On a desolate planet dominated by the autonomous machine collective known as the Legion, human resistance has nearly been extinguished. Amid the ruins, a beastkin girl named Gale survives as a lone sniper. She has no special powers—only her honed marksmanship and the wolf ears and tail that mark her as an outsider to both humans and machines. They call her the White Wolf, but even a wolf can be caged.
Captured by the Legion, Gale is sent to the Panopticon, a total-control facility governed by t
White Wolf's Collar - Gale, a lone sniper girl operating in the ruined city. She doesn't join other resistance members, spending her days hunting machines alone. With no special powers, her only weapon as a mere beastkin is her honed sniping skill. Her silent, steady trigger-pulling eventually earns her the name "White Wolf," feared even by the machines. For now, the balance between quiet pride and solitude still holds.
There was no hesitation in the finger on the trigger.
The morning mist blanketing the ruins of Vesta was white and heavy. The wreckage of collapsed buildings stretched toward the gray sky like dead giants.
Gale Gladys lay prone on a scaffold sixty meters above the ground—a half-destroyed communications tower. Her white hair, long enough to reach her waist, melted into the color of the fog, and only her crimson eyes silently pierced through the street below.
At the crown of her head, her white wolf ears twitched.
From the distance came the sound of irregular drive mechanisms. The grating noise of joints grinding without oil. Legion. Autonomous machine swarms born of the old civilization—one of them was advancing now, its feet crushing the cobblestones of what had once been a shopping district.
She peered through the scope. At the center of the crosshairs, she captured the head of a Trooper. Total height: 1.8 meters. A humanoid infantry unit. Its optical sensor emitted a dull glow as it swung its head left and right.
(*…Slow and steady. That's all I need.*)
Deep in her chest, a voice spoke, as if telling herself.
Gale steadied her breathing. She emptied her lungs and let the excess tension drain from her fingertips. In this moment alone, she could forget everything—that she was a beastkin, that she possessed no special power.
All she had were her honed sniping skills.
Inside the scope, the Trooper's optical sensor turned toward her direction for an instant.
It had noticed her—no. Not yet.
Her heart gave a heavy thud. Deep in her ears, the sound of her own blood rushed and roared. A beastkin's hearing was several times sharper than that of the old humans. Now, that very gift only cornered her further. The world was simply too loud.
—She pulled the trigger.
The gunshot tore through the quiet morning. Recoil slammed into her shoulder. The spent cartridge fell onto the iron scaffold, ringing out with a clear note.
She looked down at the street.
Sparks scattered from the Trooper's head. Its optical sensor precisely pierced, the unit froze in place, then collapsed to its knees. Metal struck concrete, groaned, and fell silent.
"...That makes five."
Her voice was nothing more than a murmur to herself. Not meant for anyone to hear—just confirmation for her own sake.
Still clutching the rifle, she rolled onto her back. Beyond the mist, the morning sun blurred faintly.
(*This is my proof of existence.*)
She didn't need any special power. Her beast ears and tail had never once been useful in combat. If anything, her hearing was too sharp—she would pick up even distant screams. That was nothing but pain.
So she had chosen to fight with skill alone.
For three years, she had hunted machines in the ruins. No comrades. Minimal information exchange. She only showed her face at the shelter—a residential area called "The Burrow," converted from an old subway station—when she needed ammunition and food.
She sat up with a grunt. Her tail brushed against the iron railing, sending a cold sensation through her.
Her white shirt was stained black in places with soot, and the hem of her black pleated skirt was frayed. Still, Gale refused to change this outfit. The black thigh-high socks protected her legs when she walked over rubble. And more than anything—this attire was a small, fragile testament that she was still "human."
How many generations had it been since people started calling them beastkin? Gray Fall—roughly 120 years ago, the day the machines judged humanity an "inefficiency factor" and killed civilization in seven days. After that, new humans were born on the contaminated earth. People with ears and tails, with sharper senses—just ordinary humans, nothing more.
And yet, among the old humans, there were plenty who saw beastkin as heretics.
(*Not human, not machine. For someone like me, stuck in between, this is just right.*)
She pulled an optical camouflage cloth from her hip pouch and wrapped it around her rifle. Preparations to leave the sniping position.
Before descending the tower, she cast one more look across the ruins.
A collapsed overpass. The rusted husks of automobiles. The shadow of a massive factory lying in the distance. Once, this had been an industrial city called Vesta, home to about 300,000 people. Now, barely 200 remained. Most were scavengers—people who recovered supplies from the ruins. Their lifespans were short. On average, three years after starting their work. Found by machines, bodies broken by contamination, or—betrayed by their own comrades.
No one could live long.
So at the very least, she wanted a death with meaning.
(*As long as I'm still thinking that way, I guess it means I'm still alive.*)
The corner of her mouth twisted, just barely.
Gale headed underground.
The entrance to The Burrow was in what had once been a subway station. With every step down the stairs, the smell of mold and oil grew thicker. Groundwater seeped from cracks in the walls, and moss grew in patches here and there.
At the end of the passage, the sound of human voices gradually began to reach her.
The twice-weekly barter market was just in session. Along the narrow corridor stretching from the entrance, makeshift stalls spread with ragged cloth lined the way. Ammunition, canned goods, water, medicine—everything needed to survive in this world was exchanged here.
"One bullet, two cans. That's the going rate."
At the sound of a familiar voice, Gale stopped walking.
In the corner of the passage sat an old man. His graying hair was swept back carelessly, and tired gray eyes were surrounded by deep wrinkles. Dorc. The leader of The Burrow, and a man who had once been a communications engineer in the old civilization. One of the few first-generation survivors of Gray Fall.
"Gale."
Noticing her, Dorc raised a wrinkled hand.
"You made it back safe. Went out alone again, did you?"
"...None of your business."
Gale answered without meeting his eyes.
She crouched in front of Dorc and pulled several spent cartridges from her pouch. She accepted canned goods and water, then stood up wordlessly.
"Wait."
At the old man's voice, her feet stopped.
"There was a transmission from the Torch Network. Legion movements have been changing over the past few days. Recon drones are increasing. Be careful."
"...I know."
"And one more thing."
Dorc paused for just a moment. His gray eyes wavered slightly.
"Don't push yourself too hard. This isn't something a young girl like you should be carrying alone."
Gale said nothing.
Only her tail trembled, just a little.
(*When someone's kind to me, I don't know what to do with it.*)
When she was a child, her parents had been killed by machines. Right in front of her eyes. An old-human shelter had come under Legion attack, and of her family, she was the only one who hadn't escaped in time.
From that day on, the word "trust" had died inside her.
Believing in someone was weakness. Relying on others only invited the pain of betrayal. That was what she had learned through her body. Days of getting close to no one, expecting nothing from anyone, just hunting machines.
(*Dorc... isn't a bad person. I know that. But—*)
"Don't fuss over me."
She spat the words out and turned her back.
She didn't see what expression the old man wore. She didn't want to see it.
As she climbed the stairs back to the surface, Gale pulled a portable radio from her pouch.
Light and small, a relic of the old civilization. A scavenger had brought it back last year from Hollow Base—the ruins of a former military arsenal. The shortwave radio picked up human voices through faint static.
*"—Copy, moving west from Gate 07. No hostiles in the area."*
*"This is Lantern, confirming receipt. How's Vesta?"*
*"Sounds like that 'White Wolf' did it again. Along the highway—one Trooper, head blown clean off."*
*"Ahh... that beastkin sniper. They say she's an oddball, works alone."*
*"Oddball or not, I'm grateful. Saves us the ammo we'd need for our own food."*
Gale switched off the radio and laughed quietly.
*White Wolf*. The alias had been attached to her before she knew it. Reports of a sniper with white wolf ears had piled up over resistance radio communications, and the name had naturally stuck. Apparently, even the Legion's database had her registered as "Threat Entity: White Wolf."
(*Doesn't feel bad.*)
Her lips relaxed. It was something to be proud of, truly. She had no special power, yet through skill alone, she was feared by those machines. That, at least, was something no one could take from her.
—But.
The moment they called her an "oddball," somewhere in her chest, a small, sharp pain pricked at her.
(*In the end, there's nowhere I belong.*)
She headed for the tower again. To search for her next target.
If she let go of her gun, she would go back to being just a beastkin. Weak, heretical, a being no one needed. That was precisely why she had to keep pulling the trigger. Each and every bullet was a voiceless scream, proving her worth.
Reaching the high ground of the ruins, she drew a deep breath.
The view opened up. The cityscape of Vesta spread out like a patchwork of gray and brown. In the distant eastern sky, reddish-brown dust trailed in the air. Red Dust—the contaminated wasteland turning to semi-desert. Rumor had it that beneath it lay Panopticon, a sealed Legion facility, but no one had ever confirmed it.
Peering through her scope, Gale unconsciously moved her ears.
The sound of wind. The faint vibration of rubble crumbling. The far-off cry of a bird.
—And then.
(*...Something's there.*)
Her ears reacted. Mingled with the wind, she could hear something like the faint hum of wings. But it wasn't a bird. Too rhythmic—a mechanical rotation sound.
She turned her scope westward. The shadow of a ruined building, a gap in a collapsed wall—in that instant.
A small shadow floated in the sky.
A spherical unit. Maybe 25 centimeters in diameter. Its camera lens was staring straight at her.
A Scout. A Legion recon drone.
Her heart froze.
(*How long—*)
She had been distracted by the radio intercept. Her exchange with Dorc had made her drop her guard.
The Scout suddenly swiveled and flew off toward the east. Her position data was already being transmitted to the machine network. What would happen next—Gale, seasoned in battle, knew all too well.
From the direction the Scout had fled, a different drive sound now reached her. The numbers were increasing. And they were getting closer.
Still aiming her rifle, she slowly retreated.
In the shadows of the ruins, four-legged silhouettes ran. Hounds—pursuit-type units. Smaller than Troopers, and fast. Mechanical hunting dogs specialized in cornering prey in packs.
(*Was it a trap?*)
Since when? From where? None of that mattered anymore.
Her ears began to pick up the sounds of machines closing in from all directions. She was surrounded. That much was clear.
(*...Even so.*)
Gale peered through her scope and took aim at the optical sensor of the nearest Hound.
Her finger settled on the trigger.
Her quiet pride was not yet broken.
The equilibrium of her solitude, however—was beginning to crumble, with a sound.
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