The Mercenary Part I

Sunlight filters through leaves, casting strange shadows on Mother's face. Shiro stands at the orphanage entrance, her small hand clutched in Mother's trembling fingers. The world feels hazy, like looking through water.

Men in crisp uniforms tower above them, their faces blurring together - all sharp angles and stern lines. The only distinct feature is the gleam of brass buttons on their chests.

"Please," Mother's voice cracks. "Not her too."

Shiro doesn't understand why Mother's crying. She's never seen Mother cry before - not when the roof leaked during storms, not when food ran short, not even when the other children fought.

"Mom?" Shiro tugs at Mother's sleeve. The fabric feels wrong somehow, both solid and insubstantial.

One of the men reaches for Shiro. His hand seems to stretch forever through the strange, watery air.

"Two isn't enough for you?" Mother's grip tightens.

The words echo oddly in Shiro's ears. Everything moves too slow and too fast at once. Mother's tears fall like rain, but make no sound when they hit the ground.

"Mom, why are you sad?" Shiro wants to wipe away Mother's tears, but her arms won't move right. The air feels thick, heavy.

The men's uniforms shimmer in the fractured sunlight. One of them gently pries Mother's fingers from Shiro's hand. Mother collapses to her knees, shoulders shaking.

"I'm sorry," Mother whispers. "I'm so sorry."

Shiro doesn't resist as the men lead her away. She keeps looking back at Mother, trying to understand why the strongest person she knows has crumpled like paper in the wind. The orphanage blurs and shifts behind them, its walls melting into the strange, syrupy air.

"Mom?" Shiro calls out again, her voice small in the twisting dreamscape. But Mother just kneels there, face buried in her hands, as the distance between them grows.

***

Metal scrapes against metal as Shiro's passenger adjusts his Gull parts scattered across the cargo hold floor. The pieces glisten under the dim lights, a maze of chrome and circuitry spread out like a mechanical puzzle.

Shiro leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Three days now. My ship's not a free hotel."

The man's hands pause over a partially dismantled forearm. His movements are precise, deliberate - a craftsman's touch mixed with military efficiency.

"Strange. Usually my passengers can't stop talking. Now I'm the one starting conversations."

The man's mechanical eye whirs as he looks up, the lens adjusting with a soft click. Burn scars trace patterns across what remains of his human features, telling stories of old wounds that never fully healed.

"Slate." His voice carries a crisp accent, professional despite the informal setting.

"Most people lead with their name. Not three days of silence."

"Thought you might appreciate the quiet."

"Planning to reassemble those parts anytime soon?"

"Each piece needs cleaning." Slate lifts a segment of finger joints, inspecting them under the light. "Salt water's hell on the connections."

Shiro pushes off from the doorframe, walking closer to examine his work. The parts are laid out in perfect alignment, each piece positioned with purpose. "You're methodical. Military?"

"Could say that." He picks up a cleaning cloth, working it between the gears of a wrist joint.

"Didn't end well, I'm guessing." Shiro gestures to his burns.

Slate nods. His movements pause for a fraction of a second before resuming their rhythm.

"Whatever you're planning," Shiro says, "I need to know if it'll bring trouble to my ship."

Slate sets down the Gull component, his mechanical fingers clicking against the metal. "The man I'm tracking boarded your ship four days ago. Trail ends here."

"Four days is a long time to chase someone. Must be worth good money."

"Money's not the point." Slate begins reassembling a finger joint, each piece clicking into place with precision. "He took something that doesn't belong to him. I'm here to get it back."

Shiro studies the methodical way Slate pieces his arm back together. "What makes you think staying on my ship will lead you to him?"

"Because he'll come back." Slate connects another joint with a sharp click.

"You sound certain."

"I know his type." The mechanical lens in his eye adjusts, casting a faint red glow across the scattered parts. "There's something about this ship that would've caught his interest. He'll return when he thinks the odds are in his favor."

The confident prediction unsettles her, though her face remains impassive. "Whatever game you're playing, I want it off my ship. Soon."

"Won't take long. Either way."

***

The cargo hold falls silent except for the rhythmic clicks of Slate reassembling his Gull components. Shiro remains by the doorframe, watching him work.

Slate pauses mid-assembly, a finger joint held suspended between his tools.

"You hear that?"

Shiro straightens. Through the hull's metal walls, a low rumble carries - the distinct sound of multiple engines cutting through water.

"Three, maybe four vessels." Slate sets down his tools with careful precision. "Moving fast."

Shiro presses her palm against the cold metal wall, feeling the vibrations grow stronger. The distant engines aren't following standard shipping lanes - their trajectory cuts too close to her ship's position.

"Getting closer." Her fingers tense against the wall. The rumble builds, transforming from background noise to an unmistakable approach.

Slate begins gathering his scattered Gull components, sweeping them into an organized pile with efficient movements. The metal stairs clang under their boots as Shiro and Slate emerge onto the deck.

Four sleek shapes cut through the waves, their hulls gleaming with composite materials that catch the sunlight. No bridges mar their streamlined forms, moving with inhuman precision as they close the distance.

"Automated ships." Shiro leans against the railing. "Latest generation. Expensive toys."

Slate's mechanical eye tracks the vessels, his rebuilt arm flexing with quiet clicks. "Not the kind of hardware I expected."

"Neither did I." Shiro watches the automated ships adjust their formation with perfect synchronization. "Someone's gone through a lot of trouble."

"That damn bastard must've hacked them somehow."

The automated ships fan out, their engines humming in harmony as they begin to encircle Shiro's vessel. Their movements are too coordinated, too purposeful to be a chance encounter.

"Your missing friend?" Shiro asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.

Slate's mechanical fingers drum against the railing, the metal-on-metal contact creating a sharp rhythm that cuts through the automated ships' engine hum. "You're going to need to trust me on this one."

"Trust. Lately that word's been causing more trouble than it's worth."

"Recent passengers giving you problems?" Slate's lens adjusts, focusing on her expression.

"The last person I trusted lied and tried to kill me. The one before that... Let's just say that person hasn't improved my outlook either. Now you."

"Different situation. I'm not here to cause problems."

"That's what they all say. Right before the problems start."

"Fair point." Slate acknowledges with a slight nod. "Not asking you to trust me forever. Just long enough to get us both out of this alive."

"And after?"

"After doesn't matter if we don't survive the next hour."