The drive back to the base was an odd blend of lingering tension and a burgeoning sense of normalcy. The hospital's sterile scent still clung to my clothes, a stark contrast to the rich, savory aroma of Mrs. Adebayo's meat pies that now wafted from the half-eaten bag on my lap. Sweet navigated the familiar, winding roads with practiced ease, his profile silhouetted against the setting sun. Zara, still buzzing with a low-level manic energy, recounted her harrowing, unlicensed escape from the government and Mileenas with dramatic flourishes, punctuated by Koji's exasperated sighs from the back seat.
But for me, something had fundamentally shifted. The initial shock of being a "Mileena," an "outlaw," a "ticking time bomb" with a 37-minute expiration, was slowly settling into a grim, almost liberating acceptance. I was no longer a naive guy stumbling through the shadows; I was a known quantity, a target, a paradox. And oddly, that clarity brought a strange, dark comfort. This was my reality. This was my burden. And if everyone was already after me, then at least the pretense was gone. I understood now why Sweet and the others, despite the danger, moved with such a defiant composure. They lived this reality every day. The foundations of their world were already shattered, just like mine.
As we pulled up to the clandestine entrance of our base, a cleverly disguised section of an abandoned warehouse district, I braced myself. I expected sirens, hidden snipers, the sudden appearance of another monstrous Mileena, or perhaps even Takashi's unsettling smile. This was our base, after all, the nerve center of our operations, and given the chaos of the day, it was surely compromised.
Sweet cut the engine. The silence that followed was so profound it hummed. Nothing. Not a single whirring drone, no distant shouts, no tell-tale shimmer of Yami-ebhi distortion. We got down from the car, our feet crunching softly on the gravel. I exchanged a wary glance with Koji. Still nothing.
We walked further into the labyrinthine corridors of the repurposed warehouse. The air grew cooler, carrying the familiar scents of metal, ozone, and something indefinably 'base-like.' My senses, heightened by the day's events, strained for any sign of ambush. A creaking floorboard? A flickering light? The whisper of a shadow? Nope. Nothing. Absolute, infuriating, unsettling nothing.
We reached our unit, the common living and training area that served as our sanctuary. The heavy steel door, usually sealed tight, was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the dim corridor. Koji, ever cautious, nudged it open with his foot, his caven steel half-drawn.
Still, nothing. No alarm bells, no desperate shouts, no sounds of struggle. Just a low, muffled murmur from within. My shoulders sagged slightly, a confusing mix of relief and anti-climax washing over me. Maybe the Abominations had given up. Maybe the government got lost. Maybe...
BAM!
The world exploded in a cacophony of sound and light. "SURPRISE!" a chorus of voices roared, synchronized to perfection. Confetti cannons blasted, showering us in a shimmering rain of metallic streamers. Balloons, in every conceivable shade of neon, bobbed maniacally, released from unseen nets. A massive banner, crudely hand-painted, unfurled above our heads, proclaiming in garish letters: "WELCOME BACK YORU & yukimiya!"
My heart leaped into my throat, slamming against my ribs with the force of a startled jackrabbit. I genuinely screamed, a low-pitched, undignified sound that would forever haunt my memories. My Mileena instincts, honed by mere hours, flared. Every emotion ignited simultaneously—Kyofu (Fear) paralyzing me, Okao Zankoku (Anger) sparking a violent impulse, Kyogaku (Surprise) overwhelming my senses, Asien (Disgust) at the sheer cheesiness of it all, Yorokobi (Joy) a confusing flicker amidst the chaos, and Arhian (Sadness) for a moment of profound vulnerability. It was the full Okhuomo-Gekido, all from a damn surprise party. I stumbled back, nearly tripping over Koji, who, to his credit, barely flinched, though his eyes were wide with a rare, amused astonishment.
"A welcome attack that nearly gave me a heart attack!" I shrieked, clutching my chest, my face probably a mottled shade of crimson. "Get it? See what I did there?! A heart attack?!" The pun, forced and terrible, was my body's desperate attempt to diffuse the sheer panic.
Zara, giggling uncontrollably, peeled away from the jubilant crowd. "Oh, Yoru, your face! It was priceless! We planned it for hours!"
The unit, a diverse mix of our allies, their faces beaming with genuine warmth, surged forward, offering pats on the back and boisterous cheers. It was then that I noticed the "someone else" mentioned on the banner. As the crowd parted slightly, a figure stepped into view. He was tall, with a kind, open face and a shock of bright, almost electric blue hair. He radiated an aura of quiet confidence, and as his gaze met mine, I felt a peculiar, unexpected surge of happiness. Yorokobi. Not the twisted, Mileena-amplified version, but pure, unadulterated joy, a sensation so foreign and yet so comforting that it startled me. Who was this person, and why did he make me feel... happy?
Before I could ponder this new emotional anomaly, a hand, strong yet gentle, pressed a soft, warm bundle into my hands. "Here, Yoru," a gruff voice offered. "You must be starving."
It was a generous portion of pounded yam, perfectly smooth and pliable, accompanied by a steaming bowl of vegetable soup. The soup was a masterpiece. A deep, verdant green, it swirled with tender, dark green pumpkin leaves, their earthy bitterness perfectly balanced by the sweetness of finely diced bell peppers and the robust, spicy kick of habanero. Chunks of succulent, smoked catfish flaked apart in the rich, palm oil-infused broth, its smoky aroma mingling with the subtle perfume of various native spices. Each spoonful was a symphony of flavors, a comforting embrace that spoke of home, of warmth, of safety. It was, without exaggeration, the best meal I had ever tasted in my life.
I devoured the pounded yam and soup with a single-minded intensity, barely registering the surrounding hubbub. I was halfway through my second wrap when I noticed a surreal sight: Sweet and Koji emerging from the kitchen, both of them wearing aprons. Sweet's apron was a crisp, plain white, ironically pristine. Koji's, on the other hand, was emblazoned with a cartoonish depiction of a smiling cat juggling sai, beneath the words "Kiss the Cook!" He looked utterly ridiculous, yet surprisingly focused.
"You guys cooked this?!" I exclaimed, genuinely dumbfounded. I had assumed it was some seasoned chef from the base, not the stoic, battle-hardened Koji and the impossibly calm Sweet.
Koji, his face surprisingly flushed, stood rigid, his eyes boring into me, clearly waiting for a compliment. There was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze, a rare softness that made him look almost... endearing. Almost.
A mischievous spark ignited within me. The day had been filled with pain and dread; a little levity was desperately needed. Plus, Koji in a cat apron was too good to pass up.
I buzzed him off, offering my sweetest, most disarming smile, my right eyebrow arching playfully. "What a mess," I declared, my tone utterly devoid of praise, even as my mouth was still full of his delicious cooking.
Koji's jaw visibly clenched. His rare vulnerability evaporated, replaced by a storm of barely contained fury. "A mess?!" he sputtered, his voice rising, the spoon in his hand trembling. "I slaved over that soup for hours! I almost burned my eyebrows off trying to get the palm oil just right! You ungrateful—"
He didn't finish the sentence. With a huff of indignant rage, he spun on his heel and stormed back into the kitchen, the cat apron swinging wildly around his waist. A chorus of snickers erupted from the unit members, who had clearly been anticipating this reaction.
I loved what I did. A genuine, unrestrained laugh bubbled up from within me, light and freeing, untainted by the shadow of the Mileena. It felt good to laugh, to poke fun, to reclaim a piece of my humanity amidst the chaos.
Soon, the party shifted gears. The tables were cleared, and a series of indoor games commenced. The central common area transformed into a bustling arcade of camaraderie and competition.
Zara, ever the social butterfly, immediately dragged the blue-haired newcomer, whose name I still hadn't learned, into a fierce game of foosball. Their rapid-fire spins and cheers filled the air, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of the tiny plastic men hitting the ball a lively counterpoint to the earlier screams. Zara's competitive spirit, usually reserved for sparring, flared, her laughter ringing out every time she scored, while the blue-haired man, equally competitive but with a calmer demeanor, offered playful taunts and strategic blocks.
A group gathered around a holographic chess board, its luminous pieces shifting and shimmering with each move. Sweet, surprisingly, joined them, his calm intensity now focused on the strategic intricacies of the game, his opponents often left baffled by his unexpected gambits.
Koji, having apparently cooled down from his culinary indignation, was now embroiled in a heated virtual reality fighting game with two other unit members. His caven steel, usually a deadly weapon, was replaced by haptic controllers, his movements mirroring the frenetic, stylized attacks of his avatar. Grunts, shouts, and triumphant roars punctuated their digital brawl, a safe outlet for their inherent aggression.
I watched them, a small, wistful smile playing on my lips. For a fleeting moment, I was tempted to join them, to lose myself in the simple, boisterous fun. But the memory of Oba-chan, my grandmother, the chief's words, Takashi's chilling revelations—they clung to me, a constant, heavy weight. The games, the laughter, the carefree joy felt alien, a world away from the profound, terrifying truths that now defined my existence. I couldn't shake off what Takashi had said, the implications of my lineage, the ticking clock, the knowledge that I was a ticking time bomb.
I found a quiet corner near a large, frosted window, the last vestiges of twilight painting the sky in hues of purple and deep orange. I leaned against the cool metal frame, listening to the joyful cacophony, but not truly a part of it. I was dressed simply, still recovering from the "Aura-Burn," wearing only a lightweight signet (a basic undershirt provided by the base) and baggy trousers, my feet comfortably encased in a pair of truly badass, albeit slightly worn, Crocs. It was a stark contrast to the elegant attire of the Bini chiefs or the sleek combat gear of the Rhines, a symbol of my fractured identity.
Lost in my thoughts, the distant echo of a particular laugh from the foosball table bringing a faint, sad smile to my face, I felt a sudden, cold palm touch my bare shoulder. It wasn't the warmth of a friendly pat, but a distinct chill that seemed to sink through my skin, raising goosebumps despite the comfortable temperature of the room. It was an energy signature I was beginning to recognize, a familiar, unsettling presence.
I stiffened, every muscle tensing. My head snapped around, my heart leaping into my throat once more, not with panic this time, but with a surge of grim recognition.
Standing directly behind me, his vibrant, gravity-defying hair perfectly coiffed, his golden eyes gleaming with an unnerving intensity, was Takashi Okonogie Nozer. He had materialized silently, a ghost among the living, his presence unnoticed by the revelers just feet away.
"Welcome, Yoru," he purred, his voice a low, resonant hum that bypassed my ears and resonated directly in my mind, cutting through the celebratory din. "I've been expecting you."