The last section of the Pampanito came free with a low, resonant groan—metal surrendering not to force, but to understanding.
Karl stood still, arms slightly raised, fingers relaxed as his nanites flowed outward in shimmering, disciplined streams. They didn't tear. They didn't rip. They unwound the submarine, layer by layer, bolt by bolt, like a watch being taken apart by someone who loved every gear inside it.
The pressure hull separated along its seams. Internal bulkheads folded outward. Wiring looms were gently lifted free, their insulation still intact, labeled, preserved.
History, laid bare.
Karl exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes glowing faintly with reflected nanite light. There was a trace of awe on his face. Not sadness. Not guilt.
Wonder.
"So this is what she looked like inside," he murmured. "All that steel… all that patience. They really built her to last."
Agnes hovered beside him, her form fully solid now, feet just barely touching the deck. Her eyes were unfocused—not because she wasn't paying attention, but because she was paying attention to everything.
Millions of data threads flowed through her at once.
"Pressure tolerance confirmed," she said softly. "Hull curvature optimized for prolonged stress. Pre-digital redundancy… fascinating." Her voice carried a note of genuine admiration. "They didn't know how to build smart systems yet, so they built honest ones."
Karl smiled faintly. "Yeah. No shortcuts."
He gestured, and the nanites reconfigured again—this time forming delicate skeletal frames that slid beneath the exposed interior, supporting it as the final section detached. The Pampanito was no longer a submarine.
It was a perfectly arranged constellation of parts, suspended in midair by shimmering blue constructs.
And Agnes began to see.
Not just scan.
See.
Her pupils constricted as her perception shifted, the world breaking into overlapping layers.
Structural logic. Material memory. Stress history. Flow patterns frozen in metal.
The hangar disappeared.
For Agnes, there was only form and intent.
"Oh," she whispered.
Karl glanced at her. "You good?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Because something familiar—something old and sharp and terrifying—had stirred in her core.
Not the feral panic of Manhattan. Not the screaming desperation of Gearstorm Nova.
This was quieter.
Sharper.
Controlled.
Agnes raised one hand, fingers splayed, and the air in front of her filled with light.
Blueprint light.
Thin, angular lines bloomed outward from the Pampanito's remains, weaving together into layered projections. Not copies. Not scans.
Interpretations.
"Agnes?" Karl asked, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice now. "Is that—"
"Yes," she said, cutting him off gently. "I've got it."
The blueprint expanded.
Each component unfolded into abstraction—pressure hull geometry resolving into torque rings, ballast systems reinterpreted as counter-rotational stabilizers, propulsion shafts reframed as linear energy conduits.
She wasn't recording what the Pampanito was.
She was translating what it meant.
"This is how they thought," Agnes murmured. "Every decision… every compromise. They didn't have nanites. They didn't have predictive engines. So they trusted structure."
Karl stepped closer, eyes wide now, watching the impossible elegance take shape. "You're not just copying it," he said quietly. "You're… rewriting it."
Agnes glanced at him, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips. "Blueprints were never copies, Karl. You taught me that. Back when I was… screaming at you to stay alive."
He stiffened for half a second.
Then relaxed.
"…Yeah," he said softly. "I remember."
Her smile softened.
The blueprint continued to grow, layers stacking vertically now—environmental tolerance models, material substitution matrices, nanite-compatibility overlays.
Where Manhattan's blueprint had been born from terror and time pressure, this one was being crafted.
She was calm.
Confident.
In control.
"You did good, you know," Agnes said, still working. "Dismantling her like this. You didn't damage a single integrity node."
Karl shrugged, though there was pride in it. "First submarine dismemberment. Figured I should be respectful."
She laughed quietly. "You're smiling."
He didn't deny it. "Yeah. I am."
The blueprint shifted again—this time compressing, condensing, refining. Redundant paths collapsed into optimal routes. Old-world systems were abstracted into nanite-executable logic.
The Pampanito was no longer a vessel.
It was a concept.
Agnes's voice dropped, almost reverent. "I understand it now. How to make something that crosses an ocean without fighting it. How to let pressure flow instead of resist."
Karl watched her hands move, graceful, deliberate. "This is the same thing you did back then, isn't it?" he asked. "In Manhattan."
She hesitated.
"…Yes," she admitted. "But this time, I'm not afraid."
The final lines locked into place.
A complete, fully realized blueprint hovered between them—elegant, terrifying in its simplicity.
Ocean-capable submarine. Nanite-compatible. Built to endure.
Agnes lowered her hands slowly.
"It's done," she said.
Karl let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "So… we can cross the Pacific."
"We can," she confirmed. Then, softer: "Because you trusted me. And because you let me learn."
He turned toward her fully now. "There was never a question."
Agnes stepped closer, her solid nanite fingers brushing his wrist—cold, familiar, grounding.
"I know," she said. "You never say you don't need me."
A beat.
Then, teasing warmth crept into her voice. "And honestly? After watching you dismantle a World War II submarine with that much care… I'm very glad you do."
Karl snorted. "You're impossible."
She leaned in, close enough that her forehead almost touched his. "And you're brilliant. Now come on."
She gestured toward the glowing blueprint.
"Let's build something that makes the ocean regret ever getting in your way."
The Pampanito's legacy hovered between them—no longer steel and rivets, but light, logic, and promise.
And somewhere deep in Agnes's core, the same spark that had once screamed for Karl to live burned steady and sure.
Blueprints weren't born in panic anymore.
They were chosen.