Yonha, eleven years old, her hair the color of wheat bleached by the dead sun, smiled at him from her worn chair. Her legs were too thin, wrapped in a blanket. The black glyphs of her disease spiraled up her left arm, past the elbow now. Last month they’d been at her wrist.
Weiss floated in front of Nier, pages flipping furiously. “Words! I need words! I can cast a barrier if you give me a concept !” NieR Replicant ver122474487139
“Am I?” The silver eyes softened, and for a moment, it was just Yonha again. His Yonha. The one who laughed at Weiss’s grumbling. The one who saved him a piece of bread even when she was hungry. “You feel it, don’t you? The wrongness. The way the world is just a little too quiet. The way the sky has no birds. The way no one has seen a baby born in twelve years. Replicants cannot reproduce, big brother. You’ve been tending a garden of ghosts.” Yonha, eleven years old, her hair the color
“Grimoire Weiss is a floating book with a superiority complex and no legs,” Nier interrupted, forcing a grin. “What does he know about danger?” Last month they’d been at her wrist
“What happens now?” he asked, his voice hollow.
“Nier, snap out of it!” Kainé shouted. Her Shade-arm was glowing brighter, its light a counter-frequency. She charged, her blade singing as it sliced through a tendril of shadow. The Archivist shrieked, and the hum became a chorus.