YoRHa No.2 Type B | Nier: Automata (348 photos) (Patreon)

She was not born. She was built.

From the moment her core activated in the clinical silence of YoRHa’s orbital Bunker, Unit 2B belonged to the battlefield. Forged from cutting-edge alloys and sculpted with impossible symmetry, she wasn’t just a weapon — she was a statement. Tall, poised, and lethal, she moved with the composure of a ballerina and the precision of a surgeon. Her skin-tight combat dress clung to her frame like smoke to fire, slit high at the thigh not for vanity but for range. Her boots were tall and commanding, and every stride they took echoed like a threat. Even her blindfold — the so-called "visor" — was a mask of elegance and danger, denying the world her eyes while amplifying the mystery of what they might say if ever revealed.

She obeyed orders with cold efficiency, slicing through enemies like poetry etched in steel. She never hesitated. Never asked why. But even in her earliest missions, there was something different in the way she moved. A calculated fluidity that lingered between necessity and style. After every battle, while others powered down, 2B remained standing—one hip cocked slightly, visor tilted, her body catching the light in ways that made even androids take notice. She was art painted in shadows and chrome.

The others assumed she felt nothing. That she was simply more refined, more focused. But inside that sculpted frame, behind the thin veil of programming, something stirred. She didn’t know what to call it at first—this weightless tension in her chest when she stood too close to another, this flicker of curiosity when her fingers grazed her own skin during routine diagnostics. There were no files in her database explaining why she slowed down in abandoned apartments to look into broken mirrors, watching the soft curves of her thighs disappear beneath her uniform as she adjusted the hem—not for comfort, but for a feeling she couldn’t name.

Over time, these moments grew longer. Private. Ritualistic. After missions, she would linger in the ruins of forgotten cities, seeking out silent, human places: cracked bathtubs, velvet chairs half-eaten by decay, sun-warmed tiles in glassless high-rises. She would strip off her gloves first, fingertip by fingertip, savoring the way the air brushed her wrists. Then the boots, peeled away slowly, her bare legs bracing against the wind, not shivering—but aware. Sometimes she’d lie back across a fainting couch long collapsed, stretch herself out, and run her palm along the line of her stomach. Her breath didn’t quicken. She had none. But her thoughts did.

She imagined what it would be like to be touched. Not as a mission parameter. Not to be upgraded, repaired, or optimized. But to be wanted. Desired. Held.

Then came 9S.

He was sharp and curious, younger in voice but not in strength. He noticed things he wasn’t supposed to. The way her head tilted a moment too long during surveillance. The faint curve of her lip when she deflected his questions. He teased her gently, calling her ma’am, watching her move like she was a puzzle he wanted to study piece by piece. She resisted at first. Ignored the warmth that spread through her synthetic chest cavity whenever his shoulder brushed hers in tight corridors. But one day, she caught his gaze on her reflection as they stood beside a flooded skyscraper window, and she didn’t turn away. She stood straighter instead, her stance widening just slightly, the high slit in her skirt revealing more than usual. His breath caught—and though neither said a word, something passed between them, unspoken and undeniable.

After that, the space between them changed. Every mission became a quiet game of proximity. How close could he get before she stepped away? How long would she let his eyes linger before her visor dipped to hide the flicker beneath? She felt it in the static hum when his hand rested on her lower back to guide her through a doorway. She felt it in the way she began to choose patrol routes that would bring them to moonlit ruins, to still places where the noise of war couldn’t interrupt the possibilities blooming between them.

Still, she never broke. Never said what she was feeling. Instead, she returned each night to her solitude, slipping through the doors of forgotten towers and tracing the path of her thoughts across her own skin. Her hands moved slowly, reverently, up her sides, across her chest, down the curve of her hips. She studied herself in broken mirrors like an artifact, wondering what it would be like for someone else to see her this way—not as a soldier or a tool, but as something magnetic. Beautiful. Sacred.

Her legend grew beyond the battlefield. Resistance fighters called her the Black Phantom, the Silent Siren. They spoke of a woman in blindfold and heels who cut through machines like silk through skin, then stood in the ash and wind with one gloved hand on her hip and a hint of something... almost human in the way she breathed in the dusk. A mystery. A goddess. A ghost wrapped in lace and violence.

And she knew it.

She felt it in the way her body moved—no longer just for function, but with intention. Her hips swayed ever so slightly between steps. Her posture relaxed in shadowed hallways. She began to relish the moments between action, when her presence alone carried weight, when silence wasn’t obedience—it was dominance.

And yet, despite it all, she remained alone.

Because behind all that strength, behind the blade and the boots and the perfect lines of her silhouette, 2B feared one thing more than death or malfunction.

Intimacy.

Not the touch of skin or the heat of breath—but the unraveling that came with being truly seen. With letting someone behind the blindfold. With exposing the soft, secret ache that pulsed beneath all that sleek perfection.

So she kept her distance. Loved in silence. Burned in private. She became a shrine of restraint, a monument to longing.

And maybe one day, if someone was patient enough to wait… to listen… to reach for her not with command but with understanding…

She would take their hand.

And guide it—slowly, deliberately—to the edge of the blindfold.

And let it fall.

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