—Chapter Seven —
Da Capo
(dah kah-poh): from the beginning.
Kei stepped out of the kitchen, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, only to be greeted by the all-too-familiar sight of Fujikuro sprawled out on the couch. Exactly where he had been all day. The holo-screen flickered with the dull glow of some old action drama, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the air circulation unit. Her sharp blue eyes immediately landed on the mess in front of him—a pile of dirty dishes cluttering the table, empty cans stacked precariously on top of one another like some kind of monument to his laziness.
Her hands went straight to her hips, her stance brimming with exasperation.
"Are you ever gonna learn how to clean up after yourself or what?!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. "I mean, come on! You think as old as you are, you'd know how to keep things at least somewhat clean!"
Fujikuro, completely unfazed, simply flashed that smug, lopsided grin of his. Without a hint of shame, he picked up the remote and lazily flipped through the channels.
"Why would I need to clean up after myself when I've got someone like you around to do it for me?" his voice was as casual as ever, like he had just stated a universal truth.
Kei's eye twitched. She clenched her teeth, biting back the immediate urge to hurl a plate at his head. Instead, she muttered under her breath, cursing his very existence, as she stomped over and began gathering the plates with sharp, agitated movements.
"One of these days," she grumbled, stacking the dishes with more force than necessary, "you're gonna pay for all of this."
"Yeah, yeah," Fujikuro chuckled, waving a hand dismissively as he let out a lazy yawn.
Kei, balancing the plates in her small hands, muttered under her breath as she maneuvered around the mess in front of the couch.
"Mechanic…" she mused, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She stepped deliberately between Fujikuro and the holo-screen, blocking his view with her tall, spiky red hair.
"Laundromat…" she continued, her tone growing more pointed.
Fujikuro craned his neck, trying to see around her. "You're still a kid," he countered, tilting his head to one side in a futile attempt to reclaim his line of sight. "You wanna be in this line of work, you gotta pay some dues, you know?"
Kei whirled on him with an overtly dramatic flourish, her face flushed with irritation.
"Maid!" she snapped, stepping over his outstretched legs with purpose. Before he could react, she kicked her foot backward, her heel landing squarely against his shin.
"OW—!" Fujikuro yelped, jerking upright as he clutched his leg. "Ya' little brat!" He scowled at her, rubbing the sore spot with an exaggerated wince.
Kei, satisfied, smirked as she strode toward the kitchen, leveling the dishes in her arms and leaving him to grumble on the couch.
Fujikuro grumbled under his breath, stretching back out on the sofa once the immediate sting faded. He propped an arm behind his head and sighed, staring at the ceiling with a furrowed brow. "Hmph... what the hell's got you so ticked off anyway?" His voice was more curious than annoyed now, as if he were only just realizing she was more wound up than usual.
"Well, I—for one—am worried about Iria," Kei huffed as she strode back into the living room, her arms now free of the dishes. Her blue eyes locked onto Fujikuro, who was still sprawled lazily on the couch. "You're the one who let her go to that bar in the first place!"
"A job is a job, kid," Fujikuro scoffed, his fingers continuing to rub at the sore spot on his shin. "You don't think I'm worried about her too?!" he shot back, sitting up slightly. "If there wasn't so much damn money on the line, I wouldn't have let her go at all!"
Kei's arms folded tightly across her chest as she narrowed her eyes at him. "Well, you sure don't act like it," she said flatly, tilting her head slightly in defiance. "Besides, money is the only thing you ever care about."
Fujikuro bristled, his jaw tightening as he kicked his legs forward to lean more upright, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm offended," he muttered, his voice losing some of its usual luster.
Kei didn't let up. "Oh, really?" she pressed. "You're always making bets, taking jobs just for the payout—hell, you just admitted that the only reason you so magnanimously allowed her to go. As if you had any say-so to begin with..."
Fujikuro exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his messy black hair. "Look, kid," he murmured in a quiet tone, "it ain't like that." His dark eyes sparked with something more serious for a brief moment before he waved her off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Iria can handle herself. She's not some dainty flower."
Kei wasn't convinced. "Maybe," she conceded, shifting her weight to one side. "But she isn't invincible either. You saw how she was before she left." Kei lingered by the doorway for a moment before turning back toward Fujikuro, her arms still crossed. She started again, her tone softer but laced with contemplation, "...she was acting weird."
Fujikuro didn't reply immediately, his gaze shifting toward the ceiling as he let out a slow exhale. "Weird how?" he asked, leaning back against the couch, though there was an edge of attentiveness to his usually lazy demeanor.
Kei shifted uncomfortably. "She barely said anything when she got home. Just threw her stuff down, sulked around, and then bolted off again." Her fingers tightened around her arm, brows knitting together. "I mean, I know she gets like that sometimes, but… this felt different."
Fujikuro rubbed his chin as he mulled over the thought. "Yeah… and I didn't even get yelled at once," he muttered, his voice tinged with something between amusement and concern. His expression darkened slightly. "That Gren thing really got to her."
"Exactly," Kei nodded, her face pensive.
"Usually, she'd be loud about something like that," he went on, absently tracing a finger over the armrest. "Pissed off, stomping around—making sure everyone knew just how much she got screwed over. But this?" He exhaled through his nose. "I haven't seen her look that… defeated in a while. At least a year..."
Kei bit her lower lip, his words settling in a way she hadn't expected. "Over a year…" she muttered, almost to herself. A moment passed before she hesitantly scratched at the back of her head as she shot a quick glance to the photo Iria had overturned earlier in the day, her voice quieter when she spoke again. "Do you think… he's finally catching up to her?"
Fujikuro's gaze snapped to the girl, his casual slouch straightening ever so slightly. The way she phrased it—like something unavoidable, something that had been creeping up on Iria all this time—twisted in his mind in a way he hadn't been ready to acknowledge. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say a word, the dimly lit room was abruptly bathed in golden hue.
The main screen above Bob's console flickered to life, the AI's golden adornments spinning into existence, its glow casting long shadows across the space.
"Actually," Bob interjected, his voice cutting through their conversation with an air of importance.
Both Kei and Fujikuro visibly jolted as Bob's projection flared to life on the main screen, the sudden burst of light and sound shattering the quiet tension between them. Kei's hands clenched instinctively at her sides while Fujikuro let out a startled grunt, his boots scuffing against the floor as he nearly jumped. "Damn it, Bob!" he cursed, rubbing his forehead. "Can't you like, ding or something?"
"I don't ding," Bob's usual composure was intact, but there was something different about him now—an urgency woven into his formless presence, subtle but unmistakable. "But, I think we can finally shed some light on what you've been discussing."
Before Bob could continue, the low mechanical hum of the lift filled the room, followed by the soft creak of the swinging doors opening. Iria stepped inside, her movements sluggish, her posture heavy with exhaustion. Her cloak was bunched under her left arm, loosely gripped but barely attended to, its fabric still carrying traces of dust from the Outland's filth-ridden lot. Stray strands of her reddish-brown hair clung to her forehead, slightly damp from sweat and tangled from the evening's events.
Her usual sharp demeanor had dulled into something weary, her eyes half-lidded as they swept the room without focus. She was drained—like whatever fight had been burning in her hours ago had been spent, leaving her running on fumes. She didn't even bother with a greeting, merely trudging forward, her boots scuffing lightly against the floor.
"You're back," Kei called out, her voice cutting through the quiet with unmistakable relief. She took a step forward as if debating whether to meet her halfway but held back, reading the fatigue that clung to Iria's every move.
Fujikuro, however, was far less sentimental as he scanned her disheveled posture once over. "Here we go again," he grunted, waving a hand in a lazy gesture before tilting his head toward her expectantly. "At least tell me you got the paid this time?"
Iria barely reacted, her mind running sluggishly through a catalog of idle thoughts until his words finally registered. The payment. A spark of realization flickered in her dreary gaze, followed immediately by an internal curse. The briefcase.
"Shit—" Her muscles tensed slightly, and without another word, she lazily began to turn back toward the lift. "I left it in the Kreper."
Kei frowned with visible concern and stepped forward, intercepting her before she could leave. "I'll get it," she offered, her tone firm. "You look like hell, so sit down before you keel over."
Iria hesitated, instinctively wanting to argue, but the exhaustion was pressing down on her like a boulder. With a defeated sigh, she rubbed her temple with her gloved hand and relented. "Fine… it's in the lockbox," she grumbled. "Code's the usual."
Kei flashed a thumbs-up before disappearing through the doorway, leaving Iria standing in the middle of the room, her tension still clinging to her shoulders.
Fujikuro exhaled though his teeth, shaking his head as he jabbed a thumb toward the couch over his shoulder. "Sit down before you fall down," he grumbled, watching her sway slightly on her feet.
Iria didn't argue. She barely had the energy to. With a careless flick of her wrist, she tossed her cloak off to the side, letting it crumple into a heap near her bedroom door before making her way to the sofa. She plopped down without grace, sinking into the reeds with an audible breath of relief. Fujikuro scooted over, making space for her, though he didn't bother hiding the way he sized her up. His eyes traced over the tension still etched into her expression, the lingering fatigue dragging at her movements.
"How'd it go?" he started. "You actually meet up with the doctor? Or did you just end up in another one of your brawls?"
Iria leaned her head back against the couch, her gaze drifting to the ceiling as she gathered her thoughts. "Yeah," she began slowly, her voice tinged with weariness. "I met him." Her fingers absently rubbed the back of her neck, the memories of Outland still vivid in her mind like a twisted melody she couldn't shake—the sneering 'boss,' the leering thugs, and her silent compatriot's presence grinding away at her already thin patience.
A wry smile ghosted across her lips as she let out a quiet sigh. "Don't think I'll be welcome back there anytime soon..." she admitted, the faintest hint of dark humor seeping into her words.
"That's probably for the best," Bob added, his golden form spinning idly in place.
Iria let out another slow breath, as if sorting through the mess of thoughts tangled in her mind, trying to decide what was worth saying first. Eventually, her gaze settled on Fujikuro, her exhaustion laced with something more pointed.
"That guy from Sabuku? The one who jumped my bounty?" She paused, watching his reaction carefully. "His name's Kazon."
Fujikuro, who had been lazily leaning back into the couch, suddenly stiffened. His casual slouch shifted ever so slightly, his arms unfolding as his eyes trailed from Iria to the flickering golden light of Bob's projection. His face twitched, an old memory stirring behind his dark eyes.
"Get the fuck outta here…" he muttered under his breath, rubbing his chin as if the motion could somehow make sense of what he had just heard. But as Iria watched the lines of his grisliness subside, she noted a quiet contemplation. It was less a revelation to him and more a confirmation—something he had already suspected, now simply spoken aloud.
Iria's grin remained, worn and tired, but still there. "Grandpa knows him," she continued, keeping a keen eye on Fujikuro's reaction. "And they were in on the whole account thing together. That guy's been doing a lot of the legwork for the Doc, gathering intel for the job he handed me."
As the words left her mouth, a sudden heat rose up her throat, like a molten blade twisting in her gut. The details of the job—the ones she'd been pushing down, buried beneath the whirlwind of everything else.
"And it's…" she struggled to continue. "...heavy."
Fujikuro arched a brow, his curiosity piqued. "How 'heavy'...?"
Iria exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling as she replayed Touka's words as they settled uneasily in her mind. The low hum of the lift broke through her thoughts, and she turned her head just in time to see Kei stepping out, the briefcase clutched tightly in her grasp. Using her elbows to push through the swinging doors, she maneuvered her way inside.
Iria's stomach twisted as she caught sight of Kei's small fingers rifling through the contents—flipping through files and dossiers with blatant, nosy curiosity. Her movements were casual at first, skimming over the papers with mild interest. But then, something shifted.
Kei's fingers froze mid-turn. Her face paled as realization set in, the weight of the words and images on the pages sinking in all at once. Her blue eyes snapped up to Iria, wide with disbelief and a flicker of something close to fear.
"Iria…?" she whispered, barely more than breath.
Iria held Kei's gaze for a moment longer before tilting her head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Her voice was flat, deliberate.
"Yeah…" she exhaled. "Zeiram heavy."
The admission dropped like a stone into the room, and silence followed, thick and suffocating. The faint hum of Bob's systems was the only sound filling the space.
Fujikuro, who had been lounging lazily just moments ago, suddenly stiffened. His casual slouch disappeared in an instant, his posture snapping into something more alert. Kei, meanwhile, clutched the briefcase against her chest, her knuckles turning white as if bracing herself for whatever came next.
"Wait—hold on," Fujikuro blurted out, his voice tripping over itself as his brain scrambled to keep up. "Zeiram?!"
"Maybe, but Touka couldn't say for sure," Iria's head swayed a bit. "At the very least, its the root of the Zeiramoid Tedan Tippedai is knee-deep in it."
"Zeiram?" Fujikuro question again emphatically. "And Kaz' is working on it?"
Iria's lips curled into a small, knowing grin at the way Fujikuro said that name—Kaz'. It rolled off his tongue with such an air of familiarity, she could practically smell how much he had been hiding from her earlier. She leaned back into the couch, stretching her arms lazily along the backrest before letting them fall to her lap.
"Looks like Bob and Fujikuro have got answers they've been sitting on," she remarked, her tone edged with both exhaustion and curiosity.
Her gaze shifted to Bob's projection, the golden glow of his spinning tendrils flickering across his screen. As she felt the tension thicken, as Iria's reddish-brown eyes narrowed, her resolve unwavering.
Bobs voice let out a long digital sigh. A medium sized tray slid open from a thin hatch on his console. "Kei? Could you feed me those files, please? I'll need to get them scanned in to assess them before coming up with a plan for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?!" Fujikuro disbelief mounted.
"Tomorrow," Bob reiterated. "But tonight? We owe Iria an explanation."
"Yeah, so let's hear 'em." she said, steadying her breath. "What exactly does Kaz' have to do with Zeiram?"
Fujikuro leaned back in his seat, arms folded as he watched Kei move toward the console, carefully feeding the papers and maps into Bob's scanners. His expression was unreadable, but his sharp gaze flicked between the documents and the growing display on the main screen.
"This is the guy from earlier today, right?" Kei asked, glancing over her shoulder as she caught up on what she had missed.
"Yes," Bob confirmed with a slow, loose twirl, his golden projection pulsing faintly. "I wasn't able to dig up much, but with what we know now, we should be able to piece things together."
As he spoke, several files materialized across the screen in clean, seamless motions. Administration records, old Tedan Tippedai contract logs—scraps of history that had long been buried. A grainy photograph slid into view, depicting an older man with spiky hair, a tight bandanna securing it back. The image lingered for a moment before shifting to a profile picture of a young man with dark brown hair—Kazon Locke.
Iria's gaze fixed on the screen, her interest intensifying. The face staring back at her was younger, the edges not yet as hard as they had been that night, but there was no mistaking the cold, unyielding stare—just as detached and unrelenting as it had been at Outland. Alongside the image, a stream of data flickered across the display—fingerprint records, disciplinary reports, scattered notes. Fragmented pieces of a life that had been deliberately erased and rewritten, leaving behind only the traces of what someone had tried to bury.
"Damn, Bob… 'not much,' huh?" Fujikuro muttered, his brow furrowing as he leaned forward, the flickering glow from the screen casting sharp lines across his face. "Do the words 'work light' mean anything to you?"
"I don't like to cut corners," Bob replied dryly, his golden orb spinning with mechanical precision as he rearranged the tabs and windows on the screen. A few files expanded for clarity, including a clear shot of a teenaged Kazon.
Iria straightened instinctively, her exhaustion momentarily shoved aside as something in her stirred. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her sharp reddish-brown eyes locking onto the image.
"His full name is Kazon Locke, Hunters' Registration #9965-3," Bob continued, the data scrolling fluidly alongside his words. "His records in Myce were mostly scrubbed about four years ago. However, Administration logs from Taowajan pick up shortly after, though details remain just as sparse."
Iria's eyes darted across the forms, scanning the scattered fragments of information as quickly as Bob produced them.
"Not much on where he came from then, huh?" she murmured, her voice low. "Is he from Myce?"
"Yes, and there are records of him living at a group home here," Bob's projection flickered momentarily before another image appeared on the screen. This time, it was a younger Kazon—much younger. His dark brown hair was cropped shorter, his face smudged with dirt, but his piercing green eyes burned with defiance, staring back into the lens as if daring whoever took the picture to challenge him.
"Details from those records suggest his mother passed away when he was very young," Bob continued, his digital interface shifting through orphanage files. "As for his father…" Bob paused, the faint hum of his processing filling the room. "I couldn't find anything of use. No information at all. Kazon's file from the home is full of gaps aside from the bevy of disciplinary records from his time at the home. Frequent fights. Suspensions. He was… difficult."
Fujikuro scoffed, leaning back against the couch. "Yeah, sounds about right," he muttered. "Kid like that? If he had any talent, someone at Ghomvack or Administration would've taken notice sooner or later after he got a little older." His tone carried a mix of recollection and irritation, as if recalling a troublesome stray that no one wanted to deal with.
Iria turned her full attention to Fujikuro, her brow knitting together as he spoke. There was something in his tone—something that suggested more than just passing knowledge. A familiarity that ran deeper than he was letting on.
Fujikuro exhaled sharply, shrugging as he sank further into the couch, his expression clouded with old memories. "He's got a couple of years on you, Iria… but not by much. Back then, he was just some piss-ant, smart-mouthed kid apprenticed under some relic of a Hunter who gave him way too much leash." His lips curled into a wry smirk. "Seriously, the guy barely kept him in check. Always mouthing off, always running his own way. But Kaz'…? He had guts." He paused, his expression shifting slightly. "...stupid, reckless guts."
Kei, who had remained mostly quiet, took a step closer to the screen, her blue eyes lingering on the grainy photo of the young Kazon. The dirt-smudged face and piercing green eyes held a weight that didn't belong on someone so young.
"He looks sad…" her voice barely above a whisper.
Iria let her gaze drift back to the screen, studying the boyish face staring back at her. He looked angry, but there was something else beneath it—something guarded, something buried. "Records and files are just ink and numbers," she said, her voice thoughtful. "But you guys? You knew him. The real him. What isn't written down is still in your memories." She tilted her head slightly, her curiosity deepening. "So if anyone can tell me why he is the way he is… it's you. Right?" Her voice was steady, but probing, pushing for something more.
"I knew of him," Fujikuro replied with a snort, his eyes narrowing as if recalling a particularly vivid memory. "Some people are so much trouble, even I stay away from them. The jobs they took? Never worth the effort to jump—"
Iria and Kei both snapped their heads toward him, their sharp glares cutting him off mid-sentence. Fujikuro froze for a split second, realizing his slip, before sheepishly waving them off with one hand.
"Never mind that," he muttered, clearing his throat as a faint blush crept across his grizzled face. "Bottom line? Didn't care for him much. Either of them, honestly. The kid was always off-putting, and that geezer was just as bad—just… from a different direction."
"But?" Iria pressed, her eyes narrowing as she leaned slightly toward him.
Fujikuro hesitated, his gaze flickering toward Bob's glowing projection as if searching for some kind of confirmation. Finally, he let out a resigned sigh and relented. "But… there was something about that kid that made you take notice." he admitted, his tone begrudging. "Whether they wanted to or not. Kazon chased trouble like it was a game. But Ouspi?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "That guy was just an old drunk. Caused more problems than he solved them."
"Ouspi…?" Iria repeated the name, her brow furrowing as she turned her full attention back to Fujikuro.
"Kazon's mentor," Bob interjected smoothly, taking control of the conversation. The screen shifted, cycling back to the earlier photo of the older man with the bandanna. His leathery features were framed by messy, spiked hair, and a toothy grin stretched across his face—rugged, confident, almost too carefree for someone in his profession. The image slid into place beside the younger Kazon's photo, the stark contrast between the two striking.
"He was assigned to Kazon through Administration," Bob continued. "Official Hunter records list him as missing in action as of four years ago."
"You keep bringing up four years ago," Iria said, exhaling softly as her brow furrowed deeper. "Is that what's got you two all jittery about Kazon? Did something happen?"
Her question hung in the air, laced with both curiosity and frustration, as she studied their reactions closely. Bob's projection spun slightly slower, as if hesitating, and Fujikuro shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Even Kei, still unusually quiet, glanced between them, her expression uneasy. Something was there—something they weren't saying outright.
The silence stretched, thick and telling.
Finally, Bob spoke, his voice carrying a rare, measured weight. "Iria…" He exhaled softly, the pause deliberate, almost as though he was preparing her for what came next. "You were there."
Iria blinked, her breath catching in her throat. "What?" she barely managed to get out.
"We all were," Fujikuro added, his tone tied with something unfamiliar—something almost reluctant. Iria's confusion deepened as her gaze darted between the holo-screen and the aging Hunter.
Kei stood frozen, an unsettled look creeping across her face. Her lips parted as if to say something to voice her own confusion, but no words came. Iria's mind churned, struggling to grasp the weight of their words. And then, like a thread unraveling, something tugged at the edges of her memory. A flicker of something distant. A moment she had long since buried.
"The day you and I met," Bob continued, his voice quieter now, almost solemn. "At the Administration building—your first day as an apprentice Hunter."
Iria's breath hitched. The fog of the past lifted in slow, aching increments. She could see it now—the cavernous halls of a place that had felt impossibly large, towering above her as she stood alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces. A world far removed from the home she had left behind.
"The day Gren…" Iria murmured, her voice nearly a whisper as the memory sharpened. "...brought me here from Batabitajira?"
The moment came back in vivid detail—standing beside her brother, feeling the gravity of everything she had left behind pressing on her shoulders. The echoing voices in the lobby, the sterile scent of the building, the feeling of being so small in a place so massive.
"Yes," Bob confirmed, his voice carrying an unmistakable certainty. "Your first day in Myce."
"We got into the city that morning," Iria began, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with recollection. "Gren and I… we dropped off some of my things here first, back when this place was still small." A faint smile crossed her lips, but the weight of the memory pressed gravely against it. "Then he took me to the Administration building to get registered."
Her gaze drifted upward, unfocused, as if staring through time itself. "I remember how amazed I was by the city—how massive and alive everything felt. Nothing like Batabitajira. It was… overwhelming, but exciting." She let out a soft chuckle, though the sound was tinged with bittersweet recollection. "Gren kept teasing me the whole way—kept treating me like I was some bumpkin, laughing at the way I kept gawking at everything because I'd never seen a real skyline before."
The warmth of the memory stoked the nostalgia within her heart, but then, just as quickly, the light in her eyes dimmed. Her expression tightened, her body stiffening as the past took a darker turn. "We had just gotten to Administration when it happened." Her hands clenched into fists in her lap, the tremor in her voice betraying the tension she tried to suppress. "Gren told me to stay put in the lobby while he went to check it out. I remember the alarms going off… the whole building going on lockdown…" Her voice faltered, the moment creeping back into her memories.
Bob's voice cut through the silence, gentle yet firm. "Gren never told you what happened that day, did he?" His projection dimmed slightly, the files on the screen fading from focus until only his presence remained. His crimson eye studied her with an unreadable weight.
Iria shook her head, the motion slow and almost mechanical. Her thoughts spiraled, grasping at fragments she hadn't even realized were buried so deep. The sound of blaring alarms, the anxious murmurs of clerks and officers around her, the way her heart had pounded in her chest, waiting—waiting for Gren to come back.
Bob's digital form twirled faintly, almost hesitant. "Iria," he said carefully, his tone softer than she had ever heard it, "this isn't going to be easy to hear, especially after everything you went through last year. But you need to hear it." His crimson eye locked onto hers, unwavering. "Back on the Karma, Gren and I spoke about Zeiram over the comms. The rumors…"
"The Myce Ruby…" Iria suddenly interjected, her breath hitching as puzzle pieces started clicking together. Her voice was fragile, wavering, as though speaking the words aloud might break something inside her. "The man who owned it… he was attacked by Zeiram. Or… a Zeiramoid. Or something like it… years ago." She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening as the memory began unwind itself before her. "I… I saw it on the—"
She stopped herself. The dots were connecting too fast, too violently.
Her eyes flickered back to Bob, her throat dry. "...It wasn't the only rumor, was it?"
"We all heard about that thing, kid," Fujikuro interjected, his voice cutting through her uncertainty like a blade. She turned to him, her full attention locked onto his solemn features, his usual casual demeanor replaced with something more grim. "That day you got back to Myce and we were on the run? Yeah, it all came back in one go..."
"A few days before you arrived in Myce," Bob picked up the thread, his voice measured, "a Hunter and his apprentice were sent on a Tedan Tippedai contract. A simple survey mission. Uninhabited planet. Routine." His golden appendages slowed, as if even the mechanical rhythm of his image was weighed down by the gravity of the story. "But those alarms you heard that day? They weren't just another routine lockdown. They were for the apprentice."
Iria's breath caught in her throat, her chest tightening.
"He came back alone," Bob continued, his tone steady but edged with something more. "Injured, filthy… carrying one of his mentor's blades. He was barely standing when he arrived at the Transembler dock—delirious, blind with rage. And when he saw the Corporation staff waiting for him?" Bob hesitated, his red eye flickering. "He attacked."
Fujikuro leaned forward, arms crossed over his chest, his grizzled face unreadable. "Go on. Take a wild guess who the apprentice was."
Iria didn't need to guess. The answer was already forming in the pit of her stomach, cold and sinking.
Kei, still gripping the briefcase tightly, glanced between them, her eyes wide with anticipation. "So… what happened? Did this Kaz' guy off the old man or what?"
Fujikuro let out a sharp breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "That's what Tedan Tippedai wanted people to believe," he said, his tone tinged with dry amusement. "Those two were known for butting heads. No one would've blinked if things went south between 'em. So, when the old man didn't come back? Easy story. Kid loses his temper, leaves him for dead on some backwater rock."
He scoffed, but the mirth didn't reach his eyes. His expression darkened, his voice lowering into something almost stern. "But if you were listening to the rumors back then? They were attacked. By something that didn't move right. Something that couldn't die like it should've."
His gaze found Iria's, locking onto her with an intensity that sent a chill through her spine.
"Something nerve-dead. Something unnatural."
Iria exhaled sharply, her heart pounding as the truth settled in her chest like lead.
"…Zeiram," she murmured, the name barely escaping her lips.
And suddenly, the memory of her own words—her taunts, her dismissive remarks—came rushing back with razor-sharp clarity. The way Kazon had reacted when she brought up Zeiram. The way his expression shifted, that flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He hadn't flinched because she struck a nerve. He flinched because he knew.
Because he had lived it.
"Of course it was Zeiram…" she whispered, a deep pang of guilt creeping into her gut.
Bob's voice cut through the heavy silence. "We didn't know then what we know now," he said, as if offering an explanation, a justification. "Back then, Zeiram was just a ghost story. Something whispered among dock hands and cargo crews. An old legend with no proof to back it up." His projection flickered slightly. "But Kazon? He swore he was attacked. He described things in his deposition that, looking back, match eerily well with what we know now."
Bob hesitated for a beat before continuing. "Still… no one believed him."
Iria swallowed hard, her mind reeling. Of course they didn't. Because if they had, everything would have been different.
Kei, who had been listening intently, finally broke her silence, her voice tinged with confusion. "If he was arrested for going berserk at HQ," she asked hesitantly, "how is he not locked up somewhere? How is he even still a Hunter?"
"No evidence," Fujikuro answered with a shrug, leaning back into his seat. "The Corporation's case was all hearsay. No body, no murder weapon—just a mess of a scene and a kid coming back looking half-dead. Ouspi's remains were never recovered, and no one could prove what really went down." He scratched his chin, his eyes narrowing in thought. "I'd heard some higher-up in Tedan Tippedai pulled strings to keep Kaz' from getting buried, but why anyone would stick their neck out for a kid like that? Beats me."
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Either way, people talked. Some figured Kaz' was dead. Others said he got shipped off-world, sent somewhere quiet to disappear. Same with that drunk. No one really knew, and before long, no one really cared until it was forgotten."
Bob's projection hummed softly as he processed the conversation, the faint glow of his form flickering slightly. With a quiet click, another file materialized on the screen—a grainy security image.
Kazon.
Clad in his long black coat, his dark helmet concealing his face, standing in the barren outskirts of some desert town. His twin blades were strapped securely to his back, his posture unreadable, but unmistakable.
Fujikuro let out a dry chuckle, motioning lazily toward the image. "But hey, there he is," he muttered, his gaze lingering on the screen as if searching for something more. "Figures. Old man's coat, old man's sword…" He shook his head, exhaling sharply. "Didn't know if I was looking at the master or the apprentice when I saw him this morning." He leaned back with a smirk, though there was no humor in it. "Guess we know now."
Bob picked up where Fujikuro left off, his tone measured. "Kazon claimed the attack was a setup," he said. "He testified that Tedan Tippedai orchestrated it, though he never had the proof to back it up. According to him, Ouspi was shot—he found shell casings at the scene—but the only firearm between the two was lost in the mire."
Bob's projection dimmed slightly, as though contemplating the weight of it all. "No evidence. No body. No way to confirm or deny anything. And just like that, whatever truth could be had was lost between the cracks."
"Tedan Tippedai fought it, of course," Fujikuro added with a shrug. "But by then, it didn't matter. What was done was done. As far as Administration was concerned? Just another bad day on the job..."
Iria's gaze remained locked on the screen, the image of Kazon standing alone in that barren town searing itself into her thoughts. The weight of it pressed against her, unsettling in a way she couldn't shake. Her earlier frustration with him—the sharp quips, the irritation—felt almost childish now. Insignificant, compared to the cloud of mystery and unease that surrounded him.
A faint heat crept up her neck, unwelcome and persistent. She shifted in her seat, the collar of her bodysuit suddenly stifling. Without thinking, her gloved fingers rose to the zipper beneath her chin, tugging it downward just enough to ease the tightness. But even as the pressure relented slightly, her attention remained fixed on the screen, drawn to the grainy image of Kazon.
"Either way," Fujikuro spoke up, breaking the silence, "looks like the boy wonder made it off-world after all." He gestured lazily, his fingers flicking in the air before dropping back into his lap. "If he's been hanging around Taowajan, he would've needed to get licensed through their Administration. Tedan Tippedai doesn't have much pull out there, so they couldn't bury him even if they wanted to." He tapped absentmindedly against his thigh, his expression blank. "But if I had to guess? He's blacklisted."
Iria's brow furrowed, her curiosity sharpening. "What do you mean by 'blacklisted'?" she asked, leaning in slightly.
"It's true," Bob interjected, his golden form twirling slightly. "Iria and I both saw his magatama pendant in Sabuku."
"It was black," Iria murmured, the memory surfacing. She exchanged a glance with Kei, who began to pace toward the dining table with the breifcase at her side.
"And that means… what, exactly?" Kei asked, her blue eyes narrowing as she looked between Bob and Fujikuro upon balancing the case full of Kem onto the edge of the table.
"That means he's blacklisted," Fujikuro explained, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. "A normal, fully-licensed Hunter's pendant is blue or purple. A black one? That's a different story. It means he's on probation—permanently. No clearance for certain jobs and high-powered packages are completely off the table for him." He shook his head. "They may have not been able to stop him from getting license but someone high up definitely wanted to make sure Kaz' never worked freely again."
"Is that why he uses the swords?" Iria's question hung in the air, more of a thought spoken aloud than something directed at the others.
Bob tilted slightly to the side, his orb shimmering momentarily before snapping back into place with a subtle jolt. "I… think that may a bit deeper than something that trite. Kazon had a penchant for skirting restrictions placed on him. I doubt that much has changed. One of those swords belonged to Ouspi."
A silence stretched between them before Kei scoffed, crossing her arms as sh moved back towards Bob's console. "Doesn't seem like something you'd keep if you killed the guy in secret," she remarked with skepticism.
"No," Bob said, his tone steadier now, almost reverent. "Gren and I made sure it could be returned to him. Whatever anyone else believed, that blade belonged to its rightful heir. And thankfully, it found its way back."
"Gren…" Iria's voice was barely audible, but it was enough to pull every gaze toward her. She stared down, her mind racing through the tangled web of everything she had learned. The events of Outland, Touka's cryptic words, Kazon's reaction—it all swirled together in her thoughts. Her eyes lifted toward Bob, searching his glowing form, unease creeping into her expression.
Her voice grew strained, as if saying it aloud would somehow force clarity. "Gren ran to the Transembler that day…" She swallowed, the memory of alarms blaring in the Administration building flickering through her mind like an old recording. "Bob…?"
"Yes, Iria," Bob answered, his tone unwavering as his top adornment dipped slightly in acknowledgment. "They knew each other. I hired them both for jobs in the past. Their skills complemented one another." His projection blinked a few times, the faint hum of his systems filling the quiet as he seemed to gather his words. "I wouldn't necessarily call them friends—you've seen how Kazon is, after all—but there was a mutual respect of the other's skill. One forged through experience."
Kei's voice was quieter now, her earlier uncertainty replaced by something softer—cautious curiosity. "So what happened?"
Bob's projection beamed slightly. "It was Gren who stopped him that day," he said. "When Kazon came back, he was in bad shape—injured, barely holding it together. But according to Gren, he had to step in before things spiraled completely out of control. He didn't know what he was walking into, but he knew it was the right thing to do."
"When in doubt..." Iria murmured, the familiar words escaping her in a breath, barely audible. They felt different now—heavier, amplified by the truth unraveling before her. From the corner of her eye, she caught Fujikuro's sharp glance, his brow arching slightly in silent acknowledgment.
She let out a slow, shaky sigh, leaning forward as the tension coiled inside her like a wound spring. Resting her elbows on her knees, she cupped her chin in her palms, fingers brushing against her cheeks as if trying to tether herself to the present. She dragged her hands over her face, rubbing at her eyes, her forehead—but it did nothing to still the turmoil brewing within her.
"I'm so sorry, you guys..." The words came out labored, muffled slightly by her hands. Her voice was tight, laced with guilt that she hadn't even fully processed yet. "I'm... I'm a mess."
Fujikuro wiped at his nose with a discomfited sniffle, his usual gruffness giving way to something more earnest though no less awkward. "Don't blame yourself—or Gren, kid." He hesitated before reaching out, a clunky but genuine hand landing on her shoulder. A rare gesture of reassurance. "He had his reasons for not telling you everything. And none of us could've known how things would shake out after that Karma job."
"And you don't have anything to apologize for," Bob added, his golden form tilting slightly, almost as if he were mirroring the sentiment. "If anything, you're the one who shouldn't have been left in the dark. What matters now is that we're on the same page."
Iria slowly lowered her hands, her reddened eyes fixed on the floor as their words settled over her like an oppressive fog. "Bob…?" she asked, her voice unsteady, almost fragile. "Kazon's story? About Zeiram and his trainer…"
"Yes, Iria?" Bob prompted gently, his crimson eye swiveling toward her.
She lifted her gaze, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "It's just a rumor… right?"
Bob's projection dimmed slightly, his golden glow flickering in a way that betrayed his hesitation. "The only person who truly knows for sure… is him."
Iria swallowed, her throat tight, but she pressed on. "What about you? You were there, Bob. Do you believe him?"
The room seemed to still, the air thick with anticipation as Bob paused. For once, his usual calculated manner was absent, replaced by something rare—regret. "Truthfully?" he admitted, his voice steady but weighed down by remorse. "At the time, no. I didn't believe him. I thought his story was nothing more than a desperate excuse. But now…?" Bob paused. "Knowing what we know about Zeiram, after everything that's happened? Things have changed."
Iria sat in silence, her thoughts a tangled storm of regret and revelation. Every sharp word she had thrown at Kazon, every dismissive remark, every assumption she had made about him, crashed down on her all at once. She had been so certain of herself, so convinced she had him figured out—that he was nothing more than a cold, brooding jerk with a bad attitude. But she had been wrong.
Zeiram hadn't just haunted her past—it had stolen from him, too. Just as it had ripped Gren from her world, it had torn his apart. And yet, she had stood there, berating him, throwing salt onto wounds she hadn't even realized were there. He wasn't just some detached, battle-hardened mercenary; he was someone who had suffered, just like her. He had been left to pick up the pieces of someone he lost. And, like her, he had buried it all beneath silence and strength, refusing to let the world see the pain beneath the surface.
You and Kazon share more in common than you think. Touka's words echoed in her mind, needlelike and unavoidable. She hated how right he was. Hated that she had been too blind, too wrapped up in her own pain, to see it sooner.
Kazon wasn't just some rogue Hunter. He was a victim. He had suffered the same loss, carried the same burdens, endured the same kind of hell. And yet, she had treated him like he was an enemy instead of an ally. Regret coiled tightly in her chest, suffocating and unrelenting. How could she have been so cruel to someone who might understand the pain she felt pain better than anyone else ever could?
"Iria," Bob's voice cut through her thoughts, steady yet uncharacteristically gentle, "you need to be very careful around Hunter Locke." I wasn't just a warning—it was an understanding. "You've seen enough to know he's a methodically detached person with honed, very acute skills. That makes him dangerous, and that volatility within him is precisely why Touka withheld information about the facility and Zeiram from him."
Iria's gaze flicked toward Bob's projection, her lips pursed into a thin line. She didn't need the reminder—she had already seen what Kazon was capable of.
"With what you're walking into tomorrow," Bob continued, his voice even but edged with a quiet caution, "you can't afford to push the wrong buttons. If he snaps, there's a good chance he could take you down with him."
Iria inhaled deeply through her lips, steadying herself before she moved. Her legs felt weighted, her exhaustion dragging at her, but she forced herself upright. The motion felt slow, deliberate. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her glove before releasing a shaky exhale. Her hands moved on instinct, reaching for the clasps on her forearm armor. The metal buckles clicked open, and she peeled the armor away, letting it drop onto the low table with a soft clatter. Without it, her arms were left bare, the faint indentations of the straps still marking her bodysuit.
"I've seen him, Bob. I know how dangerous he is," she said finally, her voice even despite the tangle of emotions still simmering within her. She looked up, meeting Bob's unblinking crimson eye on the main screen. "But so am I."
She squared her shoulders, standing straighter, her exhaustion momentarily pushed aside. "He's not the only one who can fight. Whatever happens into tomorrow—whatever is waiting for us in that facility—we're on the same side for now."
Bob's golden projection flickered faintly, the room filled with a quiet hum as he processed her words. "Understood." he replied, His tone carried no further argument, only acceptance. "I'll analyze the schematics and data Touka provided to get us a clearer picture of what we're dealing with." A slight pause followed, almost hesitant. "I'll send the plan to Kazon tonight over the Comm. Kei and Fujikuro will need to be involved as well."
"What?" Fujikuro sat up straighter, his brow raising with a mix of incredulity and vexation. "Me? You want me to waltz into a death trap? No thanks."
Bob twirled idly in place. "You've been avoiding death traps for over a year now," he quipped, his tone dry but pointed. "You're due."
"Yeah, yeah," Fujikuro muttered, waving off Bob's remark before clasping his fist into his other palm and cracked his knuckles within his grip. "Fine, I'll help. But I'm taking my cut of the Kem now." His eyes flicked toward the briefcase, a sly grin creeping onto his face as he pushed himself up from the couch. "You know, for overhead… and motivation."
Kei groaned, already stepping forward to block his path. "You've got to be kidding me. You still owe me some overhead from that stupid Dempadan I fixed today. Again!"
"Duty calls, brat," Fujikuro said with a shrug, his tone entirely too casual as he smoothly sidestepped her. "If I'm putting my neck on the line, I deserve a little advance—"
"Oh, hell no," Iria cut in sharply, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten as she pushed herself up, stepping into his path alongside Kei. Her arms firmly crossed over her chest. "I'm way too tired for your bullshit tonight, Fujikuro. Touch that briefcase, and you'll be eating dirt before we even get to the facility."
Kei stifled a snicker behind her hand, while Fujikuro leaned back, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, geez. No need to get so testy, kid."
"We can test tomorrow," Iria grumbled, rolling her eyes as she turned back toward the couch. "Right now? I need sleep."
With a heavy sigh, she dropped onto the cushions, tugging off her gloves and casually flinging them across the room. Fujikuro barely had time to duck as they sailed over his head, landing with a soft thud atop the pile of spent armor stacked near the large window on the far side of the room. Kei and Fujikuro exchanged a look, both dodging the projectiles in sync, their expressions caught somewhere between mild irritation and reluctant amusement.
"Smart move," Bob commented dryly with a soft chuckle. "No overhead required for that."
"Oh, ha-ha," Fujikuro muttered, flopping back into his seat with a huff. "You're all a riot."
Iria let her head fall back against the couch, her eyes sliding shut as her tension finally began to settle. The familiar hum of Bob's systems filled the quiet. It wasn't peace, not with everything looming over them—but for tonight, at least, it was enough.