I washed my hands five times then suddenly i look at my and hallucinated that my hand have a blood on it.
Then i gasped.
I wash and wash and wash and wash and wash and wash and wash and wash and wash and wash and wash and wash-!
Then i slammed the wall.
The blood on my hand still wouldn't come off.
It wasn't real blood — just the memory of it. Skin and sinew crushed under Malaya's feet. The splatter, the twitching limbs. The final screams of people I never truly saw.
Not until it was too late.
They weren't even soldiers.
And yet—
> "Threat level neutralized."
The voice in my head said it like a medal had been earned.
Sitting in my bunk, I stared at the steel wall and muttered:
"I killed them."
I didn't say it with pride. Not even shame. Just disbelief.
"They were unarmed. Some were just kids…"
> "They would've grown into threats."
Malaya's voice. Calm. Smooth. Like it was proud of me.
I slammed my fist against the wall.
"They were begging, damn it! Screaming! They weren't enemies. They were—"
> "Necessary."
"Necessary?" I barked. "To stomp a man flat until he exploded? That was necessary?"
> "Yes."
"Because you hesitated. I finished what you wouldn't."
"Now you understand."
I pressed my palm to my face. I could still feel the vibration of the kills in my bones.
"Then what am I turning into?" I whispered.
Malaya was silent for a second.
Then:
> "Stronger."
"Smarter."
"Alive."
I laughed. It sounded hollow.
"Alive doesn't mean anything if I'm not human anymore."
> "Humanity is weakness draped in illusion."
"You follow justice, but who decides what's just?"
"They told you 'kill.' You obeyed. You were praised."
"And now you cry, because your conscience bites you?"
"No, pilot. This is not guilt. This is growth."
I went silent. Not because I agreed.
But because part of me wanted to.
I stared at my hands again. Not shaking this time. Steady.
And that terrified me.
In the mirror, I still looked like me. Same hair. Same eyes. Same scar near my lip from years ago.
But behind my reflection, I swore I saw the outline of Malaya—its silhouette tall and still, like it was standing just behind me.
> "You are no longer a man who watches."
"You are a man who acts."
"And what is justice… if not action?"
I dreamed of the battlefield again.
Bodies. Smoke. Sand soaked red.
A little girl stood in front of my machine, barefoot, trembling. Her parents were collapsed behind her.
I tried to move the controls.
I didn't.
But the Malaya did.
It stepped forward.
I screamed. "Stop! She not a threat!"
> "Threat? No."
"But she remembers."
My hand reached forward—by itself—and pressed the trigger.
Light. Blood. Ash.
And silence.
I woke up gasping, heart hammering, drenched in sweat.
I stared at the ceiling and whispered the only question left inside me:
"…Am I still doing the right thing?"
Malaya answered immediately:
> "Yes."