Before she awoke beneath the boughs of the Black Shroud, before she took her first breath as Kamelija, she was something else—someone else.
A construct of metal and synthetic muscle, a warrior forged for endless conflict on a world consumed by war. Unit 31B was her designation, a soldier in an unending struggle she barely understood, following orders whispered through static and steel. She fought, she died, she was rebuilt—again and again, until one day, she wasn’t.
Something went wrong. Perhaps it was mercy. Perhaps it was fate. Whatever the reason, she awoke not to the hum of machinery, but to the rustling of leaves and the scent of rain-damp earth.
A body she did not recognize. A world she did not know. A life, given freely, without purpose or command. Her only items were new clothes, a sword, and.. the hat off her S unit.
Now, she walks the roads of Eorzea as Kamelija, a stranger in a world of flesh and magic, where war is waged with steel and spell instead of circuits and code. She seeks not to fight, but to understand—why she was given this second chance, what meaning life holds beyond battle. She finds herself drawn to the fringes of society, the dim-lit corners of taverns, the whispered dealings in the underbelly of cities, where the illusion of civilization frays at the edges. There, among the lost and the forsaken, she watches, she listens.
She is quiet, serious—an observer first, a participant second. But when she finds those who earn her trust, the rigid lines of her nature soften. A playful remark, a knowing smirk—little pieces of the person she might yet become. For now, she walks forward, one step at a time, toward a future not written for her, but one she will write herself.
