The Capsule Corp hangar was quiet—the kind of quiet that follows something violent.
The jet hissed as it landed, steam curling off its sides into the cool air. The soft clunk of the landing gear barely echoed before techs were already rushing out, expecting chaos, orders, maybe even wounded. Instead, they found a crew that looked like they'd barely made it out.
Yamcha emerged first, holding his shoulder and wincing with each step. "Next time," he muttered, "we're bringing snacks and less trauma."
Behind him, Onigiri stepped down from the jet, the Beta Unit's twisted remains slung over one shoulder beneath a scorched tarp. The weight of it wasn't just in the metal—it was in what it meant. This wasn't a trophy. It was a warning.
Bulma was already striding across the tarmac to meet them, lab coat flaring behind her, flanked by Capsule security.
"Level three. Lower lab," she called, without breaking stride. "I want it isolated. No networks, no feeds, no failsafes. Not even power until I say so."
Onigiri nodded and followed. He carried the Beta like it was still dangerous. Part of him wasn't sure it wasn't.
Inside the lab, they laid it on the table with a deep, metallic thud. Bulma immediately activated the containment field. A soft shimmer locked the slab in a static cage of light.
She didn't wait. "Running full scans now."
Yamcha leaned against the wall, watching the readouts flash by. "That thing didn't just fight like you," he said. "It moved like it knew what you'd do before you did."
"Worse," Bulma replied. "It wasn't just mimicking. It was anticipating. It didn't copy his power. It copied his intent."
She brought up the Beta's internal logs. A video feed projected onto the far wall. It wasn't external footage. It was POV—the fight, from inside the Beta's head.
They watched as Onigiri's own moves played out, frame by frame. Every strike, every sidestep. The machine's vision auto-tagged angles, joint positions, reaction times.
Yamcha stared. "That's... you. It was studying you while it fought."
Onigiri's gaze didn't move from the screen. His expression was blank. Then came the moment—the part where his face twisted in the middle of a strike. Cold. Ruthless. His jaw clenched as if the memory hit harder than the actual fight.
"I don't remember that," he said.
Bulma muted the video. "It was mid-combat. You were under pressure. You didn't know what it could do."
He shook his head. "No. That look... I wasn't just fighting. I looked like I wanted to hurt it."
Yamcha shifted, then said with a shrug, "It tried to kill you. Kind of fair to hit back hard."
He added, quieter, "Besides... it was a machine. It wasn't alive."
Onigiri didn't answer at first. He just looked at his hands—still scraped from the fight, a few faint cuts not yet healed.
"But where do we draw the line?" he finally said. "Where does protecting and defending stop, and where does enforcing your will on someone weaker than you begin?"
That landed harder than any blow in the lab.
Bulma stepped closer, gentler now. "You didn't choose to be their target. You didn't ask to be copied. But you do get to choose who you are when they come for you."
"Yeah," Onigiri murmured. "But if they keep coming… how many more lines do I cross before I stop being a protector?"
Yamcha pushed off the wall, stepping beside him. "Then you make sure you never stop asking those questions. That's what makes you different from them."
The lab fell quiet again.
The containment field hummed softly.
And somewhere deep inside the Beta Unit's ruined chest, a single red light blinked faintly—then faded into black.
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The training deck atop Capsule Corp's west tower was quiet, high above the hum of West City's morning rush. The sun hadn't broken the skyline yet, but the sky was already bleeding pale gold into the dark. Cold wind pulled at Onigiri's sleeves as he stood barefoot on the padded stone surface.
He moved slowly through the Eightfold Motion.
Pull. Push. Twist. Flow.
His breathing was steady, but his rhythm was off—just slightly. His foot dragged half a beat. A transition snapped too hard. He knew it. He felt it. Stillness was out of reach.
He started again.
Crash. Drop. Lift. Stillness—
He stopped mid-pose, shoulders tight, hands trembling slightly.
"Your balance is off," Yamcha said behind him.
Onigiri didn't turn. "I noticed."
Yamcha approached casually, arms folded, scarf pulled tight against the breeze. "Mind if I join?"
Onigiri gave a faint nod.
Yamcha dropped into a stance across from him. "I figured after yesterday, you might want to hit something that doesn't punch back."
They moved into light sparring. No Ki. No rings. Just hands, feet, and breath. It started slow, steady. Yamcha was sharper than before. Focused. He'd been training.
But Onigiri wasn't pushing. His timing was off, his power half-there.
"You're holding back," Yamcha said.
"I have to."
"Why?"
Onigiri exhaled. "Because I don't know what happens if I stop."
Yamcha stepped in with a feint and a light jab. Onigiri blocked it easily but didn't follow up. Another strike came in—this time a sweeping leg. Onigiri stepped over it, countered with a soft tap to Yamcha's ribs, and backed away.
"You're not even trying," Yamcha said.
"I am."
"Then stop pretending you're not scared."
That made Onigiri blink.
Yamcha pressed in, fists moving faster now. "I get it. You're afraid of what you might do. But if you freeze every time someone pushes you—"
Onigiri finally struck. A clean twist, redirecting Yamcha's arm, followed by a low sweep that knocked Yamcha off balance. But he didn't follow through. He stepped back instead, fists lowered.
"You felt that?" Yamcha asked from the ground, a grin tugging at his lip. "You were in it. That was you."
"I pulled it," Onigiri muttered.
"And that's the point," Yamcha said, climbing to his feet. "You're afraid of going too far. But you didn't. You made a choice."
The wind tugged at Onigiri's shirt. He looked out over the city. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—it was familiar.
"If they build more of those things," Onigiri said, "more like it—or worse—what happens when pulling it isn't enough?"
Yamcha shrugged. "Then we figure it out. Together. But don't let fear turn you into someone else. You're not a weapon. You're a wall. Big difference."
Onigiri gave a small nod. Then, finally, he sank back into a stance. Stillness. Real this time.
They circled again. Not as sparring partners.
As friends, sharpening each other in the quiet before whatever came next.
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Bulma sat alone in the Capsule Corp control room, tucked into a corner suite that overlooked the city skyline through thick, tinted glass. It was quiet, save for the soft hum of server towers and the occasional chirp from one of her monitors.
Most of her displays were flooded with diagnostic scans from the Beta Unit—layers of cybernetic code, muscle fiber schematics, artificial nerve lattice readings. But one screen was different.
A red ping.
Unauthorized access attempt.
She leaned forward, frowning. "That's new."
The signal was faint, buried inside a junk string coming off one of Capsule's oldest orbital relays—something no one should've touched in years. Whoever it was had masked their trail well. It was smart. Almost surgical.
Almost.
Bulma's fingers flew across the keyboard, isolating the source with precision. A second later, she had it: the data was being pulled from inside West City.
She sat back. "Huh."
She opened a side panel, activating a silent pingback. Nothing invasive. Just enough to bounce the signal and narrow it further.
An abandoned commercial strip. Two blocks from one of the old Red Ribbon shell labs Capsule Corp had decommissioned after the war. Great.
She clicked on her earpiece. "Guys? We've got a problem."
Onigiri answered first. "Red Ribbon?"
"I don't know yet. But someone's trying to tap into Capsule servers from the city. It's clean work—whoever they are, they know what they're looking for."
Yamcha's voice came in next. "Location?"
"I'm sending it now. Looks like it's coming from a dead zone near an old Red Ribbon node we shut down. Could be coincidence. Probably isn't."
Onigiri didn't hesitate. "We're on our way."
Outside, wind swept across the rooftops as Onigiri and Yamcha leapt between buildings, the early morning sun breaking over the skyline. The air was cold. The city beneath them was just waking up.
But this wasn't the start of something.
It was a continuation.
And someone was still watching.
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The address Bulma had traced was a shuttered café tucked into a corner of the old district, surrounded by cracked pavement and rusting signage. Once a trendy spot for university kids and commuters, now it sat forgotten—too small for redevelopment, too well-wired to be ignored.
Yamcha crouched beside the door, peeking in through a grime-streaked window.
"Shutters are down. No movement. But the place still has power," he said.
Onigiri nodded once. "Then we knock."
He stepped forward, raised a fist—and knocked. Three times. Firm. Measured.
There was a pause. Then the lock clicked.
The door creaked open slightly, just enough to reveal a man standing inside, arms crossed, wearing a long coat and dark glasses. Late twenties, early thirties. Not military. Not scared, either.
"You're early," the man said flatly.
Onigiri's eyes narrowed. "You expected us?"
"I expected someone," he replied, stepping back into the room. "Didn't think they'd send you two, though."
Inside, the café had been gutted. Tables gone. Power rerouted. A full command rig was set up against one wall, wires running to a half-cracked capsule server. Everything smelled like old espresso and warm copper.
"Start talking," Yamcha said.
The man shrugged. "Red Ribbon doesn't erase everything. Not right away. I was… cleaning up loose ends."
"By hacking Capsule Corp?" Bulma snapped, stepping into the room behind them. Her boots echoed on the floor as she crossed the threshold, arms already folded and eyes sharp.
The man glanced at her, then smirked. "Hi, genius."
Onigiri stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"Name's not important. I was a data engineer for Project Avalanche. Not a believer. Not a loyalist. Just someone who thought they were building a future. Then they started cloning people who hadn't volunteered."
He walked over to the console, brought up a file. "You're not the only one they copied, Onigiri. You're just the one who survived the test fight."
He turned to face him. "You know what they care about? Not your restraint. Your biology. Your genetics. The stuff that makes you what you are. They don't need mercy—they want power."
There was a silence.
"Why tap our systems?" Onigiri asked.
"Because you have the last clean data. The only logs they haven't rewritten or deleted. I needed it to prove what they're building next."
Yamcha stepped in. "And what's that?"
The man hesitated, then said simply: "You. But loyal. But perfect. But willing."
Bulma stepped forward, voice tight. "That's enough. You broke into a corporate firewall containing military-level intel. You're lucky we're not handing you over to Central Command."
The man raised his hands. "Hey, I'm not resisting. Just make sure you read everything on that drive before the next version of him wakes up."
As Capsule Corp's security arrived, the man gave one last look at Onigiri.
"You're asking the right questions," he said. "Just hope you don't figure out the answers too late."
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