The Reavers: Ch.2 - "Chrome and Crimson"

![TheReavers.jpg](

Dawn

The operating room stretched out before them like a mechanical abyss—a cold, sterile cathedral lit by flickering fluorescents that hummed faintly, their glow casting uneven shadows on the walls. The air was sharp and metallic, thick with the smell of antiseptic and oil, as though the room itself had been scrubbed of anything remotely human. Machines loomed in clusters—towers of chrome and wires, their appendages bristling with needles, scalpels, and tools that buzzed faintly, hungry for flesh.

The Cyber Reavers stood at the entrance, bare, stripped down to their most vulnerable forms—no armor, no clothes, nothing to hide behind. There was no shame here, only necessity. This was the price of rebirth. Vaughn Skirnov had demanded they shed everything—the old flesh, the old selves—before he would begin his work.

Skirnov’s crimson eyes swept over them like a butcher inspecting cuts of meat, his expression calm, unreadable. The machines shifted restlessly around him, hissing and whirring with mechanical anticipation. Each slab sat waiting—cold steel, unyielding and stark beneath the harsh glow of surgical lights.

The Procedure: Kyōki Piero

The slabs were cold. Cold like something long dead.

Kyōki Piero practically threw herself onto the nearest platform, her candy-red hair spilling across the steel like a bloodstain. She stretched out her limbs in mock surrender, her grin wide enough to split her face in two as she stared up at the machines whirring overhead.

Kyōki Piero: Ooooh, Doc, I’m ready! Hook me up, carve me out, slap a bow on it—I wanna sparkle when I bleed.

Vaughn Skirnov stepped into view, his movements unnervingly fluid as his coat trailed behind him. His pale face betrayed nothing as he studied her—his eyes sharp, gleaming faintly red beneath the overhead lights. He reached out with gloved hands, adjusting dials and calibrating the intricate machinery that loomed over her like a congregation of mechanical vultures.

He spoke softly, his voice a low melody that slid through the air like silk and steel.

Vaughn Skirnov: Do you know what separates the reckless from the willing, my dear? One runs from pain; the other invites it to tea.

Kyōki’s grin widened further, teeth flashing. She tilted her head back against the slab, staring at him upside down like a predator baring its throat.

Kyōki Piero: (Sing-song) Oh, Doc, we’re going way past tea. I want the whole damn banquet.

Skirnov’s lips curled, a ghost of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Vaughn Skirnov: You’ll find my table... accommodating.

The clamps hissed and locked into place, snapping her wrists and ankles down with mechanical precision. For the briefest moment, her grin faltered, her fingers twitching as though second-guessing her bravado. Then she cackled, a sound sharp enough to cut glass.

The first mechanical arm descended, its appendages a blur of polished needles and humming scalpels. Skirnov leaned in, his voice just above a whisper.

Vaughn Skirnov: There’s no turning back now, little one. Are you prepared to let go of yourself?

Kyōki’s breath hitched as the first needle pierced the base of her skull, the sound of it like a splinter driven into glass. Her back arched violently, a strangled scream escaping her lips before she swallowed it whole, replacing it with a cracked laugh.

Kyōki Piero: (Voice shaking, almost gleeful)“Oh—ah! That stings, baby—don’t stop now!

The machine worked with a surgeon’s cruelty. Thin, metallic threads slithered through her spine, threading into her nerves like venomous snakes. Her crimson cybernetic eye spasmed, the glow sputtering and flickering erratically. She jerked against the clamps, her teeth bared, her breaths ragged.

Skirnov watched her closely, adjusting controls with an unflinching calm.

Vaughn Skirnov: You fight it so beautifully. But resistance is pointless. Your flesh is being rewritten—better, stronger, perfect.

Kyōki’s eye stabilized—brighter now, searing crimson like blood in firelight. Her grin never fully disappeared, but the twitching lines of her face showed the weight of the ordeal.

The drill plunged into her forearm next. Her skin rippled unnaturally, synthetic musculature sliding beneath it with a sound that was half mechanical hiss, half biological squelch. Her bones audibly cracked as the chrome locked into place, fitting her body like it had always belonged there.

Kyōki let out a sharp hiss of air, her fingers flexing as the pain reached a fever pitch. When her voice returned, it was little more than a whisper, edged with a hint of something unhinged.

Kyōki Piero: You’re not even halfway done, Doc... Make it hurt.

Skirnov paused, just for a second, studying her. There was something in his expression—curiosity, amusement... maybe even respect. He leaned closer, his cold breath ghosting over her ear.

Vaughn Skirnov: Your pain is exquisite. But tell me... are you sure this is what you want?

Kyōki’s crimson eye flared as her grin stretched wider, more feral.

Kyōki Piero: (Breathy, almost purring) Oh, Doc... I don’t want this. I need this.

The final wave of the procedure began, the machines drilling deeper, fusing chrome and circuitry to sinew and bone. Her body jerked like a puppet pulled too hard on its strings, but her laughter rang out again—ragged, wild, unstoppable.

When the clamps finally hissed open, releasing her, Kyōki didn’t rise immediately. Her limbs twitched with small, unnatural spasms as the systems synced to her nerves. Then, slowly—deliberately—she sat up, her movements sharp and deliberate, like a marionette testing its new strings.

Skirnov watched, silent, his face unreadable as Kyōki swung her legs off the slab and stood. Her shoulders straightened, and her hands flexed in the air before her, fingers twitching as though craving something to tear apart. The faintest hum resonated beneath her skin, audible in the quiet like distant static.

She tilted her head toward Skirnov, the crimson glow of her eye reflecting off his pale features. Her voice was soft, sing-song, but edged with something predatory.

Kyōki Piero: I think I’m in love with you, Doc.

Skirnov tilted his head slightly, that same faint, unnerving smile curling his lips.

Vaughn Skirnov: Careful, my dear. Love has a tendency to ruin the most beautiful things.

Kyōki’s laughter rang out again, high and gleeful, echoing through the cold room. She spun on her heel, spreading her arms wide as if reveling in her new form.

Kyōki Piero: (Shouting to the room) Ruin me, rebuild me—I don’t care! I’m alive, baby!

Skirnov merely watched her, silent as the machines powered down behind him.

And Kyōki Piero—reborn in steel and madness—stood in the cold glow of the chamber, her crimson eye blazing like a promise of chaos to come.

Yuriko Ikeda’s Procedure

Yuriko Ikeda moved toward the slab with the precision of a soldier walking to her execution. Her shoulders were squared, her steps deliberate, but the faint twitch in her cybernetic fingers betrayed her nerves. She didn’t look at anyone—not Takeshi, not Yoshinobu, and certainly not Kyōki, who watched her like a wolf savoring a meal.

The clamps snapped down with a hiss, locking Yuriko’s wrists and ankles to the steel. Her fists clenched reflexively, knuckles white. Her breath came slow and controlled, but her eyes, sharp and focused, tracked every movement of Skirnov’s machinery.

Vaughn Skirnov stepped into her line of sight, his pale face illuminated by the cold glow of his machines. He leaned just close enough for her to feel his presence, his voice dripping into the silence like a slow, deliberate poison.

Vaughn Skirnov: (Soft, almost soothing) Your fear is not weakness, Ms. Ikeda. Fear sharpens the mind, quickens the blood. It tells you you’re still alive.

Yuriko’s gaze locked onto his, her jaw tightening like a vice.

Yuriko Ikeda: (Coldly) Do your job. And don’t talk.

Skirnov’s thin smile widened by a hair’s breadth as though he appreciated her resistance.

The machinery stirred, filling the room with the low, rhythmic hum of whirring servos and precise mechanisms—like a dozen snakes slithering through steel. Yuriko flinched as the first appendage descended, its polished needle gleaming in the stark light.

It paused, hovering just above the base of her skull, almost teasing.

Then it struck.

The needle drove deep into her cervical spine with a hiss that echoed through the chamber. Yuriko’s body arched against the clamps as her muscles locked, her eyes going wide with pain. A jagged gasp ripped from her throat, strangled but stubbornly silent—she refused to scream.

Red code burst across the display above her, lines of shifting data that seemed to bleed through the air like digital veins. Yuriko’s vision fractured into static, the world flickering and reforming in disjointed, unreal patterns. It felt as though something was crawling through her body—thin threads of molten metal weaving through nerves, embedding themselves into her very core.

Yuriko Ikeda: (Whispering, teeth gritted) What... are you putting in me?

The machines didn’t answer. They were too busy remaking her.

Surgical lasers descended so fine they might’ve been threads of light, etching microscopic circuits into her tendons and bones. She felt it—each nerve fused, each joint stripped and reformed. It was clinical, precise, and unbearably invasive, as though Skirnov’s machines were carving away who she was and leaving something colder in her place.

Yuriko’s body trembled violently, her mind screaming as a foreign hum crept through her skull—a soft, electric current that vibrated beneath her skin. The sound of her heartbeat grew impossibly loud, each beat matched by a pulse of energy flooding her muscles.

Her world went dark for a moment.

Then—silence.

Yuriko’s eyes flew open, her chest rising sharply as though she had been drowning and suddenly found air. Her limbs twitched, then stilled. The clamps hissed open and released her, but Yuriko didn’t move right away. She lay there, staring at the flickering lights above, her expression blank but her thoughts racing.

Finally, she sat up—slowly, deliberately, with a smoothness that defied human motion. Her cybernetic fingers flexed, and her eyes widened as the motion registered: there was no resistance. No stiffness. The movement was perfect—frictionless and precise.

She swung her legs off the slab, her boots hitting the floor with a metallic echo. Her gaze dropped to her hand, watching as her fingers curled and uncurled faster than she could think to command them.

Yuriko Ikeda: (Murmuring to herself, disbelief flickering in her voice) I’m... faster.

There was a hum beneath her skin now, subtle but constant—like a current of energy waiting to be unleashed. It buzzed at the edge of her senses, crawling along her spine, whispering of strength she hadn’t asked for.

She looked up, fixing Skirnov with a glare that burned through the haze of adrenaline.

Yuriko Ikeda: (Cold, clipped) What else did you put in me?

Skirnov smiled faintly, his red-tinged eyes glinting as though he were looking straight through her.

Vaughn Skirnov: (Smooth, almost playful) Improvements, Ms. Ikeda. Your body needed more than you were willing to admit. I merely revealed its potential.

Yuriko took a step toward him—too quick, too silent. The new fluidity of her motion sent a chill through her spine. She stopped, flexing her fingers again, as though trying to regain control.

Her voice was low, dangerous.

Yuriko Ikeda: I didn’t ask for this.

Skirnov tilted his head ever so slightly, his gaze unreadable.

Vaughn Skirnov: No one ever does.

Yuriko didn’t respond. She turned away sharply, her movements once again betraying the unsettling perfection Skirnov had given her. The hum inside her grew louder for a fleeting second before subsiding, as though whatever was inside her was testing the boundaries of its new home.

The others watched her from a distance. Yoshinobu’s expression was grim, Kyōki’s manic grin momentarily subdued, and Takeshi... Takeshi’s cybernetic eye followed her every step.

Yuriko walked past them without another word, her jaw tight, her expression cold. She could still feel the weight of Skirnov’s stare on her back as she disappeared into the shadows of the lab.

Somewhere deep inside, beneath all the chrome and circuits, she wondered how much of herself she had left.

Yoshinobu Koshimoto Procedure

Yoshinobu Koshimoto didn’t volunteer. He didn’t need to. He simply stepped forward, shoulders squared like a man walking toward an executioner. He didn’t look at the others as he lowered himself onto the slab, his massive form sinking into the steel with a dull thud. The clamps hissed and snapped shut with a finality that seemed to drain the air from the room. His fists twitched against the restraints for a split second—instinctive, primal—but his expression remained carved from stone.

The machine that descended from above was different. Larger. Heavier. Its bulk groaned with a mechanical growl as it repositioned itself as if even it understood what kind of man it was dealing with.

Vaughn Skirnov: (Soft, almost reverent) Your body is a temple of raw strength, Mr. Koshimoto. I intend to fortify it.

Yoshinobu’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. His silence was a challenge.

The machine answered.

The first punch came like a hammer dropped on concrete. A set of jagged reinforcements plunged into Yoshinobu’s ribs with a sickening crack, embedding themselves deep into his bones like iron teeth biting into flesh. He tensed, his body rippling against the restraints, veins bulging under sweat-slicked skin. Blood smeared his teeth as he bit down, holding back the roar clawing its way up his throat.

The sound of grinding metal and tearing muscle filled the room. Synthetic fibers threaded through his arms and chest, ruthlessly burrowing into flesh. It wasn’t clean; it wasn’t seamless. The machine worked him like raw ore—hammering, grinding, forging him into something stronger.

Yoshinobu’s breaths grew ragged; each exhaled a shuddering growl. Sparks hissed as the implants locked into place, forcing their way deeper. The air turned acrid with the sharp tang of burning steel, sweat, and something darker that reeked of violence.

Then came the final strike. A piston drove down into his spine with the force of a gunshot. Yoshinobu’s body spasmed once, muscles seizing, his back arching so hard the slab groaned beneath him. Blood leaked from his nose, a crimson thread tracing the stoic line of his jaw. For a moment, his chest stilled—silent, motionless.

Then he inhaled.

The clamps hissed open. Yoshinobu didn’t sit up right away. He stayed there, his massive chest rising and falling like a heaving engine, his hands twitching against the steel.

Slowly, deliberately, he rose. His movements were measured, but there was something new in them—something that carried the weight of inevitability. The servos embedded in his joints hummed faintly, an electric whisper beneath his skin, like the quiet before a storm.

Yoshinobu flexed his hand, testing it. The knuckles cracked—loud, sharp, like a grenade detonating in the dead air. The sound echoed, rattling through the room, making the others flinch.

He stared at his hand as though it didn’t belong to him, his fingers curling into a fist—too powerful, too perfect. For the first time, uncertainty flickered across his face, hidden behind the weight of his stoicism.

Yoshinobu Koshimoto: (Low, guttural, barely above a growl) What did you make me?

Vaughn Skirnov stepped forward, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow. His red eyes gleamed with something close to satisfaction—admiration, maybe—but it was colder than that.

Vaughn Skirnov: (Smooth, clinical, like an artist addressing his masterpiece) You were already steel, Mr. Koshimoto. I merely shaped it into its true form.

Yoshinobu’s gaze burned into him, searching for an answer that Skirnov didn’t offer. He rose to his full height, a towering wall of reinforced flesh and tempered rage. The faint whine of the servos vibrated under his skin, subtle but constant, like a caged storm waiting to break free.

For a long moment, he said nothing. He didn’t need to. The air around him felt heavier now, as though his very presence had been rewritten—more than human, but less than himself.

Without another word, Yoshinobu turned away, his footsteps echoing through the cold chamber. Each step seemed to leave an imprint—weighty, final. Takeshi watched him carefully, his cybernetic eye flickering faintly, but said nothing. Yuriko glanced away, unable to meet his gaze. Even Kyōki, for all her mania, fell silent.

As Yoshinobu disappeared into the shadows, Skirnov smiled faintly—just a thin line of amusement as his machines reset, cleaning the blood from their tools.

Vaughn Skirnov: (Whispering to himself) Perfection always comes at a price.

The whir of machinery filled the silence again, but the sound seemed emptier now. Like something irrevocable had been lost—or created.

Takeshi Nomura Procedure

The silence deepened as Takeshi Nomura stepped forward.

The others were done—upgraded, altered, shadows of what they’d once been. They watched him now, each in their own way: Yuriko with a sharp, guarded stare; Yoshinobu’s fists clenched like he could fight Takeshi free if he needed to; and Kyōki, unusually still, her crimson eye pulsing faintly in uneven beats.

Takeshi said nothing. He didn’t look at them. He walked to the slab like a man walking to his execution. When he lay down, his coat slipping off his shoulders like a shed skin, the restraints hissed and locked into place. The cold metal snapped tight around his wrists and ankles. He didn’t flinch.

Skirnov approached, silent as a shadow, his crimson eyes brighter now—hungrier. He tilted his head, studying Takeshi’s face like a sculptor sizing up a block of stone.

Vaughn Skirnov: You wear your fear well, Nomura. Buried beneath resolve. But make no mistake—this will strip you to your marrow.

Takeshi’s cybernetic eye glowed faintly, his face unreadable. His voice cut through the still air like a knife.

Takeshi Nomura: Do what you’re going to do. I’ll endure it.

Skirnov’s lips curled into a faint smile. He gestured, and the machine above Takeshi began to whir to life.

This machine was different. Larger. Heavier. Its mechanisms hummed at a frequency that set teeth on edge, an unrelenting, predatory sound. Wires descended first—hundreds of them, thin as spider silk, shimmering with faint blue light. They didn’t puncture Takeshi’s skin. Instead, they slithered.

The first wire touched the side of his neck, and Takeshi’s body jerked involuntarily. The others had screamed, or laughed, or growled against their agony. Takeshi didn’t. He gritted his teeth as the wires forced their way beneath his skin, slinking into his nerves like living things. His jaw locked. His fists strained against the restraints. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his cybernetic eye remained fixed on Skirnov.

Vaughn Skirnov: The body is weak, but the mind... ah, the mind fights. That’s what makes you different, isn’t it, Nomura? You refuse to break.

More wires descended, piercing his chest, arms, and spine. Takeshi’s body convulsed once, violently, but he refused to cry out. The air around him began to shimmer faintly—a distortion, a heat that pulsed like a living heartbeat.

The machine didn’t stop.

Now, the needles came. Larger. Sharper. They hissed as they drove into his joints, his spine, his skull. Takeshi’s vision fractured—lines of neon static flickering across his HUD like broken glass. His cybernetic eye dimmed, then flared so brightly it burned white, flooding the room with pale light.

Inside Takeshi’s mind, something happened.

He saw himself—standing alone on a crumbling road, Tokyo’s skyline aflame in the distance. The glow of his eye reflected back at him from the puddles at his feet, and the wind carried voices—Yuriko’s, Yoshinobu’s, Kyōki’s—faint, distorted. Calling his name.

And then another voice. Deep, smooth, familiar.

Vaughn Skirnov: What will you sacrifice to lead them, Nomura? How much of yourself will you burn away?

The sky above him cracked open, light pouring down like molten glass, searing his skin. Takeshi dropped to one knee, clutching his head as the world folded in on itself.

In the real world, Skirnov’s machine hissed as it reached its climax. Takeshi’s body bucked once, hard, then went still. His breathing slowed. The glow in his eye flickered wildly—on, off, on—like a dying star.

Skirnov stood over him, watching intently.

Yuriko took a step forward, her voice sharp.

Yuriko Ikeda: He’s not breathing. What did you do to him?!

Skirnov held up a hand to silence her. He never took his eyes off Takeshi.

Vaughn Skirnov: Wait.

The silence stretched—long, cold, unnatural. Then, Takeshi’s fingers twitched. A sharp gasp tore from his lips as his eyes snapped open—one glowing pale blue, the other a deep, flickering crimson.

He sat up slowly, unsteady for just a moment. The servos in his spine whined faintly as he rose to his feet. When he flexed his hand, it didn’t just move—it blurred, impossibly fast. His breathing steadied.

The others watched him, uneasy. Kyōki tilted her head, her grin faltering for once.

Kyōki Piero: Boss... you good in there?

Takeshi turned to her, and for a moment, his gaze didn’t look like his own. The flicker of crimson in his eye lingered before dimming back to its pale blue.

Takeshi Nomura: I’m fine.

His voice was steady, but a hum was beneath it—a faint, mechanical resonance that hadn’t been there before.

Skirnov stepped forward, looking at Takeshi with something close to awe.

Vaughn Skirnov: Remarkable. You see, Nomura? You didn’t just endure—you transcended.

Takeshi said nothing. He reached for his coat, draping it over his shoulders. The servos in his body hummed with newfound power, but his movements were measured—deliberate, as though testing his own skin for cracks.

As he turned to the others, his expression softened just slightly.

Takeshi Nomura: We’re leaving.

Yuriko shot a wary look at Skirnov but followed Takeshi without question. Yoshinobu kept his distance from the doctor, his fists still tight. Kyōki lingered for just a second longer, watching Takeshi with unblinking curiosity.

Kyōki Piero: (Whispering) He didn’t fix you, did he, boss? He... rewrote you.

Takeshi didn’t answer. He stepped through the doors, the faint hum of his upgrades the only sound that followed him. Skirnov stood alone in the center of his lab, the glow of his machines casting him in crimson light.

His smile returned sharp and satisfied.

Vaughn Skirnov: (Softly, to himself) Let’s see how long you stay whole, Nomura.

When the Reavers regrouped near the warehouse exit, the air between them felt wrong—thicker, heavier. Their bodies hummed with the faint, unnatural pulse of the upgrades Skirnov had given them. Kyōki practically vibrated, her cybernetic eye flaring like a live wire as she hopped from foot to foot. Yuriko stood perfectly still, her breathing too measured, her gaze too sharp. Yoshinobu rolled his shoulders, every movement deliberate, like he was learning to contain his new strength.

Takeshi Nomura stood at the front, his face unreadable. The upgrades were inside them now. Too late to turn back. He looked at his team—his family—and something in his gut twisted.

Kyōki’s voice broke the silence, teasing and sing-song as always, but somehow darker now.

Kyōki Piero: Well, Ronin? Do you think we’re pretty yet?

Takeshi didn’t answer. He turned to face Skirnov one last time.

Takeshi Nomura: We owe you nothing until we win.

Vaughn Skirnov smiled that predatory smile again, his red eyes lingering on them as though appraising his work.

Vaughn Skirnov: You misunderstand, Mr. Nomura. You’ve already paid.

The Reavers left the warehouse as the red light faded behind them. Outside, the rain fell in sheets, soaking them to the bone. Takeshi led the way, silent, his cybernetic eye glowing faintly beneath his hood.

Kyōki’s voice drifted from the back, soft and sing-song.

Kyōki Piero: Monsters live forever, don’t they, Takeshi?

No one answered. The rain swallowed her words, but the hum inside them—the hum that now belonged to Skirnov—never stopped.

The rain hadn’t stopped. It never did. Tokyo’s underbelly was a maze of dripping metal and fractured concrete, a place where the world felt like it had rusted over. The Cyber Reavers moved through its veins, silent save for the hum that followed them now—an unnatural vibration beneath their skin, faint but inescapable. It felt alive.

Takeshi Nomura led the way, hood drawn low, his mind a warzone of static and doubt. The faint whine of his accelerators hummed faster than usual, almost impatient, like his body was ahead of his thoughts.

Behind him, Kyōki Piero practically skipped, spinning once in the downpour as though the rain existed just for her. Her cybernetic eye glowed red—brighter now, steady and unblinking. There was something feral about her movements, sharper than before. Too sharp.

Kyōki Piero: (Laughing, arms outstretched to the sky) Tell me this, Takeshi: is it still raining, or are we just drowning now?

Yoshinobu Koshimoto didn’t answer. He stalked forward with a heavy, deliberate tread, his shoulders hunched like he was carrying the weight of the storm itself. Every step rattled the metal scaffolding beneath him. The servos hidden in his limbs let out a low whine that sounded... wrong—like machinery groaning in protest. His massive fists were clenched, and his jaw worked like he was chewing on the words he didn’t dare speak.

Yoshinobu Koshimoto: (Grumbling under his breath) I can feel it. The power. It’s not... mine.

Yuriko Ikeda was silent as she moved, her steps unnaturally smooth. She barely made a sound, even on wet steel. Her hands twitched constantly now—her enhanced reflexes too quick for her body to idle. Every shadow drew her gaze, her cybernetic eye twitching with erratic readouts. Data flooded her field of vision like Skirnov had buried it under her skin.

Yuriko Ikeda: (Muttering) He did more than we asked for. We’re faster, stronger—but this isn’t clean tech. It’s... invasive.

Takeshi stopped, turning to face them as the rain dripped from the brim of his hood. He knew they felt it too—that hum inside them, subtle but unshakable, like they were no longer themselves.

Takeshi Nomura: (Cold, steady) We knew there’d be a cost. Don’t lose focus. We get through this Rumble, we win, and then we handle Skirnov. One way or another.

Yoshinobu glared through the rain, his fists flexing.

Yoshinobu Koshimoto: (Growling) And if this ‘cost’ keeps growing? You feel it too, don’t you? Like there’s something else in here.

He tapped his chest—hard—and the dull clang of reinforced muscle echoed through the alley. For a brief moment, even Kyōki went still. Her head cocked to the side, and her grin faltered. She pressed a palm against her own chest, as though testing for something beneath the surface.

Kyōki Piero: (Soft, almost reverent) Monsters under the skin... I like it. It tickles.

Yuriko shot her a glare sharp enough to cut.

Yuriko Ikeda: That’s not funny.

Kyōki turned toward Yuriko, her cybernetic eye flaring as she skipped forward, invading the space between them.

Kyōki Piero: (Grinning wide, voice sing-song) Oh, lighten up, Yuriko! You’re faster now. Shinier. Deadlier. Maybe you’ll finally smile when you gut someone in the street or destroy an opponent in the Rumble.

Yuriko’s fist shot out—too fast. Faster than even Kyōki expected.

It stopped an inch from Kyōki’s face, the knuckles trembling. The rain dripped from Yuriko’s cybernetic hand, steam rising faintly as though her circuits burned hotter now. Kyōki didn’t flinch; she only tilted her head back, giggling softly.

Kyōki Piero: (Whispering) Touchy, touchy. I love it.

Takeshi’s voice cut through the rising tension, sharp and commanding.

Takeshi Nomura: Enough. Both of you.

The words echoed against the alley walls, carried by something heavier than rain. Kyōki stepped back with a mock bow, hands raised in surrender. Yuriko lowered her fist, turning her glare to Takeshi.

Yuriko Ikeda: (Bitter, shaking her head) This is falling apart. You know it is.

Takeshi said nothing. He turned and continued walking, the others falling in behind him. None of them spoke again, but the silence was far from calm. The hum beneath their skin grew louder in the quiet, like a voice they couldn’t hear but somehow understood.

They reached the hideout in the dead of night. The rain still pounded above, muffled through layers of concrete and steel. The monitors flickered with glitching static, painting the room in fractured light.

Takeshi stood at the table, staring at the Rumble bracket sprawled across the screen. Names flickered—opponents who’d bleed, opponents who’d break. Opponents who didn’t know the monsters they’d be facing.

Kyōki perched on the edge of the counter, her movements jerky, unnatural. She twitched a finger across the surface like she was tracing invisible lines, humming to herself.

Kyōki Piero: (Softly, to no one) Tick, tock, tick, tock. The Neon Ronin leads us to war. Are we ready? Are we pretty?

Yoshinobu loomed in the corner, his back against the wall. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling with a rhythmic whir of machinery. He said nothing, his gaze locked on his hands—his new hands.

Yuriko paced like a caged predator, her steps silent, her eyes darting to every screen. She couldn’t stop scanning, couldn’t stop seeing.

Yuriko Ikeda: (Quiet, like an accusation) He’s watching us. You feel it, don’t you?

Takeshi didn’t look up.

Takeshi Nomura: (Flat, cold) It doesn’t matter.

Yuriko stopped dead in her tracks, whirling to face him.

Yuriko Ikeda: It matters if we don’t make it out of this alive.

Kyōki burst into laughter, the sound jagged and sharp, her cybernetic eye flaring as she swung her legs off the counter.

Kyōki Piero: (Clapping her hands) Oh, we’ll make it out, Yuriko! We’re not dead yet. We’re better than dead—we’re perfect.

She spun, her laughter echoing into the dark, but no one joined her.

Takeshi’s voice finally broke through the chaos, quiet and unshakable.

Takeshi Nomura: Tomorrow, we fight. No distractions. No doubts. We win the Rumble. After that... we settle our score with Skirnov.

Yoshinobu’s growl rumbled from the corner.

Yoshinobu Koshimoto: And if he settles it first?

Takeshi looked up then, his cybernetic eye flaring pale blue.

Takeshi Nomura: Then we make him regret it.

The hum beneath their skin seemed louder now, vibrating through the walls, the table, the air. Kyōki’s laughter died in her throat. She tilted her head as though listening.

Kyōki Piero: (Softly, eyes unfocused) He’s already inside us, Takeshi. What’s the point in pretending?

Takeshi’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. The rain pounded harder, and the lights in the hideout dimmed—just for a second. The monitors glitched, static spreading across them like cracks in glass.

Yuriko’s voice broke the stillness, low and uneasy.

Yuriko Ikeda: (Whispering) He’s not done with us yet.

The Reavers didn’t speak again. They didn’t need to.

Outside, Tokyo’s neon glow seemed to flicker, dimming just slightly as the storm raged on.

Tokyo Dome: The Ronin Rumble

The arena was alive—thousands of fans screaming themselves hoarse, neon lights casting electric shadows across the crowd as the Ronin Rumble continued to roar. The massive countdown clock loomed on the screens, ticking down as anticipation built like a rising tidal wave for the next two entrants.

00:10.

00:09.

Backstage, just behind the curtain, the Cyber Reavers stood in the red glow of the timer, the hum of the crowd vibrating through the steel walls. Takeshi Nomura stood at the forefront, bathed in crimson light. His hood was drawn low, the faint glow of his cybernetic eye flickering beneath it like a predator’s gaze.

Kyōki Piero perched on a nearby equipment crate, swaying back and forth with manic energy. Her crimson cybernetic eye glitched, clicking faintly as it flickered.

Kyōki Piero: (Sing-song, teasing) Oooh, listen to them, Takeshi. They want blood. They want chaos. Lucky for them, the Ronin’s brought both.

Takeshi didn’t reply. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the precise calibration of his spinal accelerators hum softly beneath his skin. Every joint, every muscle, every artificial nerve was tuned perfectly, hidden beneath layers of synthetic flesh.

Yuriko Ikeda stood to the side, her arms crossed and her cybernetic fingers tapping a sharp rhythm against her sleeve. Her sharp gaze flicked to Takeshi, a hint of caution darkening her expression.

Yuriko Ikeda: (Low, warning) Remember—every move you make has to look clean. No glitches. No mistakes. They can’t suspect.

Takeshi’s head tilted slightly toward her, the pale blue glow beneath his hood steady and cold.

Takeshi Nomura: (Quiet, calm) They won’t.

The countdown clock hit 00:05.

Kyōki’s grin widened, sharp as a blade, her voice a gleeful whisper.

Kyōki Piero: Tick-tock, tick-tock. Showtime, boss.

Yoshinobu Koshimoto cracked his knuckles nearby, the faint creak of metal under pressure barely audible. He grumbled beneath his breath, his massive form casting a dark shadow across the group.

Yoshinobu Koshimoto: (Low, gruff) They’re not ready for him.

Takeshi ignored them all, stepping closer to the curtain as the final seconds evaporated into eternity.

00:03.

00:02.

00:01.

The first thundering beats of “Cyber Samurai” by Carpenter Brut hit like a war drum. The bass rumbled the walls, vibrating through the floor as the stage lights flared to life in blinding neon.

The curtain parted. Takeshi stepped through.

The crowd erupted—thousands of voices crashing like a tidal wave as Takeshi Nomura, The Neon Ronin, strode onto the stage. The arena lights framed him in stark contrasts of shadow and color, making him look larger than life. The sharp angles of his coat cut through the air as it billowed behind him, and beneath his hood, the glow of his cybernetic eye pulsed faintly—just for a moment—like an ember waiting to blaze.

He paused at the top of the ramp, standing perfectly still as the crowd's roar washed over him. The cameras zoomed in, broadcasting his face to the world: calm, focused, deadly. A man on a mission.

No one could see the enhancements humming beneath his skin. No one could feel the ghostly precision with which his body moved. To them, he was Takeshi Nomura—a fighter, a warrior, a man. Nothing more.

But to himself—and to those who truly knew—he was something else entirely.

Takeshi lifted his head slowly, the faintest of smirks curling his lips. The neon strobes glimmered across his face, and for a heartbeat, he seemed more machine than man.

He stepped forward, each movement deliberate and seamless, and descended toward the ring.

The Ronin had arrived.