Mikey tore through the narrow streets, blind to the glow of lamps and the chatter of those still lingering near the bonfire. His lungs burned, every step heavy, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. His chest was collapsing in on itself, his thoughts louder than the world around him.
He slammed into Luce's pod door, finding it unlocked, and burst inside. The pod smelled faintly of solder and oil—Luce's tools scattered across a workbench, wires half-stripped, scraps of metal piled high.
"Where is it?!"
Mikey rasped, tearing through the clutter with frantic hands.
His eyes, wet and wide, darted over shelves until he found it. A battered notebook, edges frayed from use. His journal.
He snatched it up, grabbed a pen, and collapsed at the small desk. His hand shook so violently that the pen scraped across the paper in jagged lines. He forced words down, pressing hard enough to nearly tear the page.
Grief.
Blame.
Regret.
Guilt.
All of it poured out in broken scrawls. His chest heaved, and suddenly the pen dropped from his fingers. He stared at the page, then at his own shaking hand.
The rage turned inward. His fist clenched, and he swung it at his own jaw.
The impact rattled his teeth.
He staggered backward onto the couch, a strangled cry escaping him. Another punch. Then another. Each blow landing with dull thuds, each one fueled by self-loathing until—
Pap.
A hand stopped him mid-swing. Cold metal fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist, halting the momentum. Mikey gasped, blinking through tears.
Ryosuke stood in the doorway, his cybernetic arm extended, his face unreadable but softened by something gentler than usual.
"Do not hit yourself like that, boy," he said quietly.
Mikey's lip trembled. He jerked his gaze downward.
"Go away."
"No." Ryosuke's voice carried no edge, only calm finality. "Sit up."
The warrior released his grip and stepped inside, closing the pod door behind him with a soft click. He dragged a chair from the corner, turning it around before sitting. He folded his arms across his chest, his presence steady, grounding.
"Speak," he said simply. "I am listening."
Mikey wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, smearing tears across his cheek. His voice cracked.
"Did you know… about Elliot?"
Ryosuke didn't hesitate. He inclined his head.
"Yes. I did. Most of us did."
Mikey's shoulders sagged, eyes falling to his lap.
"I got him—"
"No." Ryosuke's interruption was firm, but not unkind. "You did not. No one blames you. You could not have known."
The boy's throat tightened. His words spilled anyway.
"Does that matter? That I didn't know?"
His fists clenched against his knees.
"Because of me, Marlene doesn't have a husband. Angelica and her brother don't have their father! I'm no better than Payne… Amelia was right."
For the first time, Ryosuke leaned forward, voice carrying a rare note of warmth.
"No. You are not like Payne. He would have left them hollow. You—" he gestured faintly toward Mikey's chest, "—you sit with them in their grief. You make their pain lighter, if only by a little. Payne would not have done that. He cannot even imagine it."
Mikey stared past him, unfocused, lost in his own storm. His silence was heavy, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Ryosuke watched him for a moment, then sighed, long and low, as if making a decision.
"Perhaps it is time."
Mikey blinked, lifting his head.
"Time for what?"
Ryosuke allowed himself the faintest smile.
"A story. One you have asked of me many times."
Mikey's tear-stained face showed a flicker of curiosity through the pain.
"A story?"
"Yes." Ryosuke settled deeper into the chair, his voice taking on the cadence of memory. "Now is the time to tell you about where I come form. About my past. About me."
The pod went quiet, the only sound the low hum of an old lamp in the corner, as Mikey sat still—waiting.