Dunce blinked against the sudden influx of weak daylight as he shuffled back into the metal hut, his rough canvas sack slung over his shoulder. He spotted the half-empty bamboo basket of fruit and turned to the man in white, who sat with unnatural stillness, like a predator conserving energy.
"Mr. Owen," Dunce mumbled, the respectful title feeling alien after the terrifying night, "you didn't eat much. Aren't the fruits good?"
A flicker of Owen's old, weary smile touched his lips. "No, Dunce, they're… remarkably sweet. The best I've tasted." He gestured dismissively at his own lean frame. "My appetite is small. Half a basket was enough. You should finish them." His gaze lingered on the boy's open face, clouded with a mix of resentment and bewildered fear. *This simple child…* he thought, a pang of something almost like guilt touching his hardened heart. *Without his naive kindness, the VII-GenTox coursing through my veins would have already dragged me screaming into the abyss. Hell's probably my only destination after all I've done. Doubt they'd let someone like me past the Pearly Gates.*
Dunce didn't argue. Hunger was a primal driver, even now. He scooped up the basket and devoured the remaining bio-engineered apples and luminous berries in rapid succession. Food brought a measure of clarity, and he looked back at the lean, handsome man whose face radiated a carefully constructed calm. An innocent question slipped out, born of a child's logic. "Mr. Owen… why were those men trying to kill you? And why use VII-GenTox? Gorith says that stuff costs a fortune. Are they… really rich?"
Owen chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Rich? Oh, Dunce, beyond measure. And powerful. Let's just say I… underestimated my enemies. Slipped up." He touched his chest unconsciously, his eyes hardening like chips of ice for an instant before the mask of calm resettled. "They only dared to send a small team because they thought the toxin had crippled me."
Dunce nodded slowly, understanding only the cruelty. "They're bad. Poisoning you with something so horrible… if you died, you couldn't even eat protein paste! Please be careful, Mr. Owen." The concern, raw and genuine, momentarily pierced Owen's armor.
Looking into Dunce's wide, guileless eyes, Owen felt an unfamiliar sensation – a brief, unwelcome warmth, a slackening of the constant tension that defined his existence. *This boy…* he thought. *He's the only person I haven't had to dissect, manipulate, or suspect in decades. Around him… I almost feel… relaxed.* The realization was dangerous.
"Dunce," Owen said, shifting the subject smoothly, his voice deliberately gentle. "The biocomposite spheres you synthesized counteracted VII-GenTox. That level of biochem… your Master, Gorith, must be extraordinary. Tell me his full name?" He already had a file on the man, but needed to confirm.
Dunce brightened slightly. "Oh, Master Gorith!"
Owen raised an eyebrow. "Gorith? The Bio-Alchemist?" *This complicated things.* Gorith was infamous in certain circles – a Master of dark biomodifications and unsanctioned experiments. Not known for charity or taking in orphans. *Why would a shadow like him foster this simpleton?*
"Yes! Master Gorith!" Dunce beamed, pride briefly eclipsing his fear. His face then fell. "He's not here now. He went out… to find rare elements and components. Master doesn't like strangers, Mr. Owen. You… you should probably leave early tomorrow. The spheres should suppress the VII-GenTox as long as you maintain your internal energy flow. It should hold for years."
Owen nodded, the earlier flicker of warmth vanishing, replaced by steel. "I'll be gone tomorrow. Dunce… how long have you been with Gorith? How does he treat you?"
"Almost a solar cycle!" Dunce replied, the pride returning. "He saved me from the Niro Industrial Zone slums. Fed me. I haven't been hungry since he found me!" He gestured at the basket. "And when he's gone, he brings back… protein paste!" His smile was pure, uncomplicated gratitude. The image jarred violently with Owen's knowledge of Gorith.
*What game is Gorith playing?* Owen wondered. *This boy, this tool… it doesn't add up.* He needed more. "What did Gorith teach you?"
"Mystic energies!" Dunce's eyes lit up. Showing off, he chanted a trigger-phrase. Blue-white aether-flame erupted in his palm, illuminating the grim hut with an otherworldly glow.
Owen offered appreciative acknowledgment – a potential asset. "Impressive control for one cycle of training. Solidly Initiate level." But the flames weren't the answer he sought. *How did this child withstand the psychic echoes of the Reaper's Blade? Even seasoned operatives crack under its resonance.* Nothing in Dunce's explanation touched on that near-supernatural resilience. "Just Mystics? Nothing else?"
Dunce extinguished the flame. "Oh! I memorized all Master Gorith's notes on Bio-Alchemy! That's how I synthesized your spheres!" He looked down, kicking the metal floor. "I'm… slow. That's all."
Still no answers. Owen pushed. "Before Gorith… what did you do?" Suspicion bloomed.
Dunce flushed crimson, looked away. Shame radiated from him. He stammered through a confession of petty theft and brutal survival in the industrial underbelly.
As Dunce finished, Owen's mind raced. *Gorith taking in a gutter rat? Providing him with the scarce Nervo-Regenerative Elixir? That elixir cleanses neural pathways, enhances potential… but it doesn't explain the radiant life-force shielding him from the Blade. Nothing does. This boy is a paradox.*
"Dunce, come here." Owen's voice was clipped.
Warily, Dunce approached. Owen's fingers closed on the boy's pulse point, injecting a sliver of his own tempered qi – a diagnostic probe.
**"By the Architects!"** Owen gasped, genuine shock breaking through his composure. *How is this possible?* The energy radiating through the child's simple frame was staggering – not destructive power, but pure, vibrant *life*. An ocean of untapped potential humming beneath the surface, a purity untouched by the harsh realities he'd endured. It explained the resistance to the Blade's darkness. It explained everything.
Dunce flinched. "Life Rockforce-force? I don't…"
"Dunce!" Owen leaned forward, intensity burning in his eyes. "Tell me! Did Gorith ever give you something… special? Unusual?"
Dunce thought hard. "No? Just the fruits… the paste he brings…"
Owen's mind latched onto the fruit. *Could it be…?* "Take me to the bio-orchards. Now." Hope, cold and sharp, ignited within him.
Dunce hesitated. "It's dark now, Mr. Owen. Morning is safer."
"Now, Dunce." Owen's voice brooked no argument. "This is vital."
Reluctantly, Dunce led him into the thick, glowing miasma surrounding the orchards. For an hour, Owen questioned each bioluminescent plant, analyzed spectral emissions, tested edibility with cautious qi probes. Frustration mounted as he found nothing matching the legendary descriptions he sought.
"Enough," Owen sighed as they wandered deep into the luminous maze. "Let's return." Disappointment tasted bitter. He glanced at the boy, whose exhaustion was palpable. "Stay close. It's easy to get lost in this light pollution."
Dunce yawned widely. "Okay. But… don't pick anything, Mr. Owen. Lots are toxic. Once I ate two that smelled incredible early in the morning cycle. Spent cycles sick… shivering, burning up."
Owen froze. "You remember what they looked like?"
Dunce shook his head. "Not really. But the smell! Sweetest thing ever. Like… home, if I ever knew one." He described finding the small, silvery orb-fruits in the predawn haze, driven by gnawing hunger to devour them despite their intense heat.
As Dunce finished the story, Owen stared at him, stunned into silence. Then a bitter laugh escaped him. **"Fate… it mocks me."** *Vita Nova… the Forbidden Fruit.* "And it ended up in your belly."
Dunce blinked. "Vita Nova? Is that what they're called? Master Gorith's notes didn't mention them. Are they good? Why did they make me so sick?"
Owen's smile was bleak. "'Good' doesn't even begin to cover it. Come." *Vita Nova…* The name echoed in his mind like a curse. *If I'd found you just three cycles ago… before the poison… before the betrayal… I could have shattered all limits. Needed no one. Feared nothing.* The loss was a physical ache.
Back in the hut, Dunce slumped onto a reinforced chair, preparing for his nightly neural-focus exercise. "Mr. Owen, I need to cycle."
"Wait." Owen's voice stopped him. The earlier calm was gone, replaced by an unsettling intensity. "Dunce… my name is Owen. Remember it. That Vita Nova you consumed… it holds power I've spent cycles seeking." He knelt before the boy, his gaze locking onto Dunce's with predatory focus. "The Vita Nova is gone. But the potential it awoke in you… it's crucial. Listen carefully. I need you to become my apprentice." He saw the instant refusal bloom in Dunce's eyes and cut him off. "The training I offer… the Vita Nova would accelerate it beyond measure. I have… unfinished business. Critical. Matters that demand justice." His voice hardened. "But the VII-GenTox limits me. Severely. I *need* you, Dunce. To inherit what I can teach you. To finish what I started. Will you come with me?"
Fear warred with loyalty on Dunce's face. He shook his head vehemently. "No. I can't leave Master Gorith. If I could give you the fruit back, I would! Maybe… maybe tomorrow we can look for another one?" He sounded desperately hopeful.
Owen's expression hardened like tempered steel. The mask of the 'Mr. Owen' Dunce had known for a day evaporated, revealing the ruthless killer beneath. "Dunce. Look at me." His voice was flint scraping stone. "A question. Straight. Who is stronger? Your Master Gorith? Or the man who reduced Exterminators Six and Ten to husks?"
Dunce flinched violently, memories of the dried-out corpses flashing behind his eyes. "Y-You," he whispered.
"Precisely." A sliver of white energy flashed near Owen's hand, slicing a clean edge off the alloy chair without a sound. "Let me be clear. I am Owen, the Reaper. Death incarnate. The VII-GenTox cripples my output, perhaps. But against someone like Gorith? A minor Bio-Alchemist dabbling in forbidden paths? It would be… instantaneous." Owen leaned closer, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Do you understand the choice now? Walk with me willingly… or kneel by Gorith's desiccated corpse when I return here without you."
Dunce stared, paralyzed by terror. The kind 'Mr. Owen' was a phantom. This was the Reaper. Tears welled in his eyes as he crumpled to his knees on the cold floor. "P-please, Mr. Owen! Please d-don't hurt Master! Please! I'll d-do anything! Anything!"
The transformation was complete. The predator had cornered his prey. "Wise. Very wise." Owen's voice softened into a false, chilling comfort. "I won't harm him. As long as you're with me, Gorith is safe. You can even return… after you've learned enough."
Dunce huddled on the floor, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. He felt like he'd betrayed the only good thing in his life. Finally, through tears and gasps, he choked out, "O-okay. I… I'll go. But you p-promise? No hurt Master?"
"My word is unbreakable," Owen lied smoothly. He crouched, placing a hand – that instrument of death – awkwardly on Dunce's shoulder. "Gather your things. We leave at first light." He paused, his eyes flinty. "One more thing. If you try to run… at any moment… I will come back here. I will find Gorith. And you know what happens then." It wasn't a question.
Dunce nodded miserably, a terrified puppet whose strings had been seized.
* * *
Dunce woke with the artificial dawn glow filtering through the hut's ventilation slits. He didn't cry out. A terrifying numbness had set in. He packed his meager belongings: the spare synth-fiber clothes Gorith had given him, the eleven remaining biocomposite spheres he'd synthesized for Owen, all stuffed into his canvas sack. He walked to the bio-orchards on autopilot, filling the bamboo basket one last time, and ate the luminous fruit in grim silence.
"This is difficult for you?" Owen asked, already standing by the door, a compact vibro-blade concealed at his back, his pack strapped securely.
Dunce avoided his gaze. "When do we leave?"
"Now." Owen didn't apologize. "Your path has changed. Accept it." *You are my weapon now.*
Dunce nodded. "Can… can I leave Master a message?" Hope flared, weak and desperate.
"Of course. I'll leave one too." Owen found the archaic writing implements Dunce produced. He scrawled a concise note on reinforced synth-paper: *'The boy is safe with me. Do not seek.'* He found a heavy rock and weighted it down on the table. "There. Satisfied? Gorith will know you're unharmed. Apply yourself, and our separation needn't be long."
Dunce wrote haltingly, his message tear-blotched and simple, filled with apologies and promises to return. He placed it under the rock beside Owen's cold statement.
Stepping outside, Dunce paused, staring at the grimy metal facade. This place, these glowing orchards – they represented the only stability he'd ever known. Owen stood silently behind him, a patient executioner awaiting the final walk.
Suddenly, Dunce dropped to his knees. He pressed his forehead to the damp, metallic ground in front of the hut – once, twice, three times. He didn't speak aloud, but the silent intensity of the gesture spoke volumes: forgiveness, supplication, goodbye.
He stood, shouldering his sack. His voice, when it came, was flat and empty. "Mr. Owen… I don't know the way out. Master Gorith… he never let me leave."
Owen's lips tightened, extinguishing Dunce's last fragile hope of rescue or delay. "Once you guide me back to the ambush coordinates, I can navigate from there." It was final.
With a last, lingering look at the hut, Dunce turned and walked, leading Owen back into the writhing, bio-luminescent mist. He moved silently, but the feeling of being wrenched away from his only haven was a physical agony. He dreaded seeing Gorith, fearing Owen would kill him. And he feared *not* seeing him, leaving forever. The conflict churned within him like nausea.
Emerging from the miasmic edge of the orchards into the hazy, filtered sunlight of the outside world was jarring. The air felt thick, polluted, devoid of the orchard's strange life. The warmth on his skin couldn't penetrate the icy dread locked around his heart.
Owen's trained navigational algorithms, aided by Dunce's directions to the battleground, quickly plotted their exit. They walked in heavy silence for hours, hacking through underbrush resistant to terraforming efforts, leaving the bioluminescent sanctuary far behind.
Five cycles after Dunce vanished into the polluted morning haze with his captor, a figure stepped into a dimly lit chamber deep within an unmarked orbital station above a ruined Earth quadrant. The room was bathed in low-level red emergency lighting, thick with the scent of ozone and filtered, recycled air.
Nine figures clad in sleek, featureless black nano-fiber armor stood at rigid attention on a raised hexagonal platform. They were silent, motionless, their faces hidden behind blank helmets emitting only soft power indicators. The air vibrated with palpable tension.
A voice manifested in the chamber, deep, resonant, and utterly without a visible source – an eerie blend of synthesized bass and sharp, chilling intelligence transmitted directly into their neural interfaces: **"Exterminator Team One. Report status of Operation: 'Reaper's Silence'. Confirming fatalities: Six, Ten, Eleven."**
Slay One, the figure at the lead, pulsed a subvocal response that echoed slightly in the chamber's acoustics: **"Status: Failure. 'Target Omicron' neutralized initial effects of VII-GenTox Alpha. Deployed primary armament. Team losses incurred. Retreat authorized."** Even through the modulator, a trace of something – shame, dread – was discernible.
**"Elucidate."** The Pope Mystic's voice demanded absolute detail.
"Mission parameters initiated within designated terrestrial zone designated 'Sanctuary Beta'. Target showed significant debilitation patterns consistent with VII-GenTox Alpha infiltration. Assumed terminal status achievable. However, Target Omicron mobilized primary armament sequence. Team cohesion compromised. Targets Six and Ten neutralized instantly. Target Eleven attempted flanking maneuver, neutralized subsequently." Slay One delivered the tactical report flawlessly. "Target Omicron… offered tactical withdrawal. Motivation cited: historical operational association factor." He paused, adding the necessary justification: "Regrouping and reassessment deemed strategically optimal."
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, only the faint hum of the station's life support systems audible. Then, The Pope Mystic's voice cut through it, sharp as a diamond scalpel: **"Slay One. You possess decades of operational experience. Analysis, anticipation, strategic objectivity… core parameters. Your report lacks them."**
Slay One's armor joints locked. His neural interface spiked with alert signals – the equivalent of sweat for his conditioned mind.
**"Query,"** the voice continued, cold logic dissecting the situation. **"Probability assessment: Target Omicron expends critical energy reserves deploying primary armament while actively combating VII-GenTox Alpha neuro-toxicity… then consciously permits operational compromise units to retreat for sentimental reasons. Statistical plausibility: Negligible. Ergo: Either Target Omicron lacked operational capacity to terminate remaining personnel… *or* your tactical assessment was compromised by emotional interference."**
Slay One felt the neural feedback warning like ice crawling down his synthetic spine. The Pope Mystic's analysis was ruthless, correct. **"Directive violation identified: Presumption of terminal status without definitive confirmation. Scenario modeling: Primary armament deployment represented final operational expenditure. Further toxin propagation likely induced immediate incapacitation post-engagement. Retention of position could have enabled subsequent capture. Analysis: Critical tactical error."**
Slay One pulsed rapidly. **"Sir! Mission parameters failure acknowledged! Request immediate reassignment and execution of Phase Two: Asset Retrieval. Target remains immobilized within Sanctuary Beta. Operational certainty achievable!"**