Nier Automata : Commander White Novels & Stories

​The iron wolf gave a high-pitched, mechanical shriek, its internal brass tumblers melting into a single mass of glowing slag before its jaws snapped open, releasing her leg. ​"The asset is resisting the delete command," the lead automaton of the sixty-sixth tier printed onto the air. The violet glyphs on its face flared with a dangerous, blinding intensity as it turned its gaze toward the iron platform. "Subject file: Elara Aurelian. Threat level: Structural rewrite. Execute primary truncation." ​Twenty obsidian automatons lunged from the ledge simultaneously, their zinc-plated spears lifted as they prepared to leap across the roaring river to impale her.

And to the machine growing inside me, humanity was an antique that needed to be discarded. Nevan didn’t speak. He didn't need to. He moved with the terrifying fluidly of a machine. He raised his combat blade, the silver edge catching the violet light of the command deck. He wasn't rushing. He was calculating the most efficient way to end me. "Target identified as primary limitation," Nevan’s voice said. It was his voice, but the cadence was wrong—clipped, hollow, like a recording played through a dead man’s throat. "I am not a target!" I screamed, the violet light in my own eyes flaring.

Fire raged above, magic detonated in sickening bursts, and the scent of blood—metallic, holy in its thickness—swallowed every breath. Still, the Concord advanced. Tall, obsidian-armored figures strode from the smoke, faces masked behind cold emblems stamped with that same maddening symbol she’d only ever seen in forbidden archives. No battle-cry. No reckless charge. They already knew. One stepped forward, voice carrying with chilling calm. “Nyxara Vale. White Wolf Matriarch. Genetic anomaly. Final correction.” Something inside her shifted. Not a dramatic shatter. A quiet click—a lock sliding open at last.

I said, annoyed. Pocholo just shrugged his shoulders at what I said. Not affected by my treatment of him. I was still in a bad mood when we reached the swimming area. I looked with disgust at their commander standing at the edge of the pool. Like us, he is also wearing a rash guard. He has muscles in his body. Especially his six pack abs in the stomach. I shouldn't be distracted by his muscles. I should be mad at him. "Hey, you're looking straight at Commander Apollo Madrid. Is that lust?" Pocholo whispered to me.

The heavy canvas flap of the command tent was violently thrown open, admitting a furious swirl of mountain snow and three hulking northern wolves. At the head of the trio was Commander Vorn, a scarred, nine-foot veteran whose grey fur bristled with undisguised contempt. He wore heavy iron plate armor, his hand resting aggressively on the pommel of his massive two-handed greatsword. Flanking him were his two chief lieutenants, their amber eyes blazing with the predatory, mutinous rage of warriors who realized they had been sold a phantom empire.

Finally, I broke the silence, leaning forward with a faint smirk. “You know, Riley,” I said, my tone smooth, deliberate. “There’s something you need to understand about me—something most people figure out the hard way.” Riley’s gaze snapped to me, his anger barely contained. “What are you talking about?” I clasped my hands together and rested them on the desk, my eyes never leaving his. “Nobody crosses me and wins. Nobody. Because I’m not just a player in the game—I own the game. I am the game master.”

"I need Layla and Austin in my operational den right now," I commanded through the pack communication rune, my voice hard as I gripped a horn of hot blood-wine. I was standing behind the heavy oak desk of my custom training agency, wearing a fine silk-woven white tunic, a charcoal grey leather riding vest, and silver-buckled tracking boots. "Good morning, Elite Commander Whitmoor," my rookie scout said, bowing his head at the doorway. I gave him a short nod and pointed toward the inner circle hall.

He must have decided to shift and search like the men he’d given orders to, because he chose that moment to reach down and tug the hem of his shirt over his head. Had Isabella been in human form, she would have had to stifle a gasp. The spine and musculature he revealed were rippled with sinew, but the scars were what stole her breath. Even in the dim glow of the moonlight, her wolf eyes allowed her to see. The commander’s body was a history of battles won and lost, wars waged on behalf of a supernatural empire. And then he turned around and Isabella’s breath caught. He wasn’t any commander. He was the commander. In an instant, she recognized exactly who he was. This cowboy wolf was none oth

Kael’s voice barked from the darkness. From the ridges above, over a hundred armored figures clad in the blood-red crest of the Southern High Council descended like vultures. At the forefront marched Commander Vane. He was a towering Alpha, his armor polished to a mirror sheen, carrying a massive, double-handed broadsword that gleamed under the blue light of the Null-Stones.

In sector 4, I had machines from garbage tiles that were far more complex than a simple pressure valve. ‘The thick carbon steel pipes of their steam boiler are perfect. And I need Nova and their welding multitool from the Zephyr. Give me sixty minutes.” Vane saw Kael from me. The Commander just nodded her. “They heard the woman, Sentinel,” said Kael. “Get her what she needs. I go down to the reactor and prepare the manual interfaces.”