Karl didn't pass out.
He came very close—knees wobbling, vision tunneling, sweat dripping off his chin like condensation from an overworked engine—but sheer stubbornness and the faint promise of being mocked if he collapsed kept him upright.
They made it maybe twenty meters down the corridor before Karl slid down the wall and sat—hard.
"Okay," he panted. "Okay. Small… tactical pause."
Agnes floated in front of him, arms crossed so hard her hologram clipped through itself.
"You don't get tactical pauses," she snapped. "You get medical intervention."
"I'm fine," Karl said weakly. "Just… legs are doing the thing where they forget they're legs."
She flicked a diagnostic overlay open anyway. Cyan glyphs spun in front of her eyes.
Core temperature: elevated
Muscle fiber micro-tears: excessive
Vythra flow: unstable
Idiot factor: catastrophic
Agnes pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Karl. You're running on fumes. Literal metaphysical fumes."
"Hey," he protested, squinting. "Twenty-four percent is basically a quarter tank."
"That analogy does not apply to your soul."
She drifted closer and placed a glowing palm against his chest. Nanites stirred beneath his skin, responding to her presence like iron filings to a magnet.
"Stay still," she murmured.
Karl swallowed. "You're… doing the thing again."
"What thing."
"The gentle voice thing," he said. "The one that means I'm about to get lectured and taken care of."
Agnes huffed, but didn't pull away. Instead, she rerouted nanite flow, easing heat dispersion, slowing his breathing by syncing to his pulse.
"Breathe with me," she said quietly. "In. Hold. Out."
Karl obeyed without thinking.
Steam thinned. The burning ache in his muscles dulled to a manageable throb.
"…You're good at this," he muttered.
"I was literally designed for this," she replied. Then, softer: "And you make it hard not to worry."
He cracked one eye open. "Aw. Is my nanite wife worried about me?"
Her glow spiked.
"I TOLD YOU—!"
She cut herself off, clamped her mouth shut, and visibly rebooted her composure. When she spoke again, her tone was calmer—but dangerously precise.
"Kurogane Karl. If you call me your wife again while your Vythra is below thirty percent, I will personally lock you out of transformation privileges for a week."
"…Noted," he said, smiling faintly. "What about 'future wife'?"
Her glow flickered.
"…We'll discuss your terminology when you're not medium-rare."
She helped him to his feet—less lifting, more guiding, her nanites subtly reinforcing his balance. They moved again, slower this time, deeper into the Pampanito's interior.
The base had been jury-rigged inside the museum structure—bulkheads reinforced, emergency lighting casting amber halos over plaques and preserved machinery. Old history layered with new war.
Karl glanced at a display panel as they passed.
USS Pampanito — Commissioned 1944
Patrols: Pacific Theater
Confirmed sinkings: 6 enemy ships
"…They really don't make them like this anymore," he murmured.
Agnes followed his gaze, expression unreadable. "You humans get sentimental over strange things."
"Says the being who almost short-circuited over the word 'wife.'"
She sputtered. "That is entirely different."
They reached a small auxiliary room—once a storage compartment, now converted into a rest station. A bench, a portable coolant unit, a Vythra stabilizer humming softly in the corner.
Agnes guided him down onto the bench.
"Sit. Don't argue."
"Yes, dear."
She shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel.
"…I'm sitting," he amended quickly.
Agnes activated the stabilizer. A soft field washed over Karl, cool and grounding, easing the erratic churn in his core. His shoulders slumped as exhaustion finally caught up to him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The hum of the machinery filled the space. Somewhere distant, the base creaked—old metal settling, like the submarine itself breathing.
Karl broke the silence.
"…You saved that photo, right?"
Agnes glanced sideways. "Of course I did."
"Backed it up?"
"Yes."
"Multiple redundancies?"
"…Karl."
"Just checking."
She sighed, but there was fondness in it now.
"…It's tagged," she added. "Time, location, emotional spike index."
He blinked. "Emotional spike index?"
"You were at ninety-two percent joy," she said matter-of-factly. "Second-highest reading I've ever recorded from you."
He tilted his head. "Second?"
Her glow softened—just a little.
"…First was when you woke up after the Erevos accident and realized you weren't alone."
Karl went quiet.
He stared at the floor, then up at her.
"…Hey, Agnes?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks. For… you know. Putting up with me."
She crossed her arms again, but this time it was gentler. "Someone has to make sure you don't turn yourself into a cautionary tale."
He smiled. "You'd miss me."
"…Don't push it."
But she drifted closer anyway, hovering at eye level.
"Rest," she said. "We'll recharge your Vythra slowly. No heroics. No museums."
"…No promises."
She groaned. "I hate you."
"Love you too," he replied, eyes already closing.
"KARL—!"
Too late.
He was out—head lolling back, breathing deep and even, the stabilizer's hum syncing with his pulse.
Agnes stared at him for a long moment.
Then, very quietly—quiet enough that only the nanites heard—she said:
"…Idiot."
Her glow dimmed to a soft cyan as she settled beside him, keeping watch.
The Pampanito endured.
And somewhere in the memory archive, a ridiculous, perfect photo waited—proof that even at the edge of exhaustion, with the world burning around them, Kurogane Karl had still found time to smile next to history.