— Part Seven —
Gren's gaze drifted to the curved sword lying abandoned on the ground. Dust and dried blood clung to its once-pristine surface, a somber testament to the chaos that had unfolded. Slowly, he approached, his movements deliberate as he crouched beside the weapon. His eyes traced the length of the blade, now dulled and tarnished.
Reaching out, his gloved hand brushed away the layer of grime from the cold steel before wrapping around the white hilt. The weapon felt balanced in his grasp—neither too light nor overly burdensome—a blade forged with precision and mastery. As he straightened, Gren studied the katana, its craftsmanship still apparent despite its neglected state.
Gren's grip tightened slightly as his gaze fell to the intricate emblem etched into the hilt, its design partially obscured by grime. The emblem was unmistakable—a circular motif that always reminded him of an insect. Ouspi had once joked about it, calling it "his little pest." The memory was sharp, cutting through the haze of Gren's thoughts.
"Ouspi…" Gren murmured under his breath, the name heavy with meaning. This katana wasn't just a weapon—it was a piece of its owner, now conspicuously absent. The pest was missing its master.
The thought struck with a crushing clarity. Why? The question had haunted him ever since this ordeal began. Why had Ouspi vanished, leaving behind only his blade and an ever-deepening mystery? And why, in all short time since, had no one been able to provide any real answers?
Gren moved toward one of the doors leading outside the Transembler room, leaning heavily against the frame as he caught his breath. Down the hall, he glimpsed Tedan Tippedai guards dragging Kazon away, the apprentice's arms held firm in their grip.
The Hunter's sword arm hung limply at his side, the weight of the blade mirrored by the exhaustion pressing down on him. His head dropped low, breaths uneven, as though the air itself resisted him. Letting his back slide down the wall, Gren sank into a crouch, the cool metal of the door frame biting through his fatigue. The katana in his hand caught a faint gleam from the corridor's lights, its worn surface betraying the chaos it had just endured.
Gren stared at the blade, his thoughts circling like vultures over Kazon's parting words.
"…a monster," he whispered, the word tasting bitter on his tongue, reverberating in his mind like an unsolved riddle.
He shut his eyes briefly, dredging through the scattered fragments of memory for some explanation. What had Kazon meant? Was it literal, or something darker—a metaphor for a truth Gren hadn't yet uncovered? The term didn't align with any of the mission details he'd been given by the ill-fated duo just days ago. His brow furrowed as the question gnawed at him, relentless and unrequited: Was it something they had missed, or was it something else entirely?
A metallic screech jarred Gren from his spiraling thoughts, the sound sharp and unnatural as it echoed down the corridor. His gaze lifted, his senses sharpening, as he turned toward the source of the noise. The screech was followed by a rhythmic clatter—a rapid, staccato scuttling that sent a faint chill down his spine. It sounded like Mycian rats scrambling for high ground during a flood.
Then he saw them.
Two droids emerged from the far end of the corridor, their cylindrical forms tall and unnervingly sleek. The polished red sheen of their shells caught the overhead lights, gleaming like freshly oiled armor. They moved with an unsettling insect-like grace, their nimble legs propelling them forward in a flurry of precise, rapid movements. The muted whir of their propulsion systems was unlike the familiar hum of aerosonic-pulse engines used in most Krepers. Gren's curiosity flickered despite himself, his exhaustion momentarily overshadowed by the mechanical creatures' seamless, eerie speed.
As the droids neared, they stopped abruptly before the guards dragging Kazon down the corridor. At the inaudible command of the woman executive trailing them, the guards relinquished their hold on the unconscious apprentice, handing him over to the machines. Gren's brow twitched at the sight.
The robot's claw-like appendages secured Kazon's limp arms with an exactness that was both unsettling and unnervingly efficient. Their movements were cold, methodical—devoid of the faint humanity the guards, for all their stoicism, had still managed to convey. Gren felt his jaw clench, his frustration mounting as he watched the golems carry Kazon away, their polished red shells gleaming under the corridor lights.
The sight left a knot in Gren's chest, a deeply uncomfortable feeling that gnawed at him.
"Kaz—" he muttered under his breath. "What happened…?"
Before he could untangle the mess of thoughts swirling in his mind, the sound of hurried footfalls echoed from behind him, cutting through the mechanical hum. Gren turned his head just in time to see a familiar figure sprinting down the corridor.
Bob.
The older man, flanked by a squad of Ghomvack, ran at full tilt, his ragged breaths audible as he pushed through the winding halls of Administration's labyrinthine underbelly. His coat billowed behind him, the sheen of sweat on his face betraying the urgency of his pace.
Gren's bewildered gaze locked onto Bob as the man slid to a halt in front of him, his curled shoes screeching faintly against the polished floor. The sentries accompanying Bob surged past him, their destination clear—the Transembler room—but Bob stayed put, bending forward with his hands braced on his knees.
His chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath, green hair falling in a damp curtain over his eyes. Gren stared at him, his confusion deepening as he studied the heaving figure of his old mentor. Something about Bob's hurried appearance, the urgency etched into his every movement, made the unease in Gren's gut twist even tighter.
"What happened, Gren?" Bob demanded, his voice heavy with concern and exhaustion. His chest still heaved from his sprint, but his tone cut through the tension like a blade. "Ouspi was scheduled for this unit, but his link wasn't expected for hours." Straightening with a deep inhale, Bob's sharp gaze fixed on his former apprentice. "Did something happen?" he repeated, his words firmer this time.
Gren hesitated, the katana at his side a solid weight in his grasp. His fingers tightened around the hilt as he struggled for an answer. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and laden with meaning. "Yeah," he said, "something definitely happened."
His pale bangs cast faint shadows over his eyes as he met Bob's bewildered glare. The older man's urgency felt like a question Gren couldn't yet answer. "What happened, Gren?" Bob pleaded again, more insistent this time.
Gren's jaw clenched as he gestured sharply toward the commotion. "...See for yourself," he murmured. The words escaped past gritted teeth, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. Bob's gaze followed the direction of Gren's gesture, landing on the activity inside the Transembler room.
Across the chaotic space, Kazon was being hauled away, shackled and subdued. The mechanical droids dragged him with their unnervingly precise movements, the apprentice's earlier defiance replaced by grim silence. Bob's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before turning back to Gren.
Gren pushed himself off the wall, his movements sharp and rigid, his posture betraying the frustration coursing through him. "It's amazing," he grumbled bitterly, his tone edged with resentment, "how brave people get when the circumstances change—and how fast it happens."
"Gren." Bob's voice cut through the air, firm and commanding. He stepped forward and grabbed Gren's arm, halting his retreat. His grip was unyielding, his dark eyes pinning the younger man in place with the weight of an authority Gren knew all too well.
"Where is Ouspi?" Bob's words carried the sharp edge of both a demand and a plea.
Gren froze, caught in the familiar intensity of Bob's stare. It was a look he had seen countless times before—the look Bob wore whenever he sensed Gren's anger boiling over, threatening to cloud his judgment. The unspoken warning behind that gaze made Gren's shoulders sag slightly, a heavy sigh escaping him. His hand slipped from the scabbard of his sword, his grip loosening as the tension in his body ebbed.
"Kazon came back—alone..." Gren admitted quietly, the reluctant frustration in his voice softening its edge. "I don't know where Ouspi is."
Gren lifted the blade, angling it so the faint light caught the intricate engraving etched into its surface. The emblem glimmered, and Bob's eyes widened, his usual stern demeanor unsteady for a brief moment.
The symbol was unmistakable—a design he had seen countless times before. But seeing it now, clutched in Gren's hand instead of its rightful owner's, filled him with a quiet, growing unease.
"Where did you get this?" Bob's voice softened, quieter but no less commanding as his gaze lingered on the blade.
Gren's jaw tightened, his expression hardening as he cast a glance back toward the commotion down the hall. "Kazon had it," he said flatly, the bitterness in his tone unmistakable. "If he knows more, he's not talking. Not now at least."
Bob's brow furrowed slightly, his usually measured tone giving way to a simple, questioning,
"Oh…?" It was uncharacteristic, a subtle sign that the sight of the blade had rattled even him. Yet both men knew there was no time to dissect the implications here and now. After a moment, Bob released Gren's arm, turning with deliberate purpose. Without a word, Gren fell into step beside him, the two walking away from the chaos of the Tedan Tippedai dealings.
The muffled hum of voices and distant commotion faded as they entered the quieter halls leading back toward the lifts. Gren broke the silence first, his voice low, tinged with confusion. "He was alone... and he had Ouspi's weapons." He hesitated, grappling with the fragmented story he was trying to piece together. "I had to stop him before he—"
"Was he hurt?" Bob interjected, his voice sharp and direct, his focus unwavering.
Gren shook his head firmly. "By me? No. I took him down without much trouble, but—" He hesitated, his voice tightening. "He already looked like hell when he showed up."
Bob remained silent, his unreadable expression adding to the weight of the moment. Something about his quiet contemplation unnerved Gren, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"He was screaming, Bob," Gren continued, his voice softer now, as if the memory itself shook him. "He cried out for Ouspi at the end. But before that… he said something about a monster."
Gren turned to Bob, his eyes searching for clarity, for the steady presence he had always depended on. But what he saw in his mentor's face left him uneasy—a fleeting look of apprehension, distant and veiled, but unmistakable to someone who knew Bob as well as Gren did.
For an instant, the mask slipped. A tension in Bob's jaw, a flicker in his sharp eyes—it was as though his thoughts had leapt to a place he didn't want to go. The hesitation lasted only a heartbeat before his expression smoothed back into adept composure, but Gren had seen it. And it spoke volumes.
"Bob—" Gren started, his voice uncertain, but his mentor cut him off.
"We'll talk about this later Gren," Bob said, his voice firm but quieter than usual. His steps quickened, leading them toward the lobby. Despite the dismissal, Gren could feel the unspoken weight hanging between them, as heavy as the blade in his hand.
"You know something, don't you?" Gren pressed, suspicion lacing his voice. "You've heard of this 'monster' before."
Bob didn't answer right away. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression carefully neutral. "Gren," he began, his tone low and deliberate, "rumors like that get passed around all the time. They're nothing more than idle talk."
But Gren wasn't buying it. "No," he said firmly, stepping closer. "This isn't just cargo bay gossip, Bob. You know more than you're letting on."
Bob's lips tightened into a thin line, the silence that followed speaking volumes. Gren felt frustration foaming beneath the surface, but he forced himself to keep his composure. "If it's nothing," he continued, "then why did Kazon come back in that kind of state? Why does it feel like you're holding something back?"
Finally, Bob turned to him, his dark eyes clouded with an unreadable emotion. "I've heard stories, same as anyone else," he admitted cautiously. "But that's all they are—stories. Tall tales passed down from station to station. Hunters don't have the luxury of indulging in them."
Gren narrowed his eyes, his steps faltering until he stopped completely. His gaze bore into Bob, who, after a moment, halted as well. Slowly, Bob turned, glancing over his shoulder at his former apprentice.
"But Ghomvack does?" Gren asked sharply, his voice rising with frustration. "Or Tedan Tippedai, for that matter?"
The question hung in the air, pointed and unrelenting. Gren didn't miss the subtle shift in Bob's demeanor. His mentor's gaze dropped, no longer meeting his, instead drifting somewhere distant. When it returned, it settled on the floor, his expression troubled.
"You're not dismissing this like you usually do," Gren said quietly, his voice steady but accusing. "Rumor's are not all they are to you."
Bob paused, his brow furrowing slightly. Gren caught it—a flicker of doubt in his mentor's eyes, quickly suppressed. "Cargo workers and dockhands talk, Gren," Bob said, his tone clipped as if he could dismiss the subject entirely. "Unfounded rumors, nothing more. Just stories concocted to pass the time in the dullest of places."
Gren frowned, unconvinced. "Bob, I can't accept that. Why would Kazon lie? I've never seen him like that before," he said, disbelief creeping into his voice. The memory of Kazon's anguished cries still lingered, raw and haunting.
"I've never seen him like anything," Bob replied dryly, a faint scoff breaking the tension. There was no warmth in his tone, no comfort offered. Gren knew well enough that Bob had never been particularly fond of Kazon.
From the beginning, Bob's disdain for Kazon's defiance had been evident. Gren could easily recall moments when Bob chastised Ouspi for indulging Kazon's rebellious streak, often doing so publicly or over the comm. To Ouspi, it was part of who Kazon was—something to tolerate, not correct. But Bob had always viewed it differently, seeing Kazon's silence and insubordination as a liability.
"Gren," Bob began softly, his tone heavy with reluctant sorrow, "I understand your confusion. I do. But I also understand your feelings about the Corporation. That anger—it's clouding your judgment. I don't know exactly what happened out there, but you have to consider the possibility that Kazon himself… did this to Ouspi."
"No!" Gren's voice came sharp and forceful, but he quickly reined himself in. He stepped closer to Bob, his glare fierce, eyes blazing with defiance. "I want to know what you know," Gren demanded, his voice heavy with accusation. "Right now, Bob."
Bob tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, as though silently challenging the outburst.
"Kazon can be a prick sometimes," Gren pressed, his tone resolute, "but there's no way—no way—he'd do something like that. They were attacked by... by something. You know it. Two Hunters don't go on a survey contract and only one come back."
To drive his point home, Gren held up the blade, the intricate emblem etched into it gleaming faintly under the corridor lights. It was a haunting symbol, unmistakably out of place in Gren's hands.
Bob's gaze lingered on Gren for a long, tense moment. His expression was pained, his jaw stiff as though he were swallowing an argument. Gren saw it—the strain in his mentor's face, the way his defenses seemed to waver under the weight of his apprentice's words.
"How can you think Kazon could do something like this?" Gren asked, disbelief and frustration spilling into his voice.
"Because that's exactly what Tedan Tippedai is going to charge him with, Gren," Bob interrupted, his voice suddenly commanding, cutting through Gren's protest like a blade.
The authority in Bob's words struck Gren, leaving him momentarily stunned, as though a weight had been placed on his chest.
"And you know it," Bob continued, his tone steady but tinged with bitterness. "It doesn't matter what really happened out there. It doesn't matter if Kazon had nothing to do with Ouspi's disappearance. That's how this will go down. At best, he'll end up blacklisted or locked in a brig for the rest of his life. And at worst…"
Bob didn't finish the thought, and Gren didn't need him to. The implications hung heavy between them, a suffocating dread twisting in his gut.
"You really believe that," Gren said finally, his voice low, trembling with restrained anger. "You think they'll just... pin this on him? Sweep everything else under the rug?"
Bob's dark eyes softened for a fraction of a second, but his voice remained firm. "It doesn't matter what I believe, Gren. You've seen how they operate. The Corporation doesn't deal in nuance, and they don't waste time on questions they don't want answered."
Gren shook his head, his grip tightening on the hilt of the katana. "But this—this isn't just some botched contract. Ouspi is gone. Kazon's not some petty thief or saboteur, Bob. He's—he's one of us."
"And that's exactly why he's expendable," Bob replied grimly. "Hunters are tools to them. Replaceable. Forgettable."
Gren stepped back, his frustration boiling over as he slammed the katana into its scabbard. "So what do we do?" he asked, his voice sharp, cutting through the stale air. "Just let them railroad him? Pretend like Ouspi never existed?"
Bob's shoulders sagged slightly, and for a brief moment, he looked older, wearier. "We don't have the luxury of pretending, Gren," he said softly. "But we also can't afford to act recklessly. If you go charging into this without knowing the full story, you'll be throwing yourself to the wolves."
Gren's jaw tightened, his mind racing. He glanced at the blade, the emblem still faintly visible despite the grime. The thought of leaving this unanswered, of letting the Corporation bury the truth, was unbearable. "You don't trust Kazon, do you?" he asked abruptly, his voice quieter but no less pointed.
Bob's hesitation spoke volumes. "I trust you," he said finally, meeting Gren's gaze. "And I trust Ouspi, to an extent…" Bob relented after a thought. "But Kazon? I don't know. Maybe he's innocent, maybe he's not. Either way, it's not my call to make."
"It's mine, then," Gren said firmly, stepping closer. "And this would all be easier if you would just be honest with me."
Bob raised his hands in a calming gesture, moving them between himself and Gren as if to diffuse the enmity in the corridor. "I can see how all this might make even you a little paranoid," he said, his tone softening as he tried to reach his former apprentice. "But you know me. If I knew something that important, you'd have already beaten it out of me... off the record, of course."
Gren's glare faltered, his defiance giving way to doubt. Bob was right—he rarely kept secrets from him, especially when it came to matters of this magnitude. Still, Gren's mind churned, struggling to reconcile his frustration with the trust he'd always placed in his mentor.
"I share your concerns," Bob continued thoughtfully, his tone measured. "I think there's more at work here than we can see right now. Something bigger. But the question is—who's to say it's your place to uncover it?"
The words hit Gren like a blow, heavy with implication. Bob wasn't just posing a rhetorical question; he was challenging the very foundation of Gren's drive to act.
"And if it's not your place," Bob said, his gaze unwavering, his voice dropping to a quiet but resolute conclusion, "then you don't."
The weight of those words settled between them, heavy and undeniable. Gren's hand instinctively rose to his chest, his gloved fingers pressing against the pendant hidden beneath his shirt. It was a symbol of his achievements, a marker of his dedication and hard work. Yet now, it felt more like a burden—a reminder of expectations he wasn't sure he could meet.
"I feel—" Gren began hesitantly, his voice fragile as the storm of doubt boiled within him, "I feel like this thing is going to change everything."
Bob's gaze lingered on Gren's hand, his eyes flickering briefly toward the hidden pendant. He said nothing, waiting for Gren to wrestle the words free from his tangled thoughts.
"I can't shake the feeling," Gren continued, his voice steadying as conviction bled into his tone, "that what just happened—it's only the beginning. Something big is coming, Bob. Something that's going to affect everyone."
Bob chuckled softly, the sound deliberate, a subtle attempt to ease the apprehension. "Well, that's highly prophetic of you, Gren," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips as he clapped a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "But let me tell you something—that's what sets you apart. You know where you stand. You're not wading through contradictions or letting anger drive your decisions."
His smile faded as he straightened, his hand dropping from Gren's shoulder. His expression grew serious. "But meddling in the affairs of a Hunter who's gone rogue?" Bob shook his head. "That's not the path you want to take. Not if you care about your career."
He paused, his next words softer but carrying a weight that struck deep. "—or the career of our newest recruit."
Gren's eyes lowered, his shoulders drooping under the burden of his muddled thoughts. Bob's news should have filled him with pride—relief, even. Iria's apprenticeship had officially begun. It was a milestone, a step toward the future she'd always dreamed of. With Bob as her mentor, and he at her side, she'd have the guidance she needed to succeed. It should have been a victory.
But the realization barely touched him. The swirling doubts and unanswered questions loomed too large, eclipsing what should have been a moment of joy. Even as he acknowledged the significance of Iria's achievement, an eroding sense of premonition gripped him. It whispered that her success—and their futures—might come at a cost none of them yet understood.
Gren sighed heavily, his hand dropping away from his chest. He understood Bob's intentions—his mentor was trying to protect him, trying to shield both him and Iria from the unknown dangers ahead. But the sense of something monumental shifting in the shadows only grew stronger.
Steeling himself, Gren stepped aside, allowing Bob a clear path forward. The two resumed their walk down the quiet hallway, their steps echoing in the silence as the weight of their conversation lingered between them.
"You're right, Bob..." Gren said finally, his voice subdued but genuine.
Bob shook his head lightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. As they walked, he lifted a hand to his forehead, rubbing at the three faint marks etched into his skin—a gesture Gren recognized as one of Bob's rare, quiet displays of vulnerability.
"I shouldn't preach," Bob said after a moment, his tone a blend of warmth and resignation. "I can't stop you from doing anything on your own anymore. You're your own man now. All I can do is offer some semblance of guidance and hope you make the right choices."
He glanced at Gren, his expression softening. "Just know that—"
"I know, Bob," Gren interrupted gently, giving a faint nod. His voice carried a quiet understanding, though the weight of his burdens remained.
"Many new Hunters feel the same doubts you're feeling now," Bob continued, his tone steady with the seasoned wisdom Gren had come to depend on. "Every little thing seems monumental, like it could derail the grand plans of men who think they're out to change the world."
The subtle, wry humor in Bob's words drew a faint smile to Gren's face, lifting some of the oppressive tension that had hung over him. It was classic Bob—reassurance wrapped in light mockery, a reminder to not take himself too seriously.
"But that's part of the challenge," Bob said, his tone softening as his gaze drifted distantly for a moment. "Iria will face it. Kazon will face it—" Bob hesitated, a grimace flickering across his face before being replaced with his usual calm. "And now, you will too. If this job didn't come with challenges, any two-bit hack could stake a claim."
Gren let out a small chuckle, glancing at Bob from the corner of his eye. A mischievous grin broke across his face. "Yeah? Maybe you should've preached that to Fujikuro while you still had the chance."
Bob snorted, shaking his head with a dry chuckle. "Fujikuro was too busy trying to outsmart his own shadow. No amount of preaching would've saved him."
Gren laughed, a genuine sound that broke through the gloom of his earlier thoughts. For a brief moment, the weight of Ouspi's disappearance and Kazon's anguished cries faded into the background. The laughter felt good—a fleeting reprieve, a reminder of simpler times when he'd been just another apprentice under Bob's steady guidance.
As they continued down the corridor, Gren found himself glancing at his mentor. The lines of Bob's face, illuminated by the flickering lights, seemed to carry the weight of countless hard-earned lessons. There was something grounding about his presence—his calm in the face of chaos, his ability to remind Gren of the bigger picture.
"Thanks, Bob," Gren said after a moment, his voice quieter, more sincere.
Bob tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow as if to ask, What now?
"For Iria," Gren clarified with a nod. "...And for reminding me why I'm here."
Bob waved a hand dismissively, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Just don't expect me to say it again. Wisdom's like ammo—you don't waste it."
Gren smirked, shaking his head. "And here I thought you had an endless supply?"
"Not for you, kid," Bob shot back, his tone playful but edged with affection. "I've already given you all you need."
The two continued walking, their laughter fading into a companionable silence. But even as the tension eased, Gren's thoughts began to drift again—to Kazon's anguished cries, to the blade in his hand that no longer belonged to its owner, and to the unanswered questions that still clawed at his thoughts.
"Bob," Gren started, his voice hesitant. "Do you really think it's not my place to figure this out?"
Bob didn't answer immediately, his steps slowing slightly as he considered the question. He glanced over at Gren, his expression thoughtful and unreadable. "I think there's a time and place for everything, Gren," he said finally. "And sometimes, the hardest part is knowing when to wait—and when to act."
Gren nodded slowly, turning the words over in his mind. They struck something deep within him, though they offered no easy resolution. For now, he let the silence stretch between them, focusing on the sound of their boots against the polished floor and the faint hum of distant voices echoing through the station.
The mystery could wait.
At least for the moment.