Mikey winced, clutching his ribs as he staggered upright. Every breath rattled through him like broken glass.
"Okay… ugh…" he muttered, dragging himself toward the far side of the mat.
He bent, scooped up the split halves of his weapon, and turned them over in his hands. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts as he tightened his grip and shuffled back into position. Ryosuke raised one sharp brow.
"Where are you going?"
Mikey set his feet ten paces away, lowering into his stance again. His arms trembled, but his eyes burned with stubborn fire.
"Come on… aren't we going again? I lost… again…" he panted, forcing the words between gasps.
Ryosuke's mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost not. A low chuckle rumbled out of him as he shook his head.
"No. We are finished."
Mikey's shoulders sagged, his sticks drooping toward the mat.
"What? We just started…"
Ryosuke closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. His presence was heavy but not crushing—more like a weight meant to ground.
"No, we are done for today."
He stopped before Mikey and laid a firm hand on his shoulder.
"You found it."
Mikey blinked. Sweat stung his eyes.
"Found… what exactly?"
Ryosuke's gaze dropped to the halves clutched in Mikey's hands.
"You. Your way. Your weapon."
"My weapon?"
"Yes."
Ryosuke tapped the wooden sticks with a knuckle.
"Dual fifteen-inch daggers. Light. Quick. They let you improvise. Keep you close, where you're dangerous. Perfect for your fighting style. Trust me."
Mikey squinted at the battered wood, shaking them in disbelief.
"These?"
Ryosuke nodded once.
"Yes."
Then, as if sealing the thought, he patted Mikey's back before turning and walking away. Mikey's eyes widened, his face breaking into a grin despite the bruises forming there.
"R-Really? That's… awesome!"
He stared down at the sticks, as if they might glow if he looked hard enough. Then he caught Ryosuke's retreating figure and hurried after him.
"When can I get 'em? Right now? Today? Tomorrow?"
Ryosuke chuckled under his breath, waving for him to follow without looking back.
"We'll go see the armory. Come on."
Mikey practically bounced forward, wincing but smiling through it.
"So cool…"
He jogged after, calling, "Wait for me!"
The two of them left the training hall, their footsteps fading.
Meanwhile, in the humming quiet of his pod, Bobo stood over a workbench lit by a harsh overhead lamp. His tank top was smeared with oil and sweat, fabric clinging to the bulk of his frame. He scratched at his buzzed gray hair with the clicking scrape of metal fingers, then bent back to his work. A rifle lay disassembled across the table, its innards exposed like the bones of some mechanical beast. Bobo's hands moved with deliberate care, plucking out pieces, adjusting, refining. The duffel bag at his side bulged with the ghosts of other weapons already broken down and rebuilt, each one bearing his touch. He twisted a scope free from its mount, set it aside with a soft clink, then tilted the rifle under the light.
His glasses slid down his nose, magnifying his sharp, squinting eyes as he studied a detail only he could see. The workshop smelled of gun oil and heated metal, and Bobo worked inside it like a surgeon in a theater—steady, silent, exact. Just then—
Knock. Knock.
Bobo's head turned toward the doorway, metal fingers pausing mid-turn on the rifle's bolt. A figure leaned in the frame, tall and cut lean like a blade—six-one, maybe a shade more. His cropped trench coat hung open, the brown leather dulled from years of use, brushing against black tactical pants tucked into scuffed boots. A black tank top clung to his chest. His skin was lightly tanned, face hard-cut, the kind you'd expect to find carved on a coin. Short black hair sat neatly combed back, almost Roman in its shape, Caesar-like. Hazel eyes—piercing, alive with something unreadable—caught the glow of the worklight, echoing the color of the jacket. Between his fingers, a cigar smoldered, smoke curling upward like a slow-burning fuse. He drew on it once, the ember flaring red, then let the smoke spill lazy from his lips. When he spoke, it came in a deep, rasping register, steady and unhurried.
"Robert."
Bobo smacked his lips, setting down the rifle piece with a dull clink. His metal fingers flexed, the sound of servos faint under the hum of the pod.
"Isaak."
He stripped the glasses from his face and placed them beside the weapon, his tone mocking but edged.
"Finally came downstairs, huh? To what do I owe the pleasure?"
His gaze dropped to the duffel of finished guns.
"Oh, and if it's about the hardware—I'm near done. Five left, give or take."
Isaak leaned one shoulder against the frame, smoke trailing off him like he owned the space.
"Good. Thanks. But no. Not here for that."
He tilted his chin down the narrow walkway leading into the pod.
"May I?"
Bobo snorted.
"You're already halfway in the fuckin' door. Come in."
Isaak's boots thudded lightly on the metal as he entered, every step slow, deliberate. He moved like someone who never rushed unless it was to kill. His eyes skimmed the pod—guns stripped, parts in neat piles, the dull glow of work lamps.
"I heard," Isaak began, voice gravel low, "the kid's got his test tomorrow, to join your squad."
Bobo leaned against the bench, watching him prowl.
"Yeah, that's right... Have ya met him yet?"
Isaak drifted toward a shelf, trailing smoke as he went.
"No, not yet. I haven't had the pleasure."
His hand reached out, plucking something small from the clutter—a flower twisted from scrap metal and wiring, petals bent delicate despite the steel. He turned it in his fingers, hazel eyes narrowing.
"Luciana make you this?"
Bobo's answer was flat.
"Yeah."
Isaak chuckled, dry and soft.
"Yeah… you two really do make the perfect—well, whatever the hell you wanna call it."
Bobo's arms folded across his chest, glare hardening.
"You know I hate when you beat around the bush, so just fuckin' spit it out already. What'd you come here for?"
Isaak sighed, let the cigar dangle from his lips as he spoke.
"Okay, It's about the kid. People down here—they love him, but Brass? Not so much, they don't trust him."
Bobo's brow arched, then furrowed into a scowl.
"The hell are you talking about?"
Isaak looked at him then, hazel eyes steady and sharp.
"Face it, Robert, he's an outsider, he's Council and they believe you're letting the fact he's Desmond's son cloud your judgment—"
Bobo surged upright, crossing the space in two heavy steps, his voice rumbling.
"They think that—or you?"
Isaak didn't blink. Didn't move.
"I'm not sure. But it makes sense. Just because he's Desmond's son—"
"You don't get to say his name—" Bobo's voice cracked into a growl as he closed in. In a blink, Isaak's coat flared. A pistol snapped up in his hand, barrel leveled square at Bobo's forehead. His finger rested firm on the trigger, unwavering.
"Stand down."
His voice was calm, measured.
"You're one of our best. But I won't mind painting your pod with your brain."
The pod went still. The only sounds were the hum of the lights, the faint creak of leather as Isaak's hand held steady, and the grind of Bobo's teeth. Then Bobo growled low in his throat, turned sharply on his heel, and stalked back to the workbench. His bulk made the floor shudder with every step. He yanked open a drawer, pulled free a battered pouch of tobacco and a square of rolling paper. His metal fingers moved with surprising delicacy as he spread the leaves, rolling them smooth, tight, precise.
"You have until I finish rolling this cigarette," he said without looking up, voice calm but dangerous. "You've got five seconds after my first puff—and if you're still standing here, I'll rip your head off."
Bobo sank into a chair, the weight of him making the legs groan and the floor tremor. He struck a match, the flame catching in the dim light.