The interior lights of the submarine settled into a soft, steady glow as the hull finished equalizing pressure. The low groan of metal gave way to a gentle, constant hum—deep, reassuring, almost like a heartbeat.
Karl stood in the narrow control room, one hand braced against a rail, boots planted wide as the vessel stabilized beneath him. For a moment, he just listened.
No alarms. No demons. No collapsing buildings. No screaming over comms.
Just water.
"…Okay," he said quietly. "That's… new."
Agnes materialized beside the main console, her hologram softer than usual—edges smooth, glow warm instead of sharp. She wasn't projecting confidence right now. She was projecting comfort.
"We're floating," she said gently. "Which is… generally a good sign for submarines."
Karl huffed a quiet laugh. "You sure about that?"
"Eighty-seven percent sure," she replied, then smiled when he looked at her. "Relax. If anything catastrophic happens, I'll know before it finishes being catastrophic."
"That's… not as comforting as you think it is."
She drifted closer, resting her hand lightly over his where it gripped the rail. Her nanite fingers were cool, grounding, familiar.
"Hey," she said softly. "We've done harder things than this."
Karl glanced at her, then around the cramped control room. Dials. Levers. Screens filled with scrolling data he only half-recognized.
"…Have we?" he asked. "Because I've fought gods, melted bridges, dismantled a museum submarine, and crossed half the world on foot and fire—but I have never driven one of these."
Agnes smiled, fond and amused. "Neither have I."
He blinked. "…Wait."
"But," she added smoothly, turning toward the console, "I have already learned how."
Karl stared. "You—what?"
She raised a finger, eyes glowing brighter as data cascaded invisibly around her. "Modern submarines, historical submarines, hybrid propulsion theory, ballast control logic, pressure response curves—oh, and the way this one behaves specifically, because I helped design it."
"…How long did that take?"
She tilted her head, thinking. "Two minutes and forty-three seconds."
Karl let his head fall back against the bulkhead with a soft thunk. "Of course it did."
Agnes giggled—actually giggled—and reached up to brush her fingers along his jaw in a small, affectionate gesture. "You're doing great, Karl. Your job right now is moral support."
"Ah," he said dryly. "My specialty."
She leaned closer, voice lowering into that sweet, caring cadence that always meant she was fully, completely present. "No, really. You're allowed to just… be here. Let me handle this part."
Karl watched her as she turned back to the controls, movements unhurried, confident but gentle. She wasn't barking commands or rattling off numbers. She was learning the submarine the way she learned everything—by listening to it.
"Ballast tanks responding normally," she murmured. "Trim is stable. Propulsion is… oh, that's nice. Very smooth torque transfer. You'll like this, Karl."
He smiled faintly. "You say that like you know me."
She glanced back at him, eyes soft. "I do."
Silence settled again, this time comfortable.
The sub began to move—slowly, carefully—water sliding past the hull with a muted whisper. Outside, the Pacific stretched endlessly, dark and vast, a world Karl had only ever crossed by plane… or fire.
"…Tokyo," he said suddenly.
Agnes looked over. "What about it?"
"We're really doing this," he said. "Crossing the Pacific. Under it, this time." He shook his head in disbelief. "New York feels like a lifetime ago."
Her expression softened further. "It's been a long road."
"Almost a year," Karl added quietly. "Since I got sent here. Since I met you."
Agnes's hands paused on the console.
"…Yeah," she said softly. "It has."
He leaned back, arms folding loosely, eyes unfocused as memories drifted through him—burning streets, endless fights, moments of terror and moments of laughter. The first time he'd heard her voice. The first time she'd yelled at him. The first time she'd been scared.
"We've been through a lot," he said. "Sometimes it feels like it's all just… noise. One disaster after another."
Agnes floated closer again, resting against the edge of the console so she could face him fully. "But we're still here."
"Yeah," Karl said. "We are."
She smiled—small, genuine, warm. "From New York… to San Francisco… and now the Pacific. You know most people would've given up somewhere around 'giant demon city'."
Karl chuckled. "I didn't really have the option."
"You did," she corrected gently. "You just didn't take it."
That earned her a look. "You saying I'm stubborn?"
"I'm saying you're… persistent," she replied sweetly. "Heroically so."
He laughed, shaking his head. "And you're impossible."
She reached out again, fingers lacing lightly with his for just a moment. "And you wouldn't trade me for anything."
"…No," he admitted. "I wouldn't."
The submarine continued its steady glide forward, deeper into the Pacific, systems humming in quiet harmony. Agnes adjusted course minutely, eyes half-lidded in concentration—but there was no strain there. No feral edge. Just competence and care.
"I'll teach you," she said after a moment. "How to operate it, I mean. Not all at once. Little by little."
Karl raised a brow. "You sure you don't want to just… do everything yourself?"
She smiled at him, teasing but tender. "And deprive you of the experience? Absolutely not."
"…You're enjoying this."
"A little," she admitted. "I like seeing you learn things that aren't about survival."
He considered that, then nodded. "Yeah. Me too."
For a while after that, they just talked.
About Tokyo—what might still be standing, what might not. About food Karl missed. About places they'd passed through, cities reduced to memories. About how strange it felt to be under the ocean, insulated from the chaos above.
And as the submarine cut quietly through the dark, one exhausted engineer and one brilliant nanite girl shared something rare in their world.
Not a battle. Not a crisis.
Just time.
Together.