Winding the clock back to just before Jeanne and the others had made their way back to Babel, the Doctor had been standing entirely frozen in front of the ruined skeletal framing of Kal'tsit's private office.
"Um... Doctor? You really don't have to look so incredibly devastated," little Amiya had offered, peering up at the blank, hooded figure with a deep lack of understanding. "It's just a regular partition wall that took some structural blast damage. Even when Dr. Kal'tsit makes her return, I'm sure she won't judge you too harshly for a tactical combat anomaly..."
In the young child's eyes, having a structural barrier completely vaporized by an enemy demolition squad might actually serve as a tactical blessing for the Doctor. At the very least, it meant the supreme strategist wouldn't have to worry about hiding her latest administrative projects from Kal'tsit's clinical gaze—which usually translated to significantly fewer physical reprimands.
But immediately following that brief pause, the Doctor had mobilized with a level of terrifying, lightning-fast physical speed that completely defied Amiya's wildest imaginations. In a matter of minutes, the entire open-air office space had been meticulously transformed into a comprehensive, multi-denominational funeral wake.
It was at that exact moment that Amiya realized the Doctor had suffered a catastrophic psychological relapse—the kind where no amount of rational medical intervention could ever hope to drag her back to sanity.
Why did the Doctor feel an absolute, compulsive need to constantly test the structural limits of Kal'tsit's patience? Amiya had never once witnessed her pull this kind of dangerous performance with Theresa. Then again, she reasoned, if anyone dared to cross the Sarkaz Sovereign, Kal'tsit and Theresa would simply team up to deliver a coordinated, double-pronged disciplinary lecture that no living soul could survive.
Despite her inner dread, as Amiya stared at the elaborate funeral arrangement dominating the administrative sector, she didn't entirely abandon her mission to save the Doctor from a gruesome fate. At the very least, she wanted to clean up enough of the ritual layout so that Kal'tsit wouldn't beat the supreme tactician into actual biological paste.
Unfortunately, before the little Cautus could even begin dragging a heavy ceremonial banner out of sight, Kal'tsit had already crossed the threshold of the Babel landship.
When Jeanne and Theresa finally arrived at the administrative wing to intercept the commotion, they were treated to the striking visual of a thoroughly displeased Kal'tsit holding the Doctor completely off the ground by her throat, staring coldly at the frantically squirming strategist.
"I believe you owe me an extremely detailed, comprehensive structural explanation," Kal'tsit said, her voice dropping into a register so chillingly flat it felt like dry ice. "Exactly who gave you the psychological authorization to remodel my workspace into an open-air crypt? Or has your remaining sanity finally degraded to the point where you can no longer navigate standard daily life without a medical escort?"
Kal'tsit remained entirely unmoved by the Doctor's dramatic gasping and pathetic flailing, looking for all the world as though she was watching a bad actor audition for a tragic play. As a seasoned physician, how could she not know the exact physical tolerances of the Doctor's frail biology? She had precisely modulated her physical grip to ensure it remained safely within a non-lethal, highly uncomfortable threshold.
The theatrical gasping and wild thrashing were nothing more than a blatant, shameless attempt to play for sympathy. Given that this was far from the first time the Doctor had employed this exact defensive strategy, Kal'tsit wasn't about to buy into the performance.
Jeanne, however, watched the Doctor's legs kicking wildly in mid-air with a profound sense of genuine worry. The hooded figure looked incredibly frail, and Jeanne was seriously concerned that the supreme tactician might actually expire right then and there from a sudden lack of oxygen.
"Should we... maybe go over and intervene?" Jeanne whispered nervously, turning to look at Theresa.
The Sarkaz Demon King was currently watching the execution with a perfectly tranquil, unbothered expression, as if she were observing a routine piece of office maintenance.
Jeanne couldn't help but feel that the entire internal ecosystem of this fortress was deeply unhinged. Ever since she had stepped through the blast doors, the ambient atmosphere within the Babel flagship had completely shattered every single one of her rigid military expectations.
In her mind, the headquarters of the Babel organization should have been an iron-blooded, fiercely disciplined bastion populated by solemn elite operators maintaining a strict military hierarchy. Instead, she had walked right into a bizarre domestic comedy framed by an active war zone.
Granted, the heavy, metallic tang of an ongoing war still lingered in the deeper corridors. On their long walk up, Jeanne had spotted numerous frontline soldiers wrapped in thick, blood-stained medical bandages, their eyes still burning with an intense, unyielding hunger to leap straight back into the meat grinder the moment their bones mended.
The only reason the administrative sectors felt so deceptively peaceful was that this mobile flagship served as a secondary command hub rather than the immediate vanguard line. When the elite operators rotated back to these steel halls, they naturally allowed themselves to drop their tactical guard and unwind.
Utilizing her exceptional physical hearing, Jeanne tuned out the immediate commotion to focus on the soft, hushed conversations drifting out from the nearby recovery wards. Listening closely to the fragmented status reports shared between the wounded veterans, she noted a distinct theme: the overall pace of the regional conflict was finally beginning to decelerate.
Yet, the underlying details suggested that Babel's broader strategic situation remained incredibly fragile. If the organization weren't facing a critical shortage of raw manpower, these lightly wounded frontline combatants wouldn't have been hauled all the way back to the flagship for standard recovery; a field medic would have simply stitched them up in a trench and sent them right back to the line.
So things aren't going half as smoothly as they look. Jeanne had been operating under the assumption that with so many legendary figures and powerhouse combatants steering the organization, Babel would have easily maintained a comfortable 50/50 stalemate against Theresis's Forces.
"There's no need to worry, Jeanne. Kal'tsit knows exactly what she's doing," Theresa interrupted smoothly, her gentle voice breaking through Jeanne's tactical analysis. "As a professional medical practitioner, she knows the precise anatomical boundaries required to deliver a memorable lesson without inflicting any lasting biological damage. Let's give them some privacy and head down to the lower residential sectors first."
Jeanne wisely chose to keep her mouth shut. She knew that trying to extract a rational, coherent response from the Doctor while she was currently suspended three feet in the air was a fool's errand. More than anything, she simply didn't want to find herself standing in the direct line of fire of an actively murderous Kal'tsit.
To be able to reduce a clinical, entirely unflappable physician to a state of raw, cat-eared primal fury was a legendary achievement. Jeanne felt a sudden, profound wave of genuine, heartfelt respect for the Doctor's specialized talents.
Seeing the two high-ranking adults turn to leave, little Amiya stood frozen at the crossroads, her gaze bouncing anxiously between the departing figures of Theresa and Jeanne, and the unfolding domestic disaster where Kal'tsit was actively dismantling the supreme tactician.
Good luck, Doctor... I believe in your ability to survive this just like you always do! Amiya cheered silently in her heart, offering a brief mental prayer before spinning on her heel to sprint after Theresa's group.
Meanwhile, back in the ruined office, the Doctor's oxygen-deprived brain finally began to process reality. As the initial fog of her manic episode began to recede, a sudden, cold dread settled deep into her stomach. She blinked her eyes open, desperately trying to focus her vision on the individual currently cutting off her windpipe.
Wait a minute... did my contingency orders actually fail? she wondered frantically. Did Theresis's elite vanguard actually breach the core perimeter and conquer the Babel flagship? I could have sworn I was just organizing a highly respectful, thoroughly comprehensive funeral service for Kal'tsit...
The exact moment her eyes locked onto the terrifying, stone-cold countenance of the white-furred Feline holding her aloft, the Doctor's heart bypassed all standard medical thresholds and plummeted straight into the deepest trenches of the ocean. She instantly wished she could simply dissolve into a puddle of molecular dust and vanish from the face of Terra.
Why on earth did I think organizing a full-scale funeral wake was a good idea?! she screamed at herself internally. Exactly how severe was my mental degradation last night that I genuinely convinced myself Kal'tsit had expired on the battlefield? She wasn't even inside the fortress when the bombs went off!
To make matters infinitely worse, the elaborate mourning exhibition was currently staring Kal'tsit right in the face. There was no hiding the massive ceiling banner, the incense, or the paper horses.
"Um... Kal'tsit! Hey there! Old friend! Please, just let me explain!" the Doctor choked out, her voice straining against the physical restriction as she tried to scramble for a viable diplomatic escape route. "This entire scenario is a massive, highly complex misunderstanding! And considering we've been separated by the harsh trials of diplomacy for so long, don't you think it would be far more productive to sit down, enjoy a warm beverage, and engage in a healthy, civil dialogue...?"
"I can overlook the fact that you suffered another severe, unhinged mental lapse during a midnight crisis," Kal'tsit interrupted, her voice entirely flat as she slightly loosened her grip, allowing the supreme strategist's boots to make light contact with the floor.
The Doctor let out a massive, theatrical sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging as she celebrated her apparent survival. Thank goodness! The old hag decided to show some uncharacteristic mercy!
"However," Kal'tsit continued, her green eyes narrowing into dangerous, razor-sharp slits. "You still owe me a highly detailed explanation regarding a separate logistical anomaly. Exactly when did you manage to source and store this massive collection of foreign burial goods?"
The Doctor's entire body instantly locked up, turning as rigid as stone.
Kal'tsit's question cut straight to the core of a very dangerous logistical secret. Truth be told, the Doctor herself couldn't quite remember the exact calendar date she had smuggled those specific items into the flagship's central repository.
"Heh... details, details... Ehe?" the Doctor offered, tilting her hooded head in a desperate, deeply pathetic attempt to play dumb and cute.
"Mon3tr," Kal'tsit commanded, her patience entirely spent.
A terrifying, mechanical screech echoed through the administrative wing as a massive, spine-covered crystalline entity burst forth from Kal'tsit's back, its razor-sharp claws clicking against the stone deck as it loomed over the trembling strategist, eager to catch up on old times.
"AWOOOOO—OUCH! AAAAAH! YIPE! AWOOOO—"
A short distance down the corridor, Jeanne, Theresa, and Amiya simultaneously winced as a series of incredibly pathetic, blood-curdling screeches echoed through the steel halls. The ambient sound was so profoundly agonizing that several nearby operators waiting outside the clinic couldn't help but shudder, silently thanking the stars that they weren't the ones currently scheduled for an administrative review.