The Prophet Part II

Cold water splashes across Shiro's face. Her eyes snap open to sleek metal walls. She tries to move but her limbs won't respond. Neural inhibitors hum along her spine, keeping her paralyzed from the neck down.

The cell is a perfect cube. No seams. No windows. Only a single door with a reinforced viewport. Tubes snake from the ceiling, pumping something into the air - probably sedatives.

Heavy boots echo down the corridor. A woman approaches the cell, her scarred face reflected in the polished walls. Her presence commands attention - decades of experience etched into every line around her eyes. The guards straighten as she passes.

The woman studies Shiro through the viewport.

"Quite the show you put on at the docks," the woman says, her voice carrying the weight of authority without needing to raise it.

"Seven of my best guards in critical condition. Gonydeal armor torn through like paper. Two more missing, presumed drowned in Bonaparte's lovely toxic soup. And that's not counting what you did to the transport guard escorting that wanted man. Found him half-dead, drugged with modified Bile. Nasty business."

Shiro's silence fills the cell.

"You’ve also built yourself an impressive operation. Using your ship to stay mobile. Smart. Made it damn near impossible to track your movements."

Shiro's eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, but the woman catches the slight tensing of her jaw.

"Most runners hole up somewhere." Her fingers trace the cell's control panel. "Get comfortable. Predictable. But you - no one looks twice at a ferryman."

The woman leans closer to the viewport. "Must have been exhausting though. Never letting down your guard."

Shiro's eyes shift from the ceiling to meet the woman's gaze.

"Haven’t heard the news? Caspia's put quite a price on your head. Every port from here to Olrog's buzzing about it." The woman taps a finger against the viewport. "Five million credits. Dead or alive."

A flicker of surprise crosses Shiro's face before she can mask it.

"That's right. Enough money to buy a small fleet. Hell, enough to rebuild half of Bonaparte." The woman studies Shiro's reaction. "Must've really pissed someone off. The bounty notice mentions something about a missing CryoCore CEO and his little mechanic friend."

"The bounty's been climbing too. Started at one million last week. Then three. Now five." The woman circles Shiro's cell. "What else are you hiding that's worth so much to Caspia?"

Shiro remains silent. The neural dampeners keep her muscles locked in place, but her eyes track every movement beyond the force field.

"Not talking? That's fine. We have ways of-"

A guard rushes down the corridor. He leans in close to the woman's ear, whispering urgently. Her expression shifts from irritation to resignation.

"Looks like it's your lucky day." She nods to a guard. "Release her."

The guard hesitates, hand hovering over the cell controls. "Commander, are you sure? After what happened on the dock-"

"Just do it."

The force field dies. Neural dampeners power down with a soft whine. Feeling floods back into Shiro's limbs, pins and needles dancing across her skin. She flexes her fingers inside her sleeves, testing her restored mobility.

"Someone important wants to see you."

A guard motions for her to follow. They wind through empty corridors until they reach the surface. A crumbling structure looms before them. Blackened support beams jut from collapsed walls like broken ribs. Char marks streak up what's left of the facade, telling tales of an inferno that devoured everything in its path.

Weeds push through cracked foundation stones. Shattered windows gape like empty eye sockets, their glass long since melted or blown out. A rusty swing set creaks in the breeze, its chains wrapped around twisted metal supports.

The guard leads Shiro through the ruins. Her boots crunch on debris - fragments of toys, bits of scorched wood, remnants of young lives interrupted. Something about this place tugs at the edges of her memory. The layout feels familiar, like a half-remembered dream.

The guard stops in the center of the room. Without a word, he removes Shiro's restraints. The cuffs fall to the ash-covered floor with a dull thud.

"Leave us." A voice cuts through the ruins, familiar as an old scar.

Shiro's talons scrape against broken concrete as she turns, scanning the desolate courtyard for the voice.

"Still jumping at shadows, I see." The voice echoes off crumbling walls, impossible to pinpoint. "Some things never change."

Shiro's muscles tense, ready to strike. But something about that voice tugs at her mind.

"How does it feel to be home?" The voice carries a hint of amusement. "The old swing set where you used to practice your tricks. That window you broke trying to rescue that bird."

Shiro's eyes dart to a second-floor window, its jagged edges still sharp after all these years. Her breath catches as memories surface - the injured sparrow trapped inside, her smaller self determined to save it despite the consequences.

"I remember the lecture you got." The voice grows closer. "But you didn't care about the punishment. You just wanted to help that broken little thing."

Footsteps echo through the ruins. A figure emerges from the shadows, her chestnut hair catching what little light filters through the broken ceiling. The figure's amber eyes lock onto Shiro, filled with a warmth that cuts deeper than any blade.

Nemi.