It took only a few days for Naomi's cuts and bruises to heal, and the repairs to her Zoid were simple enough. No lasting physical damage had been done to either of them.
Unfortunately, physical damages were not the problem. The sudden and violent excision of Brad from her daily routines was jarring. The two hadn't been together that long - she'd had Leon on Team Fluegel for much longer. But she viewed Brad as much more than a teammate, and he'd made it clear that the feeling was mutual.
But now not only was he gone, he was missing. The ZBC and ZBGF alike could find no sign of Brad or the Shadow Fox. Naomi couldn't help but think about the disappearances Brad had only just begun to express his concerns with - the very thing they'd gone off to escape the reality of.
All she could tell those in authority was that they'd been attacked by the Backdraft. That information seemed unwelcome, and was taken with apparent skepticism. Backdraft's known activity had ceased after their expansive HQ had been raided and their satellites destroyed: apparently both the ZBC and ZBGF wanted to savor the thought that they'd quashed the menace.
Naomi was seated quietly on her sofa when a knock came. It was Leon: she knew it was Leon; Leon had keys, Leon opened the door, and Leon brought in takeout and sat down next to her. She just watched him.
"Hey. I brought dinner."
She opened a bag of food half-heartedly. "Thanks."
Leon observed her carefully, and they ate for a few minutes in relative silence.
They'd never been in a romantic relationship, but living together as teammates had provided a comfortable - and some might say, intimate - familiarity. Leon didn't seem sure what degree of it was appropriate anymore, so settled on softly patting her leg.
"Naomi."
She fixed her gaze on the food, and wouldn't look at him. But he didn't go on, until she acknowledged him with her eyes.
"You sure you're doing okay?" Leon said.
No. She wasn't.
She never lost her composure, but launched into a panicked retelling of what'd gone on. What'd led up to it. How she felt, and what she was deeply fearful of: that Brad wasn't coming back, that he'd show up dead just like Jack had.
Lacking Brad's first-hand knowledge that'd led the hapless mercenary to his unsettled state to begin with, Leon could neither join Naomi in her fears nor assure her they were unfounded. All he could offer was that she come stay with the Blitz Team for a while, for company, and to avoid being alone with her thoughts in an empty apartment.
With an outward reluctance, she accepted. Inside, she - as she invariably always had been - was grateful to Leon.
Backdraft possessed no shortage of internal surveillance equipment, most of it pointing at entry points, exit bays, various high-value assets and the like. The more money involved, the more likely cameras were: this meant that the underground arena suite had decent coverage, though very little near the windows.
Layon stared intently at the console's screens.
Only a few seconds of clear footage, but there was no doubt: an Organoid had shown up, looked around, been shot at by Alteil, responded with lethal force - and vanished. How did it get in? Where did it go? How did it move around so quickly? Could these things teleport?
Layon again watched Vega startle and stagger back. The creature absolutely towered over the child - easily, over 7 feet tall. Layon had thought Organoids would be smaller. The tiny handful of old books that discussed the beasts with any seriousness described meek, cautious creatures... not vicious dragons. It also described Organoids as grey. This one had a distinct color - looked to be pigment, not paint - damaged though it was.
What had happened to it? Poor thing looked like it'd gone through a garbage disposal. The various exposed structural layers at least told Layon a little about its composition. But he desperately wanted to know more.
Layon replayed the clip yet again.
He winced as the creature slammed into Alteil. The way the man fell back so easily... how much did these things weigh? It was both a surprise and a shame that Alteil's completely on-target shot had done nothing. It would've been invaluable to capture, incapacitate, or yes - even kill the Organoid, because there was so much that nobody knew and Layon wanted to study, to know.
And to be the first and best at it.
He wondered what the Committee would think. And do. Maybe help him find the thing?
Green eyes flicked again over the replay of terror memorialized permanently on Alteil's face.
...did he want to find this thing?
Layon got up from the console, turned off the monitors and started to walk away. But he paused and glanced back.
Why had it even shown up?
When he'd regained his senses again and found himself back in the tiny cell, Brad just lay there. As he was, as he'd awoken, on his back on the bed. Staring at the ceiling. Eyes vaguely flicking in thought. Blinking occasionally.
Thoughts of the arena seemed distant, unreal. Brutality, slaughter - felt fake. He wanted to relegate everything he found himself thinking about firmly to the territory of bad dream. Nightmare, something that hadn't really happened.
Of course. He'd just been fretfully sleeping beneath this endless glare and it-
No, he was covered in dried sweat and his hair was a matted mess and he felt tired and in desperate need of a shower like after any given drawn-out Zoid battle and-
No! A nightmare. He'd been here. Sleeping. Under these li-
No; he remembered. Bones crackling like nothing.
No, no, no. He wouldn't do anything like that.
But he would. He did.
He thought about the absolute high that'd been his initial sync with the Berserk Fury. In the arena he'd reached a point where he may as well have been the Zoid. No delay, no misunderstanding. It was completion and perfection and he'd never be whole again without it. His own personal, insignificant discomforts mattered little, he just wanted to crawl back to the Fury, take it for himself, take it from Vega, keep it, it was his-
A stray thought about the Fox paused vicious reverie.
He couldn't really remember what had happened. He'd wanted so badly to rip the Fox to pieces, while at the same time was calmly horrified by the idea.
Had you asked him a year ago about the nature of a Zoid, Brad would have certainly identified it as a machine, a tool, a possession - maybe friendly livestock, at best.
The Shadow Fox had somehow, very quickly changed his mind. He'd never felt such possessiveness over any Zoid before it, and he'd also never felt any such sense of loyalty or acknowledgment from a Zoid in kind. Not too long ago, in the protective shadow of the Fox, he and Naomi had been making love. And everything just felt right.
Now he couldn't even remember what right felt like, as the massive craving for the Fury slammed him again. Over and over in his mind he tried to look away, but couldn't. Simply fixated, petrified, in need. The Fury's appetite became his, and with that came the mortifying need to witness destruction, to inflict pain.
"He can be like that," Vega said idly, and Brad shot up to glare at the unnoticed presence.
"What… the fuck … is wrong with that Zoid."
Vega was seated cross-legged in front of the cell. He was eating from a small tray in his lap, and had a second tray beside him. "He really likes fighting."
"It really likes killing." Brad corrected, angrily. "How are you okay with that?!"
"It's not a big deal. None of those people mattered."
There wasn't any malice in Vega's voice. There wasn't any regret. There wasn't anything. He just sounded like a slightly puzzled child with food in his mouth. Brad stared down at him for a long, silent moment.
"Everyone matters."
Vega chuckled through a sip of water, and pushed the other tray towards Brad's cell. "Uh-huh. Here." At the presence of an item near the floor, a small gap appeared in the energy-field that allowed the tray to be shoved through, before it closed again.
Brad looked like he wanted to continue talking, but quickly knelt to snatch the offered tray - as if its presence might be rescinded. He started wolfing down the food.
"I can get you more later." Vega said, watching him. "They really don't want to give you anything, but I don't care. I'm tired of being hungry."
After finishing everything, Brad also sat cross-legged on the floor and pushed the tray aside. He stared intently, but said nothing. The silence created was aggressive and awkward.
"Is this what it takes to be King in Backdraft? Being a fucking psychopath?" Brad said.
More silence. Vega seemed annoyed. "I'm not a psychopath."
They couldn't help but think about the Berserk Fury simultaneously. Brad closed his eyes.
"If you're friends with that thing, yes you are."
Vega laughed. "Uh. He likes you too. And you seem to like him. Are you a psychopath?"
Brad clearly hadn't thought his conviction all the way through, and scowled. Both eyes opened to narrowed slits. He didn't say anything, just held up and showed Vega his painfully-scabbed palm. "Why, kid?"
Vega grinned a little, but it wasn't happy. More sardonic. "Goes both ways, you know." When Brad didn't seem to understand, Vega showed the older man his own hand. There wasn't a scab or a cut, but there was a distinct, angry red line that matched Brad's injury perfectly.
"Fury apologized." He said, somewhat quietly. "But... I guess not to you."
Brad thought about the Fury. And was immediately plagued with thoughts of the arena battles and the Fury's deep need for destruction. It was wonderful and terrible and disgusting. That an apology could originate from such an entity was incomprehensible.
Vega snapped his fingers twice. "Hey. Don't let him do that. Real bad headache."
Blue eyes focused, unnerved. "Vega. I killed those people."
"It happens, in Zoid battles. Seriously. It's okay."
Brad stared numbly, before averting his gaze to the perhaps-more-empathetic wall.
Silence. A deep inhale.
"You know I thought about joining Backdraft when I was younger?" Brad said. "I mean. I didn't, obviously. But I was close to it. Money, right?"
Vega blinked, attempting to fathom a time in Backdraft where he didn't exist. He honestly didn't think of Backdraft as a separate other much. Having been born and raised in it, to him the everyday world was the curio. Groomed fastidiously by his mother, he thought himself the pseudo-prince of a misunderstood rogue pseudo-nation, one that didn't at all think of itself as criminal.
Just a fulfiller of need.
"And?" He seemed curious. "Why didn't you?"
"Because they ruin people's lives and livelihoods. I didn't want to be part of that." Brad looked back at Vega and tapped a finger to one of the bands tattooed on his arms, demonstrating his firmly chosen profession. "I still don't."
Vega started in with a dismissive chuckle, but it sharply cut off. He didn't just hear the words spoken - he felt the pain in them - personally. Without context or experience the sensations were just sadness, and a heaviness in the chest. He crossed his arms tightly and looked at the floor.
Sensing Vega's distress, the Fury paid closer attention to both of them. Its mental presence sheared into being, the sensation something like smoke and shattered glass filling the room. Brad's temper immediately took a penalty.
"Do you really just think this is all a fucking game, kid?"
"I didn't ask for this either." Vega snapped, standing back up.
"Didn't it ask you if you wanted, you know…"
"Power and control?"
"Yeah. So what'd you think you were signing up for?"
"I don't want those things."
Brad felt his blood run slightly cold, as if he'd just divulged some nasty secret he shouldn't have. He kept his eyes fixed on Vega, unexpectedly watching the child try not to tear up.
Vega failed. Tears brimmed over and he wiped hotly at his face, embarrassed.
"I wanted a friend. A partner. And he knows that. He is that." He regained his composure, met Brad's eyes directly, and brandished the man's pain back at him like a weapon. "But Fury's never asked me to kill anyone. So really, what's wrong with you?"
Brad raised a sharp brow. "You do know that charged particle weapons kill people, right?"
"Not always."
"A weapon of war, banned from mass manufacture, because it was just too easy to win with… sure."
Vega glowered. "I never killed anyone with the CPG."
"Great. Have you killed anyone without it?"
"Fury says you killed a guy before. It doesn't matter."
Intense, uncomfortable silence fell. And stayed. Brad idly got up, folded his arms behind his back, and walked to the other side of the cell. He stared into the corner for several minutes.
"We do need your help." Vega said after a span, his voice greatly subdued. "The Liger did... something. We have to defeat them to make things right again."
"Kill." Brad dryly corrected.
"Kill." Vega agreed, reluctant. "It sucks. But…"
Brad glanced. "Does Bit 'matter', Vega?"
Brown eyes averted and there was another dangerous silence.
"Well?"
Vega would not answer.
"For fuck's sake. Do it yourself."
"I. Can't."
"Oh? Not fond of murdering your opponents? Gotta hire that out?"
Vega suddenly slammed a fist on the energy-field wall, scowling bitterly. "You don't get it. We should've won the Royal Cup. It's my fault we didn't. All of this is my fault and I hate it. I'm- the Liger's too strong. Fury was afraid of what would happen. He tried to do it himself and couldn't."
Brad listened as he quietly returned to the front of the cell. But he was picturing the last moments of the Liger Zero and Berserk Fury's battle that he'd seen from afar. The Fury's ire gouged him at the mere notion - but in regarding its passing, angry thoughts, Brad suddenly understood. It didn't just 'need' a pilot. It needed a pilot. Its drive was such that untethered, it literally went insane and could accomplish nothing.
Brad felt both frightened and empowered by this knowledge, the latter giving rise to revulsion. As if to make a point, the Fury gently stoked the tiniest ember of Brad's own dislike for the Liger and its blonde pilot. It all too readily became an excoriating lick of flame.
Oh no. He closed his eyes, and could feel the Berserk Fury's thick, miry delight seeping in. He wanted none of it. In trying to get away from that, he thought about the arena fight again - and the damnably elated high.
Oh no. His breath caught. He'd only been a razor's width from the notion this entire time, and couldn't keep the deep craving at bay a moment longer.
"Then give it to me," Brad said suddenly, viciously, opening frigid blue eyes. "You're just holding it back. It's mine."
Vega just stared. "What'd I tell you? About headaches?"
Almost on cue, Brad winced back and painfully pressed his palms to his temples.
Brad wasn't wrong - Vega was indeed holding the Fury back. In ways that both nobody understood and would be horrified to learn. Likewise, Vega wasn't wrong - about the headaches. He sighed, exasperated, and pressed a hand to his own head as Brad groaned.
"Look. I think this is stupid too. I don't like you, or anyone else, in my Zoid. But if I gotta put up with it, so do you."
Questionably-humane imprisonment versus a brat's first-world problem. "...kid, I don't th-"
"And stop calling me kid. It pisses me off."
"Sure, if you stop keeping me in a box. Pisses me off."
Vega thoughtfully looked at the cell, as if registering it as an actual obstacle for the first time. He looked back at Brad.
"I'll see what I can do."
Then he left.
It was much later when Layon approached the Shadow Fox.
He felt a strange mix of anticipation and dread. The Zoid wasn't standing at ready, but rather lying down. Slumped, head rolled to one side, snout on the concrete. It'd been heavily damaged over the course of its fight with the Fury. Nothing too severe, just excruciatingly thorough.
Layon had taken advantage of the unexpected break in combat to 'rescue' the Fox, though he knew his claim was a stretch; it'd been clear that the Berserk Fury had other things to worry with after that Organoid had shown up.
That Organoid. What the hell, man.
It'd been easy enough to coax the cowering, limping Fox to safety - because really, anywhere was safer than near the Berserk Fury. Layon had become distinctly aware of that, having foolishly descended to that hellish arena floor himself.
Layon ran a hand along a length of the Fox's damaged leg armor.
Serrated bits were missing in a variety of criss-crossed directions, indicating where the Fury had barely struck and had its teeth glance off - over and over again. The marks started as gouges, but clearly lessened as time went on: the Fox had been learning to better avoid it.
Layon regarded this for a long moment.
The Shadow Fox's eyeglass was dark. Layon walked to its head and tapped a control on the side of the cockpit, requesting entry. The hatch obliged and opened, and Layon got in. He was abruptly reminded his Zoid had been hijacked by a smoker, because the cockpit absolutely reeked of it. He sighed irritably and flicked through a few startup commands, asking the Fox to get up. It growled softly, but did rise.
"So. You went and figured out how to do things on your own, huh?"
No response.
"Was this always something you could do? And you just didn't, because… reasons? Or…?"
Nothing. On the systems panel Layon could see that it was busily using CPU cycles, though. Listening. Thinking.
"Come on. Talk to me. They tried to trash you. I just want to help you."
A brusque whine.
"Well?! Tell me about it! Why didn't you do any of this before, when I was trying to…"
Layon trailed off, realizing he was asking a lot of something that had no real way to communicate with him. He took a moment to ponder, and the Fox took said moment to chuff and display Brad's pilot registration on one console.
The man glanced, and shook his head. "No. Not anymore. We're goi-"
Layon, who had neglected to meaningfully buckle into anything, found himself unceremoniously dumped onto the hangar floor.
"...ah. So that's how it is, huh?"