The five pushed through the thinning crowd until the noise of the plaza dulled behind them. Their limps and sluggish steps told the truth of their bodies—bandaged, bruised, carrying too much pain for one night.
At the far edge of the row stood their destination: a pod. It wasn't much to look at from the outside—forty by forty feet, jet-black plating with edges that caught the lantern light in dull reflections. A few rectangular windows ran along the sides and front, tinted so dark Mikey couldn't make out anything inside. The numbers 1114 were stenciled in stark white across the left wall, a mark of ownership and anonymity all at once.
Luce moved to the door, crouching low as she reached beneath a worn welcome mat. Her cropped jacket shifted with the motion, revealing the tension in her back. Her rear end facing them.
Behind her, Bobo's eyes flicked down. Mischief—or maybe just habit—took hold. His big hand came down with a quick slap.
Luce jolted upright, the keycard halfway out of her grip. Her head snapped over her shoulder, her voice like a blade.
"Bobo..."
He froze, scratching the back of his buzz-cut scalp like a scolded kid.
"Oh… uh, sorry."
Her glare lingered just long enough to promise consequences before she swiped the card. The door unlocked with a soft click and slid aside, spilling warm light across the metal walkway.
Amelia brushed past him without pause, her voice cool and sharp.
"You're ridiculous."
Bobo's jaw dropped.
"Lia, I swear to—"
But she was gone inside, ignoring him.
Ryosuke limped past next, his steps uneven but his smirk steady.
"You are quite the womanizer, Bobby. It never gets old."
A quiet chuckle followed him through the doorway.
Bobo's shoulders sagged.
"Even you, Ryo?"
Mikey, biting back a laugh, clapped a hand against Bobo's arm. The motion nearly doubled him over—his cracked ribs protesting—but he managed to whisper, voice trembling with held-back laughter:
"You're in the doghouse, Bobo."
His cheeks puffed as he tried to choke it down.
Bobo narrowed his eyes.
"What the hell would you know about it?"
Mikey's voice quivered, half from the pain of holding it in, half from amusement.
"Because… when we were in Luce's safe house in the slums, I heard… uh—thudding. Upstairs. Then in the morning I saw you guys. In bed."
He patted Bobo's massive shoulder.
"It's okay, buddy…"
For a second Bobo's stern face cracked into a grin.
"Oh! So you saw Mockingjay?"
Mikey blinked.
"…Mockingjay?"
"Yeah, that's the name for my—"
Mikey threw up both hands, cutting him off.
"Nope. Nope. Not hearing the rest of that sentence."
He shuffled into the pod before his ribs split from laughter.
Bobo stood alone in the hall, lips pursed like a sulking child.
"…Everybody hates me," he muttered, dragging himself inside after the others.
The pod swallowed them in muted warmth, a small refuge carved from black steel and dim yellow light. Mikey's eyes swept over the space as he stepped inside—functional, lived-in, but not without touches of comfort.
A narrow bed claimed the far corner, sheets rumpled and half-thrown aside. A couch sagged against the opposite wall, a beaten rug sprawled beneath it like a survivor of many boots.
A squat dining table sat near a kitchenette, its metal surface scratched and scarred from years of meals and arguments.
Against the back wall, a wide desk was cluttered with mechanical parts, half-built tools, and wires tangled like veins—a workbench that smelled faintly of oil and singed metal.
Luce collapsed onto the bed without ceremony, her body folding into the mattress as though the weight of her spine demanded it. Her boots dangled halfway off, her face pressed into the pillow. She didn't care if anyone else noticed.
She's getting comfortable...
Must be her pod…
Ryosuke sank carefully into a chair at the dining table, his broken cybernetic arm dangling awkwardly at his side, the metal sparking faintly at the elbow joint. Amelia drifted to the couch, curling on her side. When Bobo trudged in, his one massive arm nudged her over.
The frame groaned as he dropped down beside her, the whole thing tilting under his weight. His bruised face looked even harsher in the low light.
Mikey lingered near the center, his hand pressed protectively against his ribs, each breath catching.
The silence pressed in on them.
No banter.
No bravado.
Just the raw sound of exhaustion: shallow breaths, the hiss of lungs, the occasional wince as one of them shifted and pain shined through the surface. The adrenaline had bled away, leaving nothing but the truth of broken bodies.
Back on the sub Bobo and Luce took off their stolen Council armor, but not Mikey.
Slowly, He stripped the heavy soldier armor from his frame.
First the coat, then the pants, movements stiff and deliberate. Beneath, his regular clothes clung to him—the same dusty, blood-stained hoodie and blackened pants he'd worn the night his father died.
He hadn't changed since.
The fabric stank of ash and iron, carrying the night like a curse he couldn't shake.
A punishment he refused to let himself forget.
The others had claimed their spots, so Mikey lowered himself onto the rug, easing down carefully until he lay flat, staring up at the dark ceiling.
Every shift sent pain through his ribs, but lying there, he almost welcomed it. The ache was honest.
His fingers drifted under his shirt, fumbling for the chain looped around his neck.
He pulled the necklace free, the small weight of it pooling in his hand: his mother's bracelet and ring strung together, dangling at the end. He pressed the cold metal to his palm, gripping it tight.
He smiled. Not from joy, but from memory—one piece of his family still tethered to him in a world that had stolen everything else.