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Something was wrong with this world.
Yuri knew that there was something wrong. They could feel it from the moment they opened their eyes, awakening to this new world-line. But they weren't exactly sure where the root of this profound wrongness lie.
At first they thought it was a kind of fatigue; the stress of their predicament weighed heavily on their shoulders as they struggled their way through each day, naturally this vicious cycle would take its toll on Yuri sooner or later. They had witnessed such disconcertment before their own eyes, having watched the mentality of their one companion throughout this journey slowly, painfully erode, their ordinarily resolute, impassive demeanor practically rotting with each loop.
Perhaps it was the anxiety brought forth by the never-ending nightmare that was the Gnosia threat, watching as the crew's numbers steadily whittled down from being sent to cold sleep or snuffed out by the Gnosia, living through this reality over and over again without respite. No matter what the cause was, whatever they felt — this wrongness — was far too agonizing for such an uncomplicated classification.
Yuri couldn't be sure when it had manifested and began eating away at them ceaselessly, a festering that permeated through their very being and was proving increasingly difficult to ignore as the days passed on. No matter what they did, they couldn't banish the wrongness which loomed over them as a constant reminder.
That festering never stopped. It followed Yuri wherever they went, it accompanied their dreams — tethering itself to Yuri for reasons unknown. They couldn't stop it.
At times, Yuri had to ground themself into rationality in the midst of their constant turmoil. They couldn't be Gnosia again... right? They had undergone the infection before, and yet it never felt anything like this. This was something else entirely; it disassociated them from the world and their very being, twisting their perceptions into a haphazard mess of an amalgam, incoherent cathexes that felt so foreign and horrifyingly unknown to Yuri, incomputable and anomalous.
Despite their condition, Yuri found a sliver of solace in Setsu, who was experiencing their own sequence of time-loops. As morbid as it may be, there was an almost naive comfort to be found in the intertwining passage with the one other person who could strive for a common goal — bound by time, yet undoubtedly connected to one another.
Setsu had become a sort of companion to Yuri. They supposed that it was natural given the circumstances, but there was something frankly bittersweet about having something like an unorthodox partner throughout it all. Yuri admired Setsu's uniform resolve in the face of adversity regardless of how intense, the true vision of a soldier. And whether they were enemies for a loop or not, Yuri could allow themself to relish in the steady, quieter moments shared with Setsu when afforded to them. That was enough for Yuri.
Yet no matter the world-line, fate was no less a cruel mistress.
The cold sleep pod rose and shifted back into place along the wall with a low hiss, followed by a dull click that indicated the finality of the fate of the crew member sealed inside. The room was now bathed in a greenish-blue glow, a fluorescent hue that felt strangely comforting after having come all this way. The Gnosia threat had passed.
This shallow victory was nothing short of hard-won; their numbered had been significantly reduced, leaving only Yuri and Setsu the sole survivors alone on the ship — soon to move on to the next world-line. It should have been a satisfactory outcome all things considered, yet the wrongness that had been plaguing Yuri up to now lingered unerringly. In fact, it had only intensified to the point of being almost suffocating.
How could Yuri feel this way? All Gnosia had been eradicated from the ship, so they should have been free now. There shouldn't have been anything left to worry about, yet there was a disquietude in the back of Yuri's mind that gnawed at them insistently, whispering of some factor they had foolishly overlooked in their struggle.
That's when Yuri had finally realized it.
Echoing in the recesses of Yuri's mind were Setsu's words from a prior meeting: a Bug had been lurking amongst them, a threat in its own merit separate from that posed by the Gnosia. The human crew didn't know who it was, the Gnosia didn't, and Yuri certainly hadn't, until it finally hit them. That foreboding sense of wrongness which had stuck with them all this time was born from the simple fact that Yuri's very existence was what's truly wrong. And because of that, the universe was set to be destroyed.
Yuri must have seemed idiotic, with how it took them this long to figure it all out, yet no sooner had they opened their eyes to such a revelation had a sense of dread fallen upon them from without. That dread was swiftly followed by a flurry of emotions: confusion, shame, fear, disgust... It felt disgusting, in a way, to even be such an impurity that should not have existed. Whatever would arise from this now would be all their fault.
Setsu must have realized it, too. It wasn't hard to figure out, not with the way Yuri's face had contorted into an expression that gave away their anguish. Setsu was the one who had alerted the crew of the existence of the Bug, but they hadn't realized that their own companion was the very enemy they had warned of. And there was nothing Setsu could do to stop the inevitable destruction of the universe, all because Yuri exists as they are, the destroyer of this universe by proxy.
Yuri couldn't help but feel like a traitor. They knew that the destruction of the universe in this world-line wasn't the end, yet they felt entirely responsible for what was about to happen. This world would soon be lost. They were going to lose Setsu along with it.
Yuri found themself frantically reaching for Setsu as they cried out their companion's name; the pitch in their tone spoke volumes of their desperation, as if they could somehow pull Setsu out from the maws of the unraveling world and bind them to the wake with a flimsy tether. Their words died as everything around them dissolved into an abyss of their making, swallowing Setsu into its depths — now lost and unreachable.
The last thing Yuri felt was a punishing guilt. They had caused this. They were the catalyst for the destruction of the universe which had stolen Setsu away into nothingness, slipping from Yuri's fingertips. Yuri didn't know why this had happened, what catastrophic condition had been set for their mere existence as a Bug that tore the world apart. It was inevitable that this cruel play would start anew as it was sure to do, yet Yuri couldn't hold back the tears they shed as they cried out for Setsu, one last time.
Yuri had finally understood it then: the universe had to be destroyed. Yuri wasn't sure why it all had to go, yet it was a prospect that had taken root so deep within and demanded action. Yuri was merely a slave to the grotesque fabrics of this world-line.
That was a simple symptom of subsisting in a universe that was never meant for a Bug, as a thing which should not exist.