Isaak's hazel eyes lingered on Bobo as he paced the pod, smoke from his cigar trailing behind him like a shadow.
"His test is tomorrow."
The words dropped heavy in the air. Bobo didn't look up right away, his thick fingers pinching tobacco, sprinkling it onto the paper with steady precision.
"So?" he muttered, tone dismissive but guarded. Isaak's eyes slid sideways, sharp and cutting.
"It's rigged."
The words froze Bobo mid-roll. His head jerked up, eyes widening.
"What…"
Isaak gave a single, grim nod.
"He's set to fail. No chance in hell a kid like him—no experience, no training—could pass what they have in store for him. Hell, Robert, you might even struggle if you took it."
The paper crinkled under Bobo's tightening grip. His brow furrowed into a deep scowl.
"What the hell… why?"
Isaak stopped pacing. His voice came in sharp, measured beats.
"They. Do. Not. Trust. Him."
He leaned in slightly, eyes hard.
"He's Council. Open your fuckin' eyes."
Bobo's jaw flexed, teeth grinding as he packed the cigarette tighter, harder, as though the leaves were Isaak's throat. Isaak didn't let up. His tone carried the weight of inevitability.
"If he passes… A, I'll be shocked out of my skin. But B, he'll be considered useful. Watched closely. Monitored. But alive."
Bobo's eyebrow arched, suspicion in his voice.
"And if he fails…?"
Isaak let out a breath, a sigh that sounded heavier than the smoke leaving his lungs.
"Which he will. Then he's useless. And dangerous. Knows too much. We don't know where his loyalties lie."
His gaze cut sharp.
"So… he has to disappear."
Bobo's eyes snapped wide. His teeth ground like stone on stone.
"I swear to God—if you even lay a finger on Mikey, I'll—"
"Calm down, Robert," Isaak interrupted, sharp and quick.
His voice dipped cold.
"No one's killing him. That'd be a mistake. The lower levels—hell, they love the kid. Killing him sparks riots. Chaos. Brass has a… different idea."
He took another drag from the cigar, ember flaring.
"Banishing him. Sending him north."
Bobo froze, his massive frame stiffening. His voice dropped, low and dangerous.
"North? But that's where the—"
Isaak cut him off, stepping closer.
"The Bloody Mist."
Bobo shoved the half-rolled cigarette aside and surged to his feet, towering, the pod's light catching on the hard lines of his face.
"You're sending him to the Bloody Mist?!"
Isaak glared up at him, unflinching despite the size difference.
"They'll give him supplies. A mask. Enough to last a few months."
The words had barely left his mouth before Bobo's metal arm slammed against the shelf. The wood exploded under the impact, splinters raining across the pod. The walls tremored.
"That's bullshit and you know it!"
His voice roared, vibrating the air.
"So what if he was born and raised in the Council? We've had plenty come down here with Council shadows in their past. Ryo was one of them! He killed Defectors back when Hiroki was still breathing, and you welcomed him!"
Isaak moved in, chest brushing Bobo's as he looked up, eyes blazing.
"That's different, Robert! Ryosuke Saito didn't even know the Council existed until Kael slaughtered his entire people! That was his first taste of it—and it burned everything he was! That's different!"
"And the Council took the kid's parents!"
Bobo's roar drowned the room, veins bulging against his neck. He jabbed a finger into Isaak's chest, every word like a hammer.
"Both of 'em! They wouldn't have even been there if you hadn't abandoned our squad to play king on the upper levels! How many plots, Isaak? How many schemes splitting us apart? My family—Luce, Ryo, Tobi, Lia—look where it's gotten us! Look! What have we learned from all your missions? Not a goddamn thing!"
The pod fell into silence, broken only by their ragged breaths. Isaak's cigar hissed softly, ash flaking onto the floor. Then Bobo's voice broke through, quieter, but carrying more weight than a shout.
"That kid…" He shook his head slowly, eyes burning. "Without him, we wouldn't have survived Jöten. Two hundred people—my family—would be dead. I would be dead. He saved our asses in ways you'll never understand. The riots? His idea. The mech? He helped us kill it. Our first victory in centuries—his fingerprints are all over it."
Bobo's stare locked Isaak in place, unblinking.
"What did you do?"
Isaak's glare didn't waver. His voice came slow, controlled, almost clinical.
"Nothing you say will change the fact that he will fail tomorrow."
Bobo grunted, not meeting his eyes. He scooped the half-finished cigarette back into his hands, broad fingers rolling the paper with mechanical stubbornness.
"He won't. Not Mikey. Not Michael fucking Grant."
His tone was gravel, low and certain.
"He's got potential I've never seen. Kid's smart but capable. He knows the Council—knows how they think, how they move. And he doesn't quit. I've never seen him scared in a fight. Not once. He does the craziest shit you can imagine, and he owns it. Hell—" Bobo gave a short, humorless laugh. "—he looked Director Mako right in the eyes and didn't flinch. I was shitting my pants, Isaak, and the kid didn't even blink. Find me one Defector in history who doesn't shit themselves at the thought of a Director. You can't. He'll pass."
Isaak's jaw tightened. His reply was clipped, colder than before.
"We'll see."
Bobo kept rolling, his eyes locked on the paper between his hands. Finally, he glanced up.
"Why the hell did you even come here to tell me this?"
Isaak looked down. The cigarette was nearly finished—his window closing. His voice dropped, heavy with a strange, reluctant weight.
"I thought… if he does fail tomorrow, these might be your last days with him. I came to tell you to cherish them while you still can."
Bobo's glare sharpened, but he didn't respond. He just finished the roll, pinched it shut, and held it up between two thick fingers. His voice was flat, final.
"All done."
Isaak stepped forward, cigar ember glowing. He leaned in and lit the cigarette with the burning tip. The two men locked eyes in the flicker of flame and smoke, neither speaking. Bobo drew in a long drag, the paper crackling. Isaak turned toward the door. He stopped in the threshold, glanced back once. His expression softened—barely.
"For what it's worth… I hope the kid passes."
And then he was gone. The door hissed shut. Silence pressed in around Bobo. His foot began tapping, fast, restless. The cigarette trembled between his fingers as his brow knotted deeper, the anger boiling again.
"Fuck!!!"
He roared, hurling the chair across the room. It smashed against the wall, splintering into jagged pieces. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, smoke pouring from his nostrils. Then he saw it. A picture frame had slipped from the broken shelf, face-down on the floor.
Bobo froze. Slowly, he crossed the room. He crouched, thick fingers lifting the photo. The glass was cracked, but the image inside was untouched. He carried it back to his cot, sat heavily, elbows digging into his knees. The cigarette smoldered between his fingers, forgotten. He looked at the picture.
It was black and white, worn at the edges, captured on an old scrapyard camera they found many years ago. They were young. Bobo was in his late twenties, hair still red, long and wavy, brushing his shoulders. His metal arm was crude, less refined, bolts and plates visible. He had his arms thrown wide around the two beside him.
To his left—Luce.
Even younger, even wilder. Her hair fell in loose, golden waves, untamed and brilliant. Her blue eyes shone so brightly they cut through the grayscale of the photo, and her lips puckered in a playful kiss toward the lens, hand on her hip, scandalous and unapologetic.
To his right—Desmond.
Barely out of his teens, his grin split wide, showing every one of his big white teeth. His short curls framed his face, but his eyes weren't on the camera. He was looking to his right, gaze fixed—soft, captivated. At Darla.
She was the same age as Desmond then. Pale, freckled skin, her long brown curls tumbling down her back and shoulders. Her green eyes peeked shyly toward the camera, but the blush in her cheeks betrayed the weight of Desmond's stare. She looked so much like Mikey it was haunting—just softer, almost delicate.
Bobo's lips curved into a small smile, but it faltered as his eyes softened. His voice cracked as he whispered into the empty room.
"Dez… Darla… I'll keep my promise. I'll keep little Mikey safe. I swear it."
A single tear slipped down his cheek. He blinked, surprised, and wiped at his face with the back of his hand. But more followed. He realized, with a hollow ache, he hadn't cried since Desmond's death. Now, it poured out.
"Dez…" His voice broke, weak, trembling. "I miss ya, buddy. Dez…"
The giant bowed his head over the photo, tears streaking down his face. His frame shook with grief he could no longer cage. For the first time in years, the iron wall of Robert "Bobo" Presley fell away. He cried—for his promise, for his lost friends, for the boy who carried all their sins.