— Chapter Five —
Come Prima
(kōˌmāˈprēmə ): as before, referring to an earlier tempo
"Damn it, Bob... what the hell have you dragged me into this time?" Iria muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the chaos outside.
Iria eased the Kreper into a parking space near the edge of the lot, her fingers tightening slightly on the controls as she surveyed the scene before her. The Outland loomed large in front of her, its neon sign flickering erratically, as if the building itself couldn't quite commit to its own existence. The letters glowed a garish red, casting an ominous hue over the surrounding chaos. Even from inside her vehicle, the hum of voices, shouts, and occasional bursts of laughter reached her ears, underscored by the bass-heavy music that thumped from within the building.
"Well, as long as you stay inside the Kreper, I wouldn't worry too much," Bob quipped, his tone as dry as ever. "Though, you might want to engage the shields while you're at it—just to be safe."
"...thanks for the confidence. Really reassuring, Bob," she replied sarcastically, her tone dripping with irony.
The parking lot was a den of debauchery, every corner of it teeming with activity. Groups of rough-looking individuals clustered around vehicles and makeshift tables, most of them engrossed in games of chance. The clatter of dice hitting the cracked pavement was nearly drowned out by the heated arguments that followed each roll, fists occasionally flying to settle disputes.
Iria guided the Kreper toward the far corner of the lot, deliberately choosing a spot away from the thick of the chaos.
Nearby, others were exchanging goods with a shifty urgency. Iria didn't have to look too closely to see the unmistakable handoffs of narcotics, small vials and packages disappearing into palms in exchange for stacks of Kem. The transactions were swift and furtive, but the tension in the air made it clear that any misstep would result in violence. The dealers themselves were a motley crew, their faces scarred and weathered, their eyes scanning constantly for trouble or opportunity.
Scantily clad women lingered near the entrance, their exaggerated movements and overly practiced smiles a stark contrast to the hostile energy radiating from the rest of the lot. Their intentions were clear—securing a few Kem from a passing customer—but even they seemed to hold a certain wariness, their gazes flicking around the lot as if expecting trouble at any moment.
Dempadan gangs were scattered throughout the lot, their brightly painted hovercrafts and garish jackets marking their territory. They lounged against their vehicles, their postures deceptively relaxed as they kept one hand on their weapons at all times. Iria's sharp eyes caught the glint of blades tucked into boots, the outlines of firearms strapped to hips. These weren't people looking for a fight—they were people ready for one.
In one corner, a full-blown brawl had broken out, a circle of onlookers cheering and shouting as two men exchanged heavy blows. The sickening sound of fists meeting flesh echoed across the lot, but no one stepped in to stop it. Instead, the crowd seemed to revel in the violence, bets being called out as blood stained the ground.
Iria grimaced, her grip on the Kreper's controls tightening further. So this is the infamous Outland, she thought bitterly. Fujikuro's warnings from earlier echoed in her mind: Rough crowd, free-for-all, dangerous as hell. His words hadn't done it justice. This wasn't just rough—it was a cesspool. Everything about the place radiated hostility and decay. Even the air seemed heavier here, thick with the stench of sweat, smoke, and desperation.
She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself as she killed the Kreper's engine. "Great," she muttered under her breath, her voice dry. "Thirty thousand Kem for a death wish."
Her fingers brushed against the hilt of her weapon, her instincts screaming to stay alert. Iria's gaze swept over the scene once more, her trained eye cataloging every threat, every potential escape route. If Touka had chosen this place to meet, there had to be a damn good reason. And yet, as she stepped out of the Kreper, every fiber of her being told her she was in over her head.
"Just remember," Bob continued, his voice taking on a more serious edge. "Try to keep a low profile. Places like this don't take kindly to outsiders. And Iria…" His tone dropped slightly, almost cautiously. "More people know your name and your face now. It's going to be a challenge in a crowd like this."
"Yeah, yeah, I know," she replied dismissively, brushing him off as she grabbed her rifle from a compartment on the inside of the hull. With a graceful leap from her seat, she vaulted over the side of the Kreper, her boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. The weight of the weapon in her hand was familiar, grounding her as she straightened and took a moment to regain her bearings. Her gaze swept across the lot, scanning for any immediate threats. "I can handle myself," she said, her tone resolute.
"Good," Bob replied, his gilded orb flickering faintly on her forearm display. "Then I'll leave you to your work."
Iria froze, her face paling as she looked down at the holographic projection of the AI on her armor. "What do you mean, leave me?" she hissed, her voice edged with disbelief.
"I need to take a closer look into this account business," Bob explained, his tone matter-of-fact. "I can't be in two places at once, you know that."
"B-but Bob—!" Iria stammered, panic creeping into her voice as she realized what he meant. She glanced around quickly, her eyes darting to the groups of unsavory characters scattered throughout the lot. A few had started to glance in her direction.
"No buts," Bob said firmly, cutting her off. "You'll do fine. Good luck—and try to stay out of trouble."
"Wait—Bob!" Iria called after him, her voice rising in frustration. But it was too late. His hologram flickered out, leaving her staring at the empty projection with a mix of irritation and disbelief. She let out a sharp exhale, her shoulders tensing as she leaned back against the side of the Kreper. "Damn it…" she muttered under her breath.
She glanced around the lot again, scanning the clusters of people nearby. A few patrons had clearly taken notice of her outburst, their stares lingering a little too long for comfort. Iria squared her shoulders, her grip tightening on her rifle. She met their gazes directly, her expression firm and unyielding, a silent warning etched into her features.
"Got a problem?" she said evenly, her voice carrying just enough edge to cut through the hum of noise around her.
The onlookers exchanged brief glances, one of them muttering something under his breath before turning back to his group. Another smirked but quickly looked away, deciding she wasn't worth the trouble. One by one, they shifted their attention elsewhere, returning to their dice games, deals, and idle bickering.
Iria stood her ground, her gaze lingering on the groups for a moment longer, making sure they had truly lost interest. Satisfied, she adjusted her rifle on her shoulder, snapping the strap into the bulky, white clasp attached to the front of her crimson cloak, and turned her attention back to the task ahead. She exhaled, steeling herself as the muffled thrum of music and voices from the bar grew louder.
Iria shrugged her shoulders in adjustment of the fit, her boots crunching against the gritty pavement as she began weaving through the lot. Her pace was steady and deliberate, a careful balance between purpose and indifference. She kept her gaze sharp but avoided locking eyes with anyone for too long. The last thing she needed was to look out of place or invite the wrong kind of attention. Around her, the din of the lot buzzed—dice clattering against the ground, arguments flaring and fading, the occasional roar of a poorly tuned engine.
As she passed a row of vehicles, something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. A sleek, dark gray Kreper stood parked near the edge of the lot, its form understated compared to the gaudy, brightly painted crafts scattered about. The swooped-back, tinted dome of the closed cockpit stood in stark contrast to the umbrella-like repulsors of the wiry single-seaters that surrounded it. At first, it was the subtle contrast that drew her notice, but as her gaze lingered, other details began to emerge.
The Kreper was caked in a fine layer of sand and desert dust, the kind that could only come from prolonged exposure to the harsh elements of the Mycian wastes. Iria's examining eyes traced the surface of the hull, and then she saw it—a faint, pale blue sheen streaking across the front of the craft, almost imperceptible under the layers of grime. Her breath hitched. She recognized that luster. It was the residue left by Zeiramoid lures, unmistakable in its iridescent hue. The marks were subtle, streaking and scoring the front of the vehicle as if it had plowed directly through the lure fields she had set up back in Sabuku.
Her steps slowed as the realization began to sink in, her heart thudding heavily in her chest. The memory of the mining colony flashed in her mind—the chaos, the dust, the sudden appearance of the dark swordsman, and the way he had moved with such calculated precision. Her gaze hardened as her mind connected the dots. This wasn't just any Kreper. It was his Kreper. The man who had jumped her bounty, foiled her payout, and left her effort unacknowledged.
For a moment, she stood frozen, her eyes locked on the vehicle as if it might somehow vanish if she looked away. Her breathing deepened, and she felt a tension coil in her chest, spreading outward until it reached her clenched fists. She didn't need more proof. The streaked residue, the dusty exterior—it was all too familiar. There was no mistaking it now.
Her feet moved before her mind fully caught up, her weight and momentum pulling her toward the Kreper as though driven by instinct. Each step was slower than the last, her body rigid with simmering anger and disbelief. Her knuckles tightened around her rifle, the growing tension making her movements sharp and deliberate. By the time she reached the edge of the row where the Kreper sat, she could feel her frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.
This is him. The thought echoed in her mind like a drumbeat, fueling her resolve. Iria's gaze didn't waver as she approached, looking over every inch of the vehicle. If the man who owned it was here, she wasn't leaving without answers—or without making him understand just how far out of line he had stepped.
The faint hum of the vehicle's idling engine reached her ears, a subtle vibration in the air that made her grip her rifle more tightly. Her suspicions flared hotter with every step, and her pulse quickened as she drew closer.
Reaching the Kreper's side, she leaned in, shielding her eyes against the setting sun's glare as she peered through the tinted canopy. The reflective surface revealed nothing but distorted shadows, and she cursed softly under her breath. She shifted her angle, her fingers brushing the edge of the craft's hull as she tried to catch even the faintest glimpse of movement inside.
Without warning, the engine cut off with a hissing whine, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Before Iria could react, a hiss of pressurized air escaped from the cockpit. The tinted dome began to lift, the sudden motion forcing her to stumble back as the edge of the canopy swung upwards. She staggered a few meters, her footing faltering but steadying before she could fall. Her teeth clenched, her breath caught between shock and anger as her hand instinctively tightened around the strap of her rifle.
Her eyes snapped to the figure emerging from the Kreper, her suspicions crystallizing into certainty. The man leaped gracefully from the craft, his boots landing with a dull thump on the pavement. He straightened, his movements fluent and without any wasted motion, as he brushed a faint streak of pale blue dust from the sleeve of his long, flowing black coat. The mirrored visor of his helmet gleamed in the mid-evening light, reflecting the chaos of the parking lot back at her like an accusatory mirror.
Iria's breath stifled, her chest tightening as her ire surged to the surface. It's him. Every detail confirmed what she already knew—the same trench coat, the same helmet, the same maddeningly composed presence she had encountered at Sabuku. Her fingers itched towards her belt and holster beneath her cloak before her restraint kicked in.
"You," she seethed under her breath, her voice low but sharp. "If it isn't the hero who swerved me out of my pay!" Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her words laced with incredulity.
The dark figure didn't even flinch at her outburst. He glanced at her briefly, an almost dismissive look, before turning back to the Kreper. Iria's anger flared hotter as he leaned into a cargo compartment, retrieving a sleek, compact carrier from the storage space. With practiced ease, he snapped the carrier onto his back using hidden magnetic clips embedded in the armor beneath his trench coat. Twin swords, their sheaths perfectly parallel with one red and one white hilt hovering over his broad shoulder, the blades pointed straight toward the ground. The motion was fluid, deliberate, as though he had done it countless times before.
"Hey! Are you even listening to me?" Iria barked, her voice sharp with indignation as she began to march toward him, her steps radiating authority. "I'm not about—"
Her words cut off abruptly as he turned his back to her again, his hands rising to the sides of his helmet.
Iria's stride faltered as the man began to remove the black helmet visor. Her sharp eyes widened slightly, her breath catching as she watched him lift the helmet away, revealing more than she expected. His dark brown hair tumbled free, the unorthodox bangs framing his face, more prominent on the right side. Behind his left ear, six red and black hair beads dangled subtly, catching the light with his movement. The hair at the back of his head was tied into a short ponytail, neat but casual.
He exhaled softly, his chest rising and falling with the slow, deliberate breath, as though savoring the open air after being sealed inside the helmet. Without a second glance, he tossed the helmet back into the cockpit of the Kreper. The dome hatch hissed shut behind him as he turned to face her fully.
Iria froze, caught off guard as her gaze locked onto his face. His features were strikingly youthful, framed by the unorthodox fall of dark brown hair with uneven bangs and the faint glint of six red and black beads behind his left ear. But it was his eyes that truly held her attention—dark green, piercing and cold, as if carved from polished jade. When they met hers, just for a brief moment, she felt an almost tangible weight behind his gaze, haunting and detached, like he was measuring her and dismissing her in the same breath. She hesitated, her brown eyes wide as his fleeting glance burned itself into her memory before he looked away again, leaving her standing there, caught between indignation and unease.
For a moment, Iria stared, her mind scrambling to reconcile this image with the figure she had built up in her head. Her anger, still simmering, now mixed with a ripple of surprise that left her momentarily speechless. This wasn't the grizzled, world-worn mercenary she had envisioned. This was someone far more composed—and, somehow, far more infuriating.
Without a word, he turned his attention back to his coat, adjusting the long, black trench with the same deliberate precision he'd shown retrieving his swords. His hands moved smoothly, brushing more of the pale blue Zeiramoid lure dust from the worn leather with a practiced air, as though she wasn't even there. The dismissive gesture only fueled Iria's frustration, the simmering anger from moments ago threatening to boil over.
"Look," Iria pushed forward, her tone sharp and insistent. "I don't know what you did earlier, but that stunt you pulled cost me my—"
"Let it go…" his voice cut through hers, low and raspy, no longer filtered through the vocodor yet still carrying that hollow, distant quality. It sent a chill skittering down Iria's spine. She hesitated, her eyes locked on him. There was something unnerving in his presence—a haunting stillness that made her uneasy.
He noticed her unwavering stare and shifted slightly, his gaze flickering toward the door of the Outland. "I really don't have time to go through this with you again," he muttered, his tone cold, as though the conversation was already a waste of his time.
Iria wasn't about to let him off that easily. She brushed closer, her brow furrowed in defiance. "No, you're going to listen to me this time."
His attention wavered as his eyes drifted back to the door, scanning its frame like he was weighing the possibilities of what—or who—might be behind it. "I told you," he said finally, his voice detached, his gaze distant. "I didn't want your Kem."
"Then where did it go, huh?" Iria snapped, her frustration flaring as she shifted her weight, trying to recapture his focus. His eyes darted around the lot, barely acknowledging her, scanning the surroundings with calculated precision.
"That's between you and the Doc'," he replied, almost lazily, as if the answer should have been obvious. With a casual motion, he flipped the tail of his coat to the side, checking the pistol holstered at his hip before letting the fabric fall back into place.
"The Doc'?" Iria's tone changed, tinged with disbelief as her mind raced at the revelation. "Wait, you know Touka? How?"
He didn't answer right away. He stood there, utterly still, his broad shoulders rigid beneath the weight of his coat. His eyes remained fixed on the door of the Outland, as if the conversation happening right beside him was little more than distant noise. His silence wasn't just unsettling—it was consuming, a void that seemed to pull all the energy from the air around them.
"Hello?!" she shouted, her voice edged with irritation. Nothing.
To Iria, it felt like he wasn't even in the same space anymore. His presence, though tangible, felt miles away. The faint hum of the parking lot and the distant murmur of voices only emphasized how disconnected he seemed. She studied him, searching for a flicker of recognition or reaction, but his features were unreadable, carved in stone.
There was an eerie stillness about him, a sense that his mind was working on something far beyond her grasp. His posture, though seemingly relaxed, held a serpentine tension beneath the surface. His focus on the door was so absolute it was as if he saw something she couldn't—something she wasn't meant to see.
When he still didn't respond, she let out a huff, throwing her arms up in frustration. "Great, now you're deaf again," she muttered, mostly to herself. "I don't know—"
He turned on his heel before she could continue further, straightening his collar as he strode toward the door.
"Wait!" she reached out to him as if she could stop him. "I mean, what are the odds of both of us ending up in the same place twice in one day, huh?" Iria asked, her voice dripping sarcasm as she followed after him.
He barely glanced over his shoulder. "If I find the Doc' first, I guess you'll never know," he shot back with a trace of disdain in his tone.
"What?" Iria called out, raising her voice to be heard over the noise of the lot. She broke into a quick stride to close the distance between them. "Touka sent me a closed contract. What are you—"
"Maybe you should have read it closer?" he interrupted smoothly, his smooth voice carrying a quiet finality that left Iria bristling.
"Look pal, you can't talk to me like I'm some rook'." Iria shouted as she finally caught up to him.
Tilting his head slightly back as if stretching against the collar of his coat, the Hunter gloved hands slid casually into the deep pockets of his jacket, his posture relaxed yet undeniably deliberate. "I know exactly who you are," he replied coolly, his voice calm but loaded with something sharper. "Apparently, the only person the Doc' left in the dark was you…"
Her jaw tightened, her patience fraying. "So, what? We're partners now or something?" she spat, practically recoiling at the thought. "Then what exactly do you know about me?"
He turned slightly, just enough to let his words land with purpose. "Hunter Iria... and your ID number," he quipped, his tone biting, almost mocking. "Other than that?" he shoulders seemed to shrug with a pause. "Didn't really care to listen. But firsthand? You've got a dirty rifle and a knack for losing track of Zeiramoids..."
"Please!" Iria scoffed, her chuckle only escaping her lips to make her frustration of the direction of the conversation. "Who saved who back there, Hero?"
"I hope you didn't do the same against the real thing…" the man remarked cooly, as if to finish his earlier thought.
Her glare sharpened as her fists clenched, but she forced a smirk to her lips. "What the hell would you know about Zeiram?" she shot back, her voice dripping with arrogant confidence.
But before she could revel in her comeback, his eyes snapped to hers, quick and sharp as a blade. His icy, emotionless stare hit her like a jolt, forcing her back a step. The weight of his gaze was different this time—dangerous. It wasn't just cold; it was coiled, like a predator ready to strike if she pushed him an inch further.
Iria swallowed hard, her smirk vanishing in an instant. The air between them grew tense and suffocating as he held her gaze, unflinching. For a moment, she swore he was about to lash out, his silent warning cutting deeper than any words could.
Then, just as suddenly, he shook his head and turned away, the moment breaking like a snapped thread. His hands slid deeper into his coat pockets as he started toward the building. "...Whatever," he muttered, his tone dismissive. "Let's just get this over with. Touka's waiting."
As he turned toward the door, Iria's hand shot out, gripping his arm firmly. The motion stopped him in his tracks, the weight of her grip reminiscent of their tense standoff back in Sabuku. Only this time, there was no hollow visor to conceal him—just the man himself.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice steady and unyielding. Her gaze burned into his, unflinching as she forced him to face her directly.
He slowly turned under the pressure of her grip, his sharp features now fully illuminated in the harsh glow of the lot's overhead lights. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto hers with a quiet intensity. There was no flicker of emotion—no anger, no frustration—just a piercing stare that seemed to strip away layers of pretense and dig straight into her resolve.
For a moment, he said nothing, the silence between them stretching like a taut wire. Iria didn't waver, though her mind raced as she searched his face for some clue, some hint of what he might be hiding. His expression was unreadable, but the faintest flicker of something—hesitation? Reflection?—crossed his eyes before he spoke.
"Call me Kaz'," he said finally, his voice calm and plain, as though the weight of her question was meaningless to him.
Iria narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing his response. It wasn't an answer, not really, but it was all she was going to get from him right now. Still, she held his gaze for a beat longer, searching for cracks in his composure, any sign that she'd managed to rattle him.
"You think that's good enough?" she asked, her grip tightening slightly on his arm, testing his patience.
"It's all you're getting," he replied flatly, pulling his arm from her grasp with a deliberate jerk. He adjusted his coat as though nothing had happened, his calm demeanor intact. "Now, are we doing this, or are you going to stand here all night trying to figure me out?"
Iria exhaled sharply, her hand lingering in the air for a moment before she let it drop to her side. "Fine," she muttered, "But you still haven't told me how you know him or how this involves you."
Kaz' turned again, heading toward the door with the same deliberate stride, and Iria followed close behind. The dark Hunter simply shook his head as he automatic door slid open for them. " All that matters now is finding him…"
"Right, because you've been such a help so far," Iria scoffed, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she stepped in behind him. She turned her attention from him to their surroundings, and her expression shifted as she took in the atmosphere.
Iria exhaled sharply, her breath almost swallowed by the oppressive, smoke-filled air that clung to every surface. The dim lights overhead flickered sporadically, casting uneven shadows across the room. A pungent cocktail of cheap cigars, stale alcohol, and unwashed bodies hung thick, making the space feel even more suffocating. The low hum of conversation was punctuated by raucous laughter, the slam of fists on tables, and the occasional burst of profanity from the leather-clad thugs scattered throughout.
She wrinkled her nose at the sight. Hoodlums crowded around the tables and bar, their crude jokes and snarling arguments mixing with the sounds of dice clattering against wood and the shuffle of greasy cards. Scantily clad women sauntered between groups, some perched provocatively on laps while others lingered, exchanging flirtatious glances. It wasn't just chaos—it was a teeming hive of raw, dangerous energy. Iria instinctively tightened her grip on her rifle clasp, her brown eyes darting from one corner to the next.
"How the hell are we supposed to find Touka in this mess?" she muttered under her breath, her words nearly drowned out by the din. She turned to Kaz', who stood a step behind her, his posture calm but his sharp, dark green eyes meticulously scanning the room.
Kaz's gaze swept methodically across the crowd before shifting up to the shadowy balcony above. "Keep a low profile," he said, his tone measured and firm. "Don't let anyone know what are. They won't like you much if they do..."
Iria raised a brow, glancing at him with a mix of skepticism and annoyance. His unyielding focus, the way he seemed to shut everything else out, was unsettling. After a year of dealing with Fujikuro's cavalier attitude, Kaz's intensity felt alien.
"What's the plan, then?" she asked, crossing her arms, her tone tinged with impatience.
"Split up," He shifted slightly, folding his arms over his chest. "You take the top floor. If you find him first, get whatever he has to give."
Iria smirked faintly, unable to resist a jab. "And what if you find him first?"
He shot her a brief glance in return, his expression as unreadable as ever before scanning the room over once more. "I told you..." he replied bluntly before turning on his heel and slipping into the crowd. "That's your loss."
She watched him disappear, his long trench coat blending seamlessly into the chaos that enveloped him.
"Figures," she muttered, shaking her head with a sigh.
Turning her attention to the stairs, Iria began her ascent, each step deliberate and cautious. Her boots made barely a sound against the worn wood as she climbed, her gaze flickering back to the crowd below. She tried to track Kaz's path, but it was futile; he had melted into the sea of bodies, leaving no trace behind.
Reaching the balcony, Iria leaned briefly against the railing, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the room below. The vantage point gave her a slightly clearer view of the bar and the clusters of thugs, but it was still a maze of shadows and noise. She forced herself to focus.
Where are you, Touka? she thought, her brow furrowing.
A faint prickle ran down her spine, her instincts whispering that she was being watched. Her hand hovered near her weapon beneath her cloak as she turned her head slightly, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows for movement. But there was nothing—just more drunken revelry and leering faces, none of which seemed particularly focused on her.
Shaking off the feeling, she straightened and moved deeper into the balcony. Every nerve was on edge, but she wasn't about to back down. This Kaz' guy might have been fine disappearing into the crowd, but she wasn't here to blend in. As her gaze drifted over the railing to search for her reluctant counterpart, her thoughts started to drift. The way he moved, the way he assessed everything without speaking— it felt oddly familiar to her. Not in a comforting way, but in a way that stirred something buried—something she hadn't wanted to revisit. She shook her head sharply, forcing herself to focus.
She paused for a moment at the top, her reddish-brown eyes scanning the balcony floor. It wasn't as crowded as the chaos below, but it still carried the same seedy energy. Pockets of rough-looking patrons leaned over tables, sharing hushed conversations or engaging in quiet, simmering disputes. The dim light did little to soften the air of hostility that clung to the space. Iria exhaled, adjusting the strap of her rifle as she began to weave through the room.
She strolled deliberately, keeping her movements casual, her eyes darting to every corner for a familiar face. A few of the more inebriated men tried to catch her attention, slurring out greetings or crude comments as she passed, but she ignored them entirely. Her fingers twitched against the strap of her rifle, a silent reminder of Fujikuro's earlier warning about shooting anyone who tried to touch her. She smirked faintly to herself but kept moving, her resolve steady.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted him. An older man, seated alone at a small table tucked into the shadowy edge of the balcony. His gray hair stood out starkly against the dim backdrop, and his arms were folded across his chest as he leaned back in his chair with an air of impatient detachment. Even from a distance, the familiar irritation in his sharp eyes was unmistakable—a look she remembered all too well. Though his frame appeared small and frail, his conspicuously out-of-place Tedan Tippedai lab tunic made him stand out. Yet, there was something more—an intangible weight to his presence that seemed to thicken the air around him, commanding attention despite his unassuming appearance.
Still cranky as ever, she thought, her steps faltering slightly. Yes, it was him. The old doctor hadn't changed a bit. Iria allowed herself a small smile as she watched him for a moment, his impatient demeanor just as she remembered. "Well..." she muttered under her breath. "Here we go..."
Straightening her posture, she made her way over to the table, her boots barely making a sound on the wooden floor as the small nook had offered a slight reprieve from the droning noise below.
"Don't you look comfortable," Iria quipped with a smirk as she approached the chair across from the old man.
"You're late," Touka snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the low hum of chatter in the room. "I've wasted the last half-hour of my life in this cesspool because you decided to take your sweet time."
Iria shrugged nonchalantly, pulling out the chair and settling across from him with an air of indifference. "Well, you're the one who picked this place," she shot back, leaning back casually in her seat. "And it's not my fault I'm late. You can blame that on that real charmer you're somehow connected to..."
Touka's eyes darted briefly to the staircases on either side of the room, scanning for movement. "Where is Hunter Locke?" he asked, his voice laced with impatience. "He was supposed to make sure you stayed together."
"So you are working with this Locke guy," she asked as she committed the name to memory. She leaned an elbow against the table as she met Touka's gaze with feigned indifference. "He's supposed to be downstairs looking for you," she said nonchalantly. "But with his attitude, he's probably already given up and left."
A faint grin tugged at the corners of Touka's mouth, a rare break in his usual stern demeanor. "No, Kazon would never abandon a job," he said, his voice softening slightly. The mention of the man's name caused Iria to straighten slightly, her focus sharpening as her interest piqued.
"He's very… intense," Touka continued, his voice thoughtful but tinged with unease. He shifted slightly in his seat, a subtle but telling gesture. "Defiant, yes—always has been. But that boy's as tough as they come. After everything he's been through… well—"
Touka hesitated, and Iria's brow arched at the uncharacteristic pause. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table as her reddish-brown eyes narrowed in curiosity. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, her tone direct and inquisitive.
Touka's expression darkened, his gaze growing distant as though he were peering into a memory he'd rather forget. "He's rough around the edges, yes," he said quietly, his tone heavy. "But don't underestimate him. He's been through things that would break most men—or leave them gray before their time."
Iria couldn't resist a smirk, tilting her head slightly as her playful nature broke through the weight of his words. "Like you…?" she teased, her voice light but pointed. "Grandpa?"
Touka's eyes narrowed slightly at the nickname, one that had so humbly bestowed upon him a year ago. A faint twitch of his brow betrayed his irritation, but his voice remained calm, if a little clipped. "I see you still haven't learned to watch your tongue," he replied, his tone dry. "No doubt from spending too much time with that other brat, I'm sure."
Iria's smirk widened at the jab, but before she could fire back, Touka shook his head and reached down to the floor. He hefted a small, weathered briefcase and placed it onto the table between them with a soft thud. "In any case," he continued, his voice turning businesslike, "here's the payment. Thirty thousand, up front, as promised. You'll need it."
Iria's smirk faltered slightly as her eyes drifted to the briefcase. It wasn't just the amount—it was the brevity of what it symbolized. Thirty thousand wasn't just a paycheck; it was an investment, a warning, and a sign that Touka wasn't taking whatever this was lightly. Her fingers twitched as though she were tempted to reach for it but refrained. "You haven't even given me details? What's the catch to this one?" she asked, her tone cautious now, her earlier playfulness replaced with suspicion.
Touka leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes studying her closely. "No catch," he said simply. "Just make sure you earn it. There's a lot riding on this, and you're in deeper than you realize."
His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications, as Iria leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She was no stranger to dangerous jobs, but something about this felt different—more personal, more dangerous. Whatever Touka knew, he wasn't ready to reveal it just yet.
Iria's brow furrowed deeply as she crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair. Her gaze shifted from the briefcase to Touka, her expression a mix of suspicion and disbelief. "Alright, fine. Thirty thousand. But what about his share? You're in this together, aren't you? You're just gonna let him walk away with nothing?"
Touka raised an eyebrow, his calm and measured demeanor betraying no hint of concern. "Kazon doesn't ask for payment," he replied, his tone flat and unrhetorical, as though that alone was explanation enough.
Iria blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. "What?" she finally managed, leaning forward and narrowing her eyes. "No pay? What kind of Hunter works for free? Especially after what he pulled at Sabuku?"
Her voice sharpened, the memory of the bounty still fresh in her mind. "He blew the mine, dealt with those Zeiramoids—almost kills me, twice? You're telling me he didn't pocket a single Kem from that?"
Her skepticism hung thick in the air, but Touka's calm remained unshaken, as though he'd been expecting the question all along.
Touka exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the edge of the briefcase. "Some things are better left unsaid, Iria," he began, his tone carefully measured. "But I'll tell you this much—he didn't take the Kem from Sabuku."
Iria's mouth opened, a sharp retort on her lips, but Touka raised a hand, cutting her off before she could speak. "The Kem was redirected to the colony," he continued. "That was Kazon's decision. but the destruction of their mine? That was on him. He won't say it outright, but I know him. Kazon couldn't walk away without ensuring they had something to rebuild with."
Iria's brow furrowed further, completely flabbergasted by his revelation. Her soft features suddenly etched sharp with confusion and skepticism. "Seriously" she repeated, her tone acute. "You're telling me Tedan Tippedai just handed it over? Just like that?"
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Touka's lips as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes briefly flicking toward the ceiling. "Hardly," he said, his voice laced with a barren dryness. "I spoofed the account, rerouted the funds, and cooked their books to make it look like an internal reallocation. By the time anyone at Tedan Tippedai even thinks to dig into it, it'll be buried so deep in their bureaucracy they'll never find it."
His words hung in the air, their weight settling heavily on Iria as she absorbed the implications.
Iria stared at him, her thoughts racing as she struggled to process the revelation. Her fingers tapped absently on the edge of the table, the motion slowing as the weight of his words settled over her. Then, abruptly, she froze, her hand hovering mid-air as if suspended in time. The air between them grew thick with tension, and for a moment, all she could do was fix her wide, brown eyes on him—a mixture of shock and anger flickering in her gaze.
"You did that?" she asked, her voice low and trembling despite her attempt to sound steady. The crack in her words betrayed the storm brewing beneath her calm facade if her fingers curling into a tight fist had not. "You used his account…?"
Touka shifted in his seat, the lines of his face heavy with solemnity. "A harsh move, I know..." he said quietly, his tone steady but not without a trace of regret. "But it was the only pragmatic way to ensure you'd come here." He paused, as though the weight of his own admission pained him. "This situation is bigger than any of us, Iria, and I needed you to take it seriously."
Iria's gloved palm struck the tabletop with a sharp crack, her frustration cutting through the background noise of the bar. Her jaw tightened as she struggled to find the words, her thoughts churning between distant memories and the anger of having her brother's name used this way. Her fists clenched tightly as she exhaled sharply through her nose, her voice finally edged through the tension. "You had no right," she said, her tone low but seething with restrained emotion.
Touka didn't flinch, his gaze steady as he met hers. "You're correct," he admitted, his voice calm and even. "And for that, you have my honest apology...and my regrets. But answer me this—if I hadn't done it, would you be sitting here now?"
The question hung in the air, its weight undeniable. Iria didn't answer; instead, she leaned back again, letting the silence speak for her as she stared at the briefcase. She let out a long measured breath as she refocused her thoughts. "And what does this have to with your friend down there?"
"Exactly why I've called you here," Touka said, his voice low and deliberate. He leaned slightly closer, his sharp eyes darting briefly to the surrounding tables before he continued. "Those higher-ups at Tedan Tippedai Corporation—the ones pulling the strings—they've got something far more sinister up their sleeves."
"I couldn't risk meeting you at the main office," he added. "If I had, they'd have caught wind of it in an instant. Security would've been all over us before we had a chance to talk."
"That's what Bob thought too," Iria murmured, leaning in slightly. Her eyes narrowed, his words pressing heavily on her. "This is about Tedan Tippedai, isn't it? Who's involved, and what's their play?"
Touka's expression hardened. "As you've probably noticed, President Puttubayh's new taxes are everywhere—splashed across every holo-screen, broadcast incessantly. You've seen it, haven't you?"
"Yeah," Iria replied, her tone clipped. "It's all they ever talk about. This Zeiramoid extermination project, or whatever.'" She scoffed slightly. "What about it?"
Touka's jaw tightened. "They're not using that money to protect Myce—not the way they claim. And I suspect you've already discerned that for yourself."
Iria blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise. "Wait… are you saying—?"
"I'm the head of the Corporation's science team, Iria," he interrupted, his voice steady but heavy with gravity. "I know their plans inside and out. Over the past year, under Puttubayh's leadership, they've doubled their efforts behind the scenes, pushing boundaries no one should cross. They're not exterminating Zeiramoids. They're creating them."
Iria's eyes widened as she sat back slightly, her breath catching in her throat. "They're… making Zeiramoids?" she echoed, her disbelief palpable.
Touka nodded grimly. "The money from those levies? It's funding experiments. They've been trying to construct artificial Zeiram beacons using DNA harvested from the one at the Tanjankanburan construction site and from Zeiramoids killed there—for a potential countermeasure, or at least that was my aim. Their goal was to ultimately recreate that beacon from the Karma incident But when those beacons failed to yield the results they wanted…"
"...they resorted to something worse?" Iria finished for him, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Precisely," Touka confirmed, his tone dark and deliberate. "They turned to genetic engineering—splicing DNA, warping the essence of these creatures to suit their twisted goals. What they've created is far more dangerous: Numbers. A manufactured army of Zeiramoid hybrids. The lab where they conduct these experiments is far from Myce, hidden deep in the wastelands. If they can't summon the Zeiramoids from elsewhere, they've shifted focus to breeding their own."
Iria's brow furrowed as she flipped through her catalog of contracts in her mind. "So all these jobs we've been doing?" she asked, her voice tinged with skepticism. "And they've kept them on their books? Why even bother if that's their endgame?"
Touka's gaze bore into hers, his expression grim and unwavering. "Business. A few short-term sacrifices—some petty contracts, some public displays of goodwill. It's a small price to pay for the greater reward: power—absolute and uncontested. Their ambitions go beyond Myce. By manufacturing a controlled crisis, they can manipulate the masses, solidifying their position as saviors while gaining unparalleled loyalty, wealth, and influence. Fear becomes their greatest tool—one they can wield at will."
"Of course it is…" Iria's fists clenched against the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening as her pulse quickened. The anger rising within her was sharp and unrelenting, fueled by memories of her struggles a year ago. Her voice dropped to a tremble as she muttered, "They're monsters. They're making their own damn monsters."
Touka's face tensed slightly, his voice dropping. "It doesn't stop there…"
Touka's expression tensed, the lines on his face deepening. "It doesn't stop there…" he said softly, his voice heavy with an ominous weight.
"What do you mean?" Iria demanded, her breath catching as his words lingered.
Touka shook his head solemnly, his hands folding tightly together on the table. "What you've been fighting recently—those creatures in the field? They aren't the culmination of their experiments. They're the failures. The discarded prototypes. Creatures bred solely to gather data, refined and perfected for something far worse."
Iria's heart thundered in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears as Touka's words began to piece together a horrifying picture. She opened her mouth to speak but found herself unable to form the words, her breath catching as her thoughts spiraled. Her palms pressed hard against the table, connecting fragments of memories, fears, and the grim reality Touka was laying bare.
"No…" she finally managed, her voice a quivering whisper, barely audible over the noise of the bar. Her wide eyes locked onto Touka's, seeking a denial she already knew wouldn't come. "You're not saying—"
Touka met her gaze, his expression somber, his delivery dense with unflinching honesty. "I am," he said, his voice low but steady. "They're trying to recreate it."
Iria's chest tightened, a surge of emotion welling up inside her—a chaotic storm of disbelief, anger, and fear.
"Zeiram…"
Her voice cracking under the weight of the name. She leaned back slightly, her hands trembling as they pulled away from the table. "That's impossible. It's dead. We—," Her thoughts re-centered on Gren… "...I...killed it."
"We thought so too," Touka replied not picking up on her underlying meaning. His voice calm but laced with a gravity that only deepened her panic. "But the unit was recovered from the Stardust Desert shortly after your battle a year ago. They've been studying it ever since."
Her head spun as the memories flooded back—the visceral battle, the overwhelming terror and the struggle with her brother within the beast, the final moment when her blade pierced through the creature's grotesque, snarling face. It was supposed to be over. It was supposed to have ended there.
"Why?" she managed to choke out, her voice sharp and strained as she leaned forward again, her fingers digging into the edge of the table. "Why would they even think to try? After everything…"
"Because Zeiram is more than just a creature," Touka said, leaning closer, his tone now grave and deliberate. "We know more now than we did back then. Its biology, its origins—it's not just some monster. It's something far beyond our understanding, something… otherworldly. The Corporation still believes it holds the key to power they can't resist. The way it adapted, how it regenerated—they see it as a weapon, a perfect one—same as always."
Iria shook her head, her breathing uneven. "How far have they gotten?" she asked, her voice teetering on the edge of panic.
Touka simply shook his head with an exhale. "That's the one thing I don't know," he admitted. "They've kept the progress tightly under wraps, especially from me. But what I do know is that this isn't just some theory or experiment anymore. They're far enough along that it's a real possibility."
"But you said—!" Iria's voice suddenly rose, cutting sharply through the din of the bar as she nearly leapt from her chair. Heads turned, unsavory eyes locking onto her as the room's murmur stilled for a fraction of a second. Realizing her outburst, she quickly sank back into her seat, lowering herself to a tense voicelessness. "You said they can't clone anything from something that's dead. Gren…" Her voice faltered, emotion threatening to overwhelm her. "He wasn't—" She broke off, her fists clenching against her thighs as she fought to steady herself.
"I know what I said," Touka replied, his tone blank but weighted, his eyes fixed on hers with a calm resolve. "And they've poured every Kem they have into proving me wrong."
Iria's chest tightened, her breath catching as her mind struggled to reconcile his words. "How long?" she demanded, her voice sharp with disbelief. "How long have you known about this?"
Touka leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—crossed his face. "I've had my suspicions," he admitted with resignation. "But I didn't have the full picture until more recently. It was too dangerous to assume without certainty."
"This is Zeiram we're talking about, Touka. So how—?" Iria pressed, her words coming faster now.
"That's where our friend came in," Touka cut her off, his tone even but with a slight edge as he gestured subtly to the room below. "Kazon's involvement gave me access to what I couldn't reach on my own. He's been operating in the shadows, gathering intel that even I couldn't obtain. It's because of him I was able to piece together the truth."
Iria's face wrinkled as she followed his gaze. "Him? What does he have to do with any of this?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
Touka sighed, leaning forward slightly. "Kazon is a Hunter, Iria. The same as you. He's been operating in the shadows, gathering intel that even I couldn't obtain. It's because of him I was able to piece together the truth."
Iria sat back, her body stiff as the weight of Touka's words settled over her. Her thoughts churned in a whirlwind of anger, confusion, and the faint stirrings of reluctant understanding. The enormity of the revelation left her grappling for clarity, her mind struggling to reconcile the implications. Zeiram—alive again, or something dangerously close to it.
Her jaw tightened as fragments of the past and present collided in her mind, forming a dire picture. The pieces were falling into place, each one more disturbing than the last. The clarity she sought seemed just out of reach, replaced by a gnawing sense of dread. One year ago, she had faced an unthinkable enemy, and now, the thought that it—or something like it—could return sent a chill racing through her.
Touka retrieved a folded parchment from the briefcase, its edges crisp and precise. As he slid it across the table to Iria, the faint golden shimmer of the Kem within caught the dim light, sending a brief glint across the smoky room. It was a flash that didn't go unnoticed, drawing a few curious glances from the surrounding tables.
"That, girl, is the job," he said with an air of finality, his tone calm but firm. "Inside, you'll find a map to the facility, along with a rough outline of its internal structure based on my research and Kazon's reconnaissance. Tomorrow, you and he are going to get inside, find out what's happening, and if necessary—end it."
Iria hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the dossier as she gave the doctor a dubious look. "You want me and that stiff to work together? You've got to be kidding me..."
"He has his reasons for being involved—reasons that align with yours." Touka's words were steady, and his gaze met hers, holding her attention. "When it comes to Zeiram, you and Kazon share more in common than you think."
Iria snorted lightly, her lips curling into a faint smirk as she thumbed through the folded parchment. "Please... He and I have nothing in common."
"You'd be surprised," Touka allowed himself an uncharacteristically coy grin, his expression calm but knowing. "In time, you might even come to appreciate having him around."
"What's that supposed to mean, Grandpa?!" Iria shot back, her skepticism laced with irritation. She slapped the folder down on the table, leaning forward as if to press him further.
Before she could say another word, a heavy hand clamped onto her shoulder and pulled her back into her chair with a thud. Iria's eyes widened slightly in surprise as the jolt sent her heart pounding.
"Hey, hey, lady…" a surly voice drawled from behind her, cutting through the murmurs of the room. "A cutie like you should show a little more respect to her elders, don't you think, boys?" A chorus of low chuckles followed, each sound laced with malice.
Iria stilled her breathing, her instincts taking over as she resisted the urge to whirl around. She could feel them—multiple presences looming behind her, closing in. She focused on Touka's face instead, searching his features. His expression remained muted, but his jaw was set, his eyes fixed over her head with a barely concealed tension.
The voice grew quieter, lowering to her ear level. Its tone was rough, laced with threat. A stubby finger jabbed in the direction of the briefcase on the table. The sneers and muffled laughs of his companions hung in the air like a taunt, thickening the enmity in the room.
"...Especially an old man who's got that kind of change just lying around."