The dim light of the laboratory cast long shadows across the room, flickering against the lifeless machinery and scattered documents left behind in Dr. Stylish's wake. The air was thick with the sterile scent of chemicals, the remnants of his many experiments. Now, however, the once-bustling lab felt hollow—silent save for the hushed breathing of the gathered Jaegers.

Seryu stood at the forefront, her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. Her shoulders trembled, her expression contorted with grief and fury. "Doctor Stylish gave everything for the Empire!" she cried, her voice raw. "He was a visionary, a true patriot! And those savages took him from us! This will not go unpunished!"

Wave, standing beside her, was far less vocal, but no less troubled. His usual carefree demeanor was nowhere to be seen as his fingers curled into tense fists at his sides. The reports they had gathered about the mercenaries painted them as something different—something unpredictable. They weren't just rebels; they were fighters unlike anything the Empire had faced before. The efficiency with which they cut down Dr. Stylish and his forces was almost terrifying. And if they could do that to someone as resourceful as Stylish…

Bols, standing near Wave, shifted uncomfortably. Unlike Seryu, he wasn't one for passionate outbursts, but that didn't mean he wasn't shaken. Behind his mask, his expression remained hidden, yet the weight in his posture spoke volumes. "We should be careful," he finally said, his voice low but steady. "They aren't like the others we've fought. We don't know their full capabilities yet."

Kurome, as always, was unreadable. She remained in the background, her crimson eyes fixed on the remains of Stylish's notes, her lips pressed into a thin line. She had barely reacted when she first heard the news. Now, standing amongst her comrades, she remained eerily still, a contrast to Seryu's open rage.

Bols, the ever-gentle giant among them, stood near the back, his masked face betraying no expression. But his posture was heavy, weighed down by sorrow. He had always respected Stylish, not just for his brilliance but for his unwavering loyalty to the Empire. "War takes good men and bad alike," he finally said, his deep voice solemn. "We must make sure his sacrifice wasn't in vain."

Esdeath, ever the composed leader, stood before them all, her expression calm but unreadable. She allowed a brief moment of silence, then turned her icy gaze onto the group. "Dr. Stylish was a brilliant man," she acknowledged, her voice as cold as the frost she commanded. "But war does not favor the reckless."

Seryu flinched at the words, opening her mouth to protest, but Esdeath continued before she could speak. "We do not have the luxury of mourning him with sentimentality. His death is not a tragedy—it is a lesson. A lesson in underestimating the enemy. And we will not make that mistake again."

She turned to them fully, her posture unwavering, her tone absolute. "We will not waste time on grief. We will act."

A heavy silence followed her declaration. Seryu swallowed hard, her grief not entirely subdued but tempered by Esdeath's unwavering conviction. Wave exhaled slowly, steeling himself for what was to come. Kurome merely nodded, as though she had already come to the same conclusion. Bols, after a moment, gave a quiet nod as well, gripping the handle of his Incinerator tightly. He did not relish revenge, but he would see this through for the sake of his fallen comrade.

Esdeath allowed the silence to linger for just a moment longer before turning away, already thinking ahead. The war had changed, but she could not bring herself to see these mercenaries as true threats just yet. They were unpredictable, yes, and far more resourceful than expected—but in the end, they were still outsiders. Soldiers, assassins, warriors—none of it mattered. She had crushed countless formidable opponents before. "They have made their presence known, nothing more," she murmured to herself. "They will fall like all the rest." If these mercenaries thought they had won a victory, they would soon learn just how costly their actions would become.

Sheele sat on the edge of a crumbling stone wall, the cold night air brushing against her skin. The moon hung above like a watchful eye, its silver glow casting long shadows across the ruined outpost she had chosen for solitude. Her grip tightened around the Ambassador, her gloved fingers tracing the contours of the well-worn handle.

She had trained for this. Conditioned herself to move forward, to let go of past attachments. And yet, in the moment she had looked into Mine's eyes, something had cracked inside her. A feeling she had buried resurfaced, threatening to drown her in uncertainty. The Mine she knew—the Mine who had fought beside her, laughed with her, shared meals and dreams—was still there. But so was the new Sheele, the assassin who had abandoned hesitation, who had embraced precision over clumsiness, who had learned to be ruthless.

The weight of that realization pressed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. Her vision blurred for a moment, a stinging sensation welling in her eyes as she clenched her jaw. She wanted to convince herself that it was just a fleeting weakness, a stray thought she could brush aside. But the tremor in her hand as she gripped the Ambassador told another story. Her chest ached, a hollow pain she had almost forgotten how to feel. Had she truly let go? Or had she merely buried the part of herself that still longed for the warmth of companionship, only for it to claw its way back to the surface the moment she faced her past? A sharp inhale, a quick blink—she forced the rising tide back down, but the cracks were already forming.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft sound of approaching footsteps. Not loud, not careless. Deliberate. Controlled. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Spy stepped closer, his footsteps quiet but intentional. He studied her for a moment, then exhaled, the tip of his cigarette glowing softly in the dark.

"Zhat girl… she was important to you, non?" His voice carried a strange gentleness, devoid of its usual teasing lilt. "I can see it in your face. In zhe way your hands shake."

Sheele exhaled, her breath visible in the frigid air. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she let the weight of the moment settle before finally nodding. "I thought I had let go of my past. But seeing her again… I felt something."

Spy walked closer, slipping a cigarette between his lips before holding the carton toward her in silent offer. She shook her head, and he simply lit his own, the embers flickering as he took a slow drag. He didn't press for more, giving her space to gather her words.

"I almost… went back," Sheele admitted, her voice quieter now, as though saying it out loud made it more real. "A part of me wanted to just tell her everything. Explain. But… I couldn't."

Spy regarded her with an unreadable expression, the glow of his cigarette reflecting in his sharp eyes. "And why is zhat?"

Sheele swallowed. The answer was clear, but difficult to admit. "Because I'm not the same person anymore. I can't return to what I was. Not anymore."

A quiet understanding passed between them. Spy, of all people, knew what it meant to leave a life behind. He had done it more times than he could count. Faces, names, allegiances—all shed like a snake discarding its old skin. But the ghosts of those choices never truly vanished.

""You are right," he said after a moment. "You can't go back. But you can decide what comes next. You may not be zhe same person you once were, but zhat does not mean you are lost. It simply means you have changed. And change… is inevitable."

Sheele looked down at the gun in her hands, its weight grounding her. The decision had already been made, hadn't it? Mine was in the past. Sheele had chosen her path.

Spy flicked the remnants of his cigarette onto the ground, snuffing it out with his boot. "Rest. Tomorrow, we move forward."

Sheele nodded, the turmoil in her heart still present, but quieter now. The past was a shadow that would always linger, but she wouldn't let it control her. Not anymore.

The dim glow of the laboratory's overhead lights cast eerie shadows across the walls as Medic hunched over his latest fascination—Perfector. The device, still stained with remnants of its former owner, pulsed with a faint energy, its intricate mechanisms whispering secrets only a mind as brilliant and unhinged as Medic's could decipher.

He adjusted his spectacles, his gloved fingers delicately prying into the Teigu's complex framework. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered—organic in its precision, yet mechanical in its function. The fusion of Imperial science and eldritch sorcery sent a thrill down his spine. His scalpel glided through a metallic seam, exposing the intricate inner workings. The moment the seam parted, a faint, pulsing glow emanated from within, as if the device itself was alive, aware of his intrusion. The internal mechanisms moved subtly, realigning in reaction to his touch, as if resisting dissection.

"Fascinating," he breathed, leaning in closer. He traced a gloved finger over a fine network of veins—no, not veins, but something eerily similar, pulsing with residual energy. The material was simultaneously firm yet pliable, shifting under his fingertips as if trying to evade further analysis. A lesser mind might have hesitated, but Medic was no ordinary man. He grinned, relishing the challenge. "You vill not hide from me, mein freund."

Taking a pair of delicate tweezers, he carefully peeled back another layer, revealing an intricate lattice of what appeared to be crystallized energy conduits, feeding power throughout the structure like arteries fueling a living organism. The sight sent an exhilarating shiver through him. "Ze balance of arcane and engineering… it is… elegant," he whispered, utterly engrossed. His mind raced with possibilities—how had Dr. Stylish harnessed such a phenomenon? More importantly, how could he bend it to his own vision?

Engineer leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, watching with wary curiosity. "You sure pokin' around in that thing's a good idea, Doc?" he asked, his Southern drawl edged with skepticism.

"Ja, ja, Engineer, you must learn to embrace ze unknown!" Medic cackled, twirling his scalpel before setting it down. He reached for a chunk of broken Australium, placing it near the exposed core of Perfector. For a brief moment, nothing happened. Then, the energy within the Teigu pulsed, and the metallic fragment began shifting—molecules reassembling with impossible precision. Within seconds, a perfect, pristine chunk of the rare metal materialized before their eyes.

Engineer let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned."

Medic's grin stretched impossibly wide. "Mein Gott! Do you see? Zhis changes EVERYTHING!" He lifted the newly created fragment, turning it in his fingers with reverence. "We can replicate anything! Ammunition, weapons, materials we would normally never get our hands on! Perhaps even… biological matter." His voice dropped into a hushed murmur, eyes gleaming with mad ambition.

Engineer, however, remained grounded in reality. "You realize what this means, right?" He gestured to the device. "This ain't just some fancy gizmo—it's dangerous. If we can do this, who's to say the Empire won't figure it out too?"

Medic waved a hand dismissively. "Zhey von't. Ze foolish bureaucrats do not have our intellect, our vision!" He laughed, but there was an unsettling undercurrent to his enthusiasm.

Engineer exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We're sittin' on somethin' dangerous, Doc."

For the first time, Medic's expression faltered—just slightly. He knew Engineer was right. The moment knowledge of Perfector's true capabilities spread, they would become a prime target for every power-hungry faction in the Empire. He drummed his fingers against the workbench, a rare moment of contemplation passing over him.

Then, a smirk. "Zen we keep it secret… for now. But first, ve call a meeting. Ze others must know vhat ve have uncovered."

Engineer met his gaze, his usual easy-going demeanor giving way to something more serious. "We better be damn sure we know what we're doin' with it."

Medic simply chuckled, turning back to Perfector with renewed excitement. "Oh, mein freund… I already have plans."

His mind whirred with endless possibilities. He envisioned modifications beyond imagination, reshaping the battlefield in ways even he had never dared to dream. What if they could create more Teigu-like weapons? What if they could reverse-engineer enhancements that would render them invincible? The sheer scope of what Perfector offered made his pulse race.

Engineer sighed, watching Medic's growing obsession with a wary eye. "Just don't go makin' somethin' we can't control, Doc."

Medic gave a dramatic wave of his hand. "Pssh! Control is a matter of perception! Progress, mein friend, does not wait for ze cautious." He tapped Perfector with a gloved finger, the device humming ominously in response. "Und neither do I."

The dimly lit meeting room in Aria's repurposed mansion buzzed with anticipation. Medic stood at the center, his ever-present manic grin widening as he held up Perfector, the late Dr. Stylish's Teigu. The mercenaries, Sheele, and Bulat were gathered around him, each displaying a different reaction to the gravity of the moment.

"Gentlemen... und lady," Medic began, his voice carrying an unnatural enthusiasm, "I haff made a most wunderbar discovery!"

He placed the device on the table, and with a flick of his wrist, a sharp needle extended from it, forming a precise point of metallic light.

"Perfector does not simply enhance ze body—it can perfectly replicate materials. Steel, titanium, even ze strange alloys zat make up our weapons!" He gestured toward the array of weapons they had brought with them from their world. "Und if ve use it correctly… ve can build more."

There was a moment of silence as the weight of his words settled in.

"So you're saying," Spy drawled, adjusting his gloves, "zat we can recreate everyzing ve lost? Ze Scattergun, ze Sniper Rifle, ze Minigun?"

Sniper leaned forward, his gaze sharp and calculating. "We're sittin' on somethin' big 'ere, mate. If we can remake our weapons, what's stoppin' us from arm'n' our whole army with 'em? Imagine a battalion of trained soldiers, all equipped with our tools. That'd turn the tides in a bloody instant."

Sheele frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "That… that sounds like we'd just be making more killers."

Bulat crossed his arms, nodding. "I agree with Sheele. Having the ability to replicate your weapons is one thing, but mass-producing them? That could turn this war into something even worse."

"Bah!" Soldier barked, slamming his hands on the table. "The only way to win a war is with superior firepower! If our enemies have swords, we bring guns! If they have guns, we bring rockets! If they have rockets—WE BRING BIGGER ROCKETS!"

"An' if they have bigger rockets?" Demoman added with a smirk.

"WE STRAP 'EM TO OURSELVES AND CHARGE STRAIGHT INTO THE ENEMY!" Soldier bellowed, his fists shaking with excitement.

"Mein Gott, I love zis team," Medic chuckled, shaking his head. "But Sniper has a point. If ve arm our forces properly, ze Empire vill not stand a chance."

Engineer, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up. "Now, I ain't against makin' more tools, but we gotta think long-term. If this thing falls into the wrong hands, it ain't just the Empire we gotta worry about. What's stoppin' someone from buildin' weapons even worse than ours?"

Spy nodded. "Ze Engineer makes a good point. If we arm our allies, we must be careful not to let our enemies steal our advancements."

"Then we control it," Sniper said firmly. "Only those we trust get access. We keep the production in our hands, no one else's."

Sheele looked down at her hands, conflicted. "Even if that's the case… will this make us any better than the Empire? If we create these weapons, we'd be the ones deciding who lives and who dies."

Bulat placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's a fine line, but maybe this can help us end the war faster. With the right hands on these weapons, we can minimize casualties."

Spy folded his arms. "Ze war is not simply black und white, cherie. Power does not corrupt—ze wielder does. Ze Empire already slaughters freely. If we tip ze scales, perhaps ve can end it before more innocent lives are lost."

Engineer scratched his chin, deep in thought. "Well, if we do this, we need to make sure production is controlled, and nobody outside our circle knows the full extent of what we're makin'. Maybe even put in fail-safes, just in case someone tries to turn these weapons against us."

"That's a good idea," Sniper agreed. "We use what we need, and we don't overproduce. We keep it outta the wrong hands, and we make sure the ones using 'em know what they're fightin' for."

Sheele exhaled, still uncertain but less resistant. "If this means ending the war sooner… then maybe it's worth considering."

There was another long pause before Medic finally spoke, his grin unwavering. "Zis is ze future, meine Freunde. Ve are no longer mercenaries lost in a foreign land. Ve are a force of nature."

The room remained silent, but the decision was already taking shape in their minds. A new path had been forged—one that could change the very course of history.