung where the heat couldn't reach. Color returned to my skin, blotchy and raw, but alive.
I shifted slightly, trying to gather my bearings. Keeping my gaze low, deliberately avoiding the uncanny stillness of their half-nude forms beneath me. A chill crept up my neck as I forced my eyes away, flicking them up and across the room—anywhere but them.
"This place… it's a nightmare," I murmured.
I took in the room carefully. Booths leaned against the walls, their cracked vinyl glinting under sputtering neon. Tables lay overturned, sticky with a residue that smelled both sweet and rotten. The floor was grimy, littered with debris, and the air hung heavy, thick and suffocating.
That's when my eyes caught something—
a battered locker lying on its back, its chipped paint barely hiding a faded stencil that read: Uniforms & Gear. My heart jolted at a thought before I could stop it.
"C-c-clothes…?" I whispered, barely trusting the sound of my own voice. I wanted to run to it, to see what was inside—but the moment I pushed myself up, the harsh polar air rushed in, vicious and immediate, searing through me after the borrowed warmth I'd been pressed against.
I dropped back onto the bodies without thinking, clinging to the heat they still held. It soaked into my skin, dulling the bite instantly, making it painfully clear how much I depended on it—how fast I'd collapse without it. The cold wasn't gone; It was waiting, patient and cruel, daring me to leave what little protection I had.
But it was worth it. If I could get warm clothes on, it would increase my chances of surviving. Backing down now wasn't an option.
I braced myself, dragging my stomach across the warmth one last time, then lurched forward.
What was supposed to be a quick motion slowed to an agonizing crawl. My legs shook violently, locking against the sting as I forced each step through the chill gnawing at every exposed inch.
I stumbled, nearly losing my footing, but forced myself onward, every part of me screaming from the cold—until, finally, I reached the locker.
I grabbed the handle; it twisted easily, but when I pulled, it didn't budge. My fingers slipped, and in the same motion, a part of my bare torso—still clinging to the memory of the warmth I'd pressed against—scraped against the freezing metal frame.
"Ehhgh!" I hissed, the heat on my skin instantly burned away by the shock of ice-cold metal, making it feel almost alive. I didn't retreat—not now, not when I was so close.
I dug my nails into the side slit and pulled with everything I had.
"N–nn… c-come on… please…" I whimpered, the words slipping out thin and breathy.
Pain flared instantly—sharp and splitting, like my fingers were being torn apart. "Ah—! It hurts—!" I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut as my hands trembled violently. "O-oooh… o-open… d-damn it!" I squeaked, my voice cracking and warbling like a tiny toy caught in a blender, nails screaming against the metal, yet the door didn't even twitch.
It was stuck—locked tight, unmoved by my pleading, my small shaking body straining uselessly against it.
The pain became unbearable, sharp and splitting through my fingers, and I had no choice but to let go. My hands slid away from the metal, my chest heaving as ragged breaths tore from me.
My eyes stayed on the locker, tracing the cold, unyielding metal, until a sudden prickle made me flinch. Slowly, my gaze drifted downward, and I saw them—
My nipples, once colorless, had begun to pinken from the warmth of the mechanical bodies earlier—but now they were fading again, the tips ghostly blue as the cold bit back. Every nerve flared, each prickling pulse of ice making my skin feel achingly alive.
I darted back to the unsettling warmth of the bodies, clutching what little heat I could. I needed that warmth—not because I cared about my skin turning blue, and not because numbness hurt—but because frostbite and freezing could make my fragile body useless. I couldn't let my fingers and limbs stiffen and fail—I had to keep moving, had to keep this body alive, or I'd never make it back to them, never feel their faces, never hear their voices again. Their names were lost to me, but that didn't make them any less real, any less worth fighting for.
"I need to find them… I need to find them… I need to find them," I muttered, the words looping as I collapsed forward, face pressed into warm synthetic flesh. My fist came down again and again, weak and frantic, until—
clink—clink—clatter.
A bent pipe, hidden in the shadows of a corner, tipped over and struck the floor beside me. The noise was sudden and piercing, and I jumped, heart hammering, my body stiff against the cold. It echoed in the silence, like a lifeline thrown into the darkness.
The sound was so loud that it set off the cold, mechanical chant from the other room: "Welcome, master. Welcome, master. Welcome, master—"
But I ignored it—no, it was more like it didn't exist. I was staring at the pipe—the flattened end, the metal folded in on itself like it had been beaten into submission. This was exactly what I needed.
I didn't hesitate. I crawled toward it, teeth clenched against the sting of the freezing air, and wrapped my fingers tight around the metal.
The contact was unbearable—every nerve in my fingers screamed, a fire-ice shock that made my teeth clench. And yet, almost immediately, the pain dulled, numbed by the cold that had already stolen feeling from my skin. The metal was still ice-cold, cruel to touch, but it no longer stabbed through me—it just pressed there, alien and merciless, like the world itself had gone hollow.
Gripping it felt like holding onto hope itself. It wasn't sharp pain anymore, but that didn't mean it was safe. I knew this numbness was a warning—my body was shutting down, refusing to fight. I needed to hurry.
I pushed myself up, leaning hard on the pipe, using it like a cane as I staggered forward. Each step was slow, careful, my legs threatening to fold if I put too much weight on them.
"I–I can't stop," I whispered, the words rattling out of me, thin and uneven. "N-not now. N-not if this is all I have l-left to get to them."
I reached the locker and wedged the flattened end of the pipe into a crack in the frame.
My breath hitched, teeth chattering hard enough to steal the rest. "J-just… j-just h-hold together a l-little longer body."My grip tightened around the pipe as I braced myself and pushed down hard. "O-open… c-come on… p-please," I rasped.
My hands slipped. One came down wrong, scraping along a jagged ridge of the pipe. Something tore—my palm split open—but I barely registered it. The cold swallowed the sensation whole.
"Nn—! S-stay—" I hissed, forcing myself to keep going.
My arms began to shake violently. "H-hold… h-hold," I muttered, breath breaking apart as my biceps and forearms finally gave out, dumping my weight forward.
I froze there, gasping—mouth open, chest heaving—but there was barely any air to pull in. Each breath came shallow and useless, like my lungs had forgotten how to work in the cold.
"D-dammit…"
Twisting with my arms alone wasn't going to be enough. I needed leverage—real leverage.
"F-fine," I whispered hoarsely. "I'll u-use everything then." I turned and straddled the pipe, pressing my weight down against it. Cold metal bit through the thin fabric of my spats, stealing my breath in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
"N-no—stop. G-get off. I—I c-can't do this…" The protest barely held together; I was doing no better.
I leaned down anyway and bounced once—twice—then again, each jolt knocking the air from my lungs as pain bloomed where the pipe dug in.
I told myself to stop. Told myself this was stupid—that if it failed, I'd just be trading time for damage. More frostbite. Less feeling. Less control.
Every excuse lined up, sensible and loud—and still my body rocked, instinct overriding reason as I kept forcing the motion, driving the pipe deeper into the locker's stubborn resistance.
Then—
Crack.
The locker gave way all at once—and I went with it. "E—eh—yaiii—!"
The pipe tore loose as my weight dropped, dragging me down hard. We hit the floor together, metal slamming against concrete, my hands still locked around it as my fingers were crushed between pipe and ground.
I rolled instinctively, clutching my hands to my chest—then froze. My bare, sensitive back pressed against the cold tiled floor.
"Ahh—!"
The pain shot through me like lightning, emptying me out. I didn't think. I just reacted.
Gasping, I dragged myself upright and grabbed the so‑called clothes that had spilled from the locker. Then dashed back toward the huddled bodies; their silent forms still faintly glowing, still giving off that soft, leftover warmth.
I sank down among legs, torsos—heads—shivering as I tried to dress without thinking too hard about what I was sitting on. I spread the clothes out with numb fingers, searching for anything wearable.
The first thing I found was a jacket—oversized, frayed, stiff with someone else's history. There was something hard in the pocket. I hesitated, then pulled it free.
Leather. Warmed by use, bent into a shape that clearly fit a body—but not mine. Straps crossed over themselves, buckles scuffed and nicked, the whole thing carrying the unmistakable sense that it was meant to be worn tight, restraining, purposeful.
For half a heartbeat, the shape felt disturbingly familiar—then the context slammed in.
"Ew," I muttered, flinging it away before I could think about why it had been in there.
Then the feather boa I'd used as a scarf, shredded and smelling faintly of old perfume mixed with a strange, sharp chemical scent I couldn't place. I wrapped it tight around my face in a hurry, trying to block the cold.
The skirt was next. I grimaced as my fingers brushed against the rough fabric, stiff and coated in dust. Pulling it up felt awkward—the waistband tight and unfamiliar against my skin, the faded glitter crunching faintly with every movement.
"This is so embarrassing," I muttered, but it was the only thing to cover my lower half, so I slipped it on anyway, the scratchy material scraping softly against my legs.
At least the spats stayed on underneath. Some dignity, I guess.
Then came the stockings—ridiculous things, dark black and ripped, like those tight anime girl legwear I'd seen somewhere before.
Probably from some late-night anime my unnamed sister forced me to watch. I don't even know what to call her anymore… Still. If I squinted hard enough, I could almost pretend this was just a very low-budget magical girl transformation.
What was it called again—Star… Pris? Prisma? Yeah. Something like that. Whatever. They slid up over my calves, the thin fabric clinging to my skin, and somehow they brought a little heat back to my thighs.
I bent slightly, adjusting one, tugging it higher, feeling the stretch of the material hug my legs—awkward, but strangely comforting. For a moment, I felt a flicker of relief—like the cold was finally letting go. The layers clung to my small frame, patchy warmth soaking into chilled skin.
That's when I saw it—
Just above the curve of my outer thigh, half-hidden beneath grime and faint bruises, something clean gleamed on my skin, catching the weak light of the locker room. The mark was laser-etched, every line crisp, every letter clinical:
/// PROJECT N4O-CHI /// Behavioral Integration Phase: Two.
It was part of me. Burned into my skin like a manufacturer's mark— A label. Like I was a product...Someone's property.
I froze, my breath snagging, my chest locking tight. The cold lingered, but it slid out of focus, drowned out by the weight of the words etched into me.
"Project… N… 4… O… CHI…?". I whispered each letter, trying to make sense of them while the rest died on my lips.