One Week Later
West City was never quiet, but tonight it buzzed with an edge of tension. Streetlights flickered inconsistently, power grids pulsed, and the rhythmic hum of the Capsule Corp skyline was broken by bursts of static that sent low-level employees into a flurry of diagnostics.
In the main lab, Bulma adjusted a glowing interface, her fingers dancing across the holographic keyboard. Onigiri stood nearby, arms crossed and rings still glowing faintly. His bandages were gone, but the soreness lingered beneath the surface.
"Three substations fried in one night," Bulma muttered. "Power's fluctuating, machines are shorting out, and some of the damage patterns look... targeted."
Dr. Briefs looked up from a console across the room. "This isn't natural interference. Someone's tampering with the grid."
Bulma snapped her fingers. "Substation 9. It's closest to our experimental energy vault. If someone's trying to siphon Capsule Corp tech…"
"I'm going," Onigiri said.
Bulma turned. "Not alone. I'm coming with you. Someone needs to figure out how they're doing it."
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The air near Substation 9 felt off. Humid, crackling with static. The lights overhead flickered violently, casting long, stretching shadows. The smell of ozone and burnt circuitry clung to the wind.
Onigiri stepped ahead of Bulma, eyes scanning the darkness. "Something's here."
A figure emerged from the shadows—lean, sharp-eyed, and wrapped in a dark, reinforced uniform. One arm was cybernetic from elbow to wrist, plating humming with faint blue energy.
"I was wondering when Capsule Corp would send someone," he said, voice smooth and deliberate. "Didn't expect the demolition boy and the genius princess, though."
Bulma narrowed her eyes. "Who the hell are you?"
The man bowed mockingly. "Zan Hui. Former Crane School disciple. Current contractor for… let's call it a forward-thinking organization."
Onigiri's gaze sharpened. "You're the one hitting the grid."
Zan smiled. "Field test. My contractors want to see how their new tools hold up in a fight. And you, my overloaded friend, are the perfect data point."
Before Onigiri could reply, Zan snapped his fingers. Smoke erupted from capsules tossed onto the ground—a dense, acrid fog designed to blind and disorient.
Everything went gray.
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Onigiri coughed as the thick fog flooded his lungs. It was cold and clung to his skin like oil. The visibility dropped instantly—shadows twisted and vanished into a suffocating gray. His muscles tensed, unsure of where the next attack would come from. Even his breathing felt heavier, not from suppression, but from the sudden drop in visibility and the oppressive silence.
"Still standing? Impressive," Zan's voice echoed through the fog. "Let's see how long that lasts without your eyes to guide you."
Onigiri turned sharply at the sound—but too slow.
A sharp jab to the ribs knocked the wind from him. A second strike clipped his jaw. He threw a punch in return, but it hit nothing but air.
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Bulma's Perspective
Bulma ducked behind a nearby maintenance console, coughing as the mist reached her side of the substation. She activated her wrist tablet and tried to isolate the gas compound.
"Obscuration compound… thickened smoke with magnesium flares," she muttered. "Nasty stuff. Definitely Red Ribbon tech."
She watched Onigiri stagger in the haze, barely dodging a flying kick that knocked out a steel beam behind him. Her heart clenched. He wasn't losing because he was weak—he was losing because he couldn't see the attacks coming. And that hesitation was costing him.
"I've gotta even the odds," she whispered. She popped open her satchel and pulled out a modified capacitor node.
"I hope this works…"
She jammed the node into the base of the substation's grounding column and rerouted its energy to pulse through the mist.
The air cracked.
Electricity surged across the battlefield, burning off some of the mist and causing Zan to recoil, his visor flickering.
"Capsule Corp brat," he growled. "I'll deal with you after I put your pet in a coma."
Bulma didn't flinch. "He's not a pet. He's a problem for you."
But regardless her heart was pounding. The moment the fog began to thin enough, she caught her first clear glimpse of Onigiri trading blows with Zan—only now, something was different. He was moving sharper. Not faster—smarter.
She saw the hesitation in his steps transform into intention. The way he used the environment, reacted instead of charging blindly.
Bulma tapped her tablet and deployed a secondary pulse to keep the area clear of smoke, amplifying the capacitor node's reach.
Her fingers flew across the screen, locking in a signal jammer to block any potential outside feeds. She wasn't just protecting Onigiri—she was making sure no one else could see what he truly was.
"He's learning," she whispered. "Right in the middle of the fight."
Zan lunged again—this time using a grappling hook to vault over a beam.
Bulma's eyes widened. "Behind you!"
But Onigiri was already turning—grabbing Zan mid-air and hurling him into a metal pylon with a concussive clang.
The sound echoed through the substation.
Bulma's grip tightened on her tablet. He wasn't just powerful. He was adapting.
And that scared her.
Not because of what he could do.
But because she wasn't sure what might happen the day he stopped holding back.
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Onigiri's Perspective
The fog was nearly gone now.
He could see Zan clearly—his stance, the slight hitch in his left leg from the impact, the way his cybernetic arm sparked faintly.
Zan was calculating again, trying to figure out a new angle.
And for once, Onigiri was doing the same.
He shifted his weight slightly, testing the ground. The fog was thin enough now that he could see the tension in Zan's stance—how he leaned ever so slightly on the damaged leg, how his left side hesitated before moving. He wasn't just faster. He was wounded. Predictable.
'If I can force him to move left, I can trap him,' Onigiri thought, eyes narrowing.
He moved—not recklessly, but with purpose. A feint to the right. A short dash forward. Zan bit.
The mercenary pivoted, just as Onigiri hoped, stepping on his weakened leg.
That's when Onigiri struck—a sweeping kick aimed not to break, but to trip.
Zan fell, caught himself mid-roll, and launched a pulse blast from his gauntlet.
It grazed Onigiri's arm, searing the fabric and skin underneath.
He hissed through clenched teeth, but didn't retreat.
Instead, he stepped forward and slammed a fist into Zan's gauntlet just as it charged another shot.
The device exploded in a shower of sparks. Zan screamed, stumbling back with one arm limp and sparking wildly.
Onigiri didn't press the attack. Not yet. His chest heaved. He was winning—but barely. And he was learning more from every blow.
But then something changed. Zan's movements—sluggish only moments ago—began to tighten again. Sharpen. He wasn't flailing anymore. He was adjusting.
Onigiri blinked. 'He's reading me.'
Zan struck suddenly with a spinning backfist—not with his damaged arm, but the good one—and clipped Onigiri across the cheek. Onigiri reeled, stunned.
"You're holding back," Zan hissed. "You think restraint makes you better? Makes you safer?"
Another kick caught Onigiri in the ribs, sending him skidding across the concrete.
'No… I am holding back.'
The realization settled in his chest like a stone. Every strike, every counter—he wasn't fighting to win. He was fighting not to lose control.
He rose to one knee, breath ragged. His arm burned, and his vision blurred for a moment. He remembered the thugs. The fear in their eyes. The memory of his father's fist crushing bone.
'I don't want to be that.'
But another thought cut through the haze:
If I keep hesitating… I'll lose.
He stood.
Zan came at him again, aiming high.
This time, Onigiri ducked low and drove his shoulder into Zan's gut—not enough to break, but enough to lift him off the ground and slam him into the metal floor.
It was rough. Messy. Balanced between instinct and fear.
Zan groaned, coughing, but twisted to his feet with a growl. "You're afraid of your own strength. That's why you'll never beat me."
Onigiri squared up, fists raised, heart pounding.
"Maybe. But I'm still standing."
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Bulma's Perspective
Bulma watched the exchange with wide eyes, caught between awe and fear. Onigiri wasn't fighting like the boy she'd pulled out of the ice. He was fighting like someone trained. Someone aware.
She whispered to herself, "He's not just adapting… he's evolving."
Then her eyes flicked upward. Her signal jammer blinked red—external surveillance had pinged it.
Someone was watching.
Her heart sank. "Red Ribbon's got eyes on us."
Before she could react further, movement behind her caught her attention—two figures darting from the shadows. Red Ribbon grunts, armored and masked, closing in fast.
"Target the girl. Extract and retreat!" one of them barked.
Bulma's eyes widened. "Oh no you don't."
She yanked another capsule from her pouch and slammed it to the ground, deploying a flash-burst field projector. A blinding surge of light erupted, disorienting the attackers. She ducked behind a utility terminal, pulled out a compact taser-slinger, and fired. One grunt spasmed violently and collapsed.
The second dove for her, but she rolled under a conduit and popped up behind a support column. She tapped her wristband and activated a nearby maintenance bot, overriding its protocol.
"Go haywire. Now."
The bot surged forward, spinning and sparking. It slammed into the grunt and exploded in a harmless but loud puff of smoke and foam, sending him tumbling to the ground.
Bulma panted, sweat beading on her forehead.
Then she remembered the drone.
Her signal jammer blinked red again. Still recording.
She dove for her capsule pouch, grabbing an electromagnetic pulse mine.
"You're not taking this footage home," she growled, hurling the device into the sky toward the hovering drone she hadn't seen until now.
A blast of static tore through the substation as the EMP detonated mid-air, the drone dropping like a stone.
Bulma exhaled hard, but her fingers trembled. They know about him now.
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Onigiri's Perspective
Zan circled again, shaking off the slam. His steps were slower now, but precise. Calculated. One arm limp, the other still dangerous. His eye twitched every time Onigiri moved—a sign of stress, maybe pain. But also focus.
Onigiri grunted and charged—only for Zan to roll low and pop up behind him, striking the side of his knee. The joint buckled slightly. Onigiri stumbled.
Zan moved to follow up, but Onigiri caught his foot mid-kick and hurled him into the wall.
Zan hit hard—but twisted in the air and landed upright, panting, crouched.
"You learn fast," Zan muttered, dragging in a breath. "But you're still treating this like a game."
"I'm trying not to break you," Onigiri replied, stepping forward.
Zan laughed dryly. "Then you've already lost."
He reached into his belt and pressed something—a hidden capsule popped open beside him. A high-powered plasma baton extended from the base, humming with unstable energy.
Zan lunged.
The baton came down—Onigiri raised his forearm to block. Sparks exploded on contact. The metal burned into his skin and forced him back.
He growled. His hand tightened into a fist.
Zan pressed the attack—one blow after another, forcing Onigiri to retreat.
Then Onigiri saw it. An opening.
He twisted, stepped inside the swing, and slammed his palm into Zan's chest—not with full force, but enough to throw him off his feet and send him skidding into a broken support pillar.
Zan coughed violently, blood speckling the ground beneath him.
Onigiri glanced down at the faint blue glow of his inhibitor rings. Still active. Still holding him back.
He lowered his hands slowly, chest heaving. "It's over."
Zan looked up, his good hand trembling. "No. It's only the beginning."
From his fallen position, he tapped something on his belt.
Another capsule popped open beside him—this one releasing a flashbang that rocked the substation.
When the light faded, Zan was gone—only smoke and blood remained.
Onigiri stood in the silence that followed, staring at the place where his opponent had vanished.
His breath still came in short, burning bursts. Blood trickled from a gash above his brow, his body aching from dozens of micro-injuries. Yet none of that hurt as much as the unease clawing at his chest.
He had fought with everything—everything—he dared to use. And still, Zan escaped.
The truth gnawed at him.
He'd held back. Even in the final moment. Even when he knew Zan was dangerous.
Not because he wanted to lose—but because he was terrified of what might happen if he didn't.
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A soft crunch of boots echoed behind him.
Bulma approached slowly, singed at the edges and bruised, but standing tall. Her eyes scanned the wreckage, then settled on him.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer at first. Just stared ahead.
"I don't know," he finally said.
Bulma stepped closer. She glanced around the shattered remains of the substation, then at the trail of blood where Zan had disappeared.
"They'll come back, won't they?" she asked.
Onigiri nodded.
"Yeah. And next time… he won't be alone."
She didn't offer false hope. Didn't try to reassure him. Instead, she pulled a capsule from her belt and clicked it, releasing a compact med-kit in a puff of smoke.
"Then we get ready," she said. Her voice was steady—but her hands trembled just enough to betray the truth. "Together."
He looked at her, really looked—and for the first time in hours, the storm inside him quieted.
Maybe he could learn control.
Not for himself.
But for her.
And for the people who couldn't fight back.