Four hours later, Rudra was still wandering the corridors of the Hercules Command's ship like a lost tourist who refused to ask for directions. The lights overhead pulsed in a soft gold rhythm, clean and expensive-looking — too expensive for someone like him to even breathe near.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, eyes tracing the sleek alloy panels. "Either this ship was built by angels or by people compensating for something."
He trailed his fingers along the smooth wall, pretending not to be impressed but absolutely was. Every corner gleamed with that cold, militarized elegance — white floors that reflected your mistakes, reinforced glass that made you feel like a goldfish in a tank of bureaucrats.
In his head, though, he was narrating everything like he was giving a documentary tour: 'Here we see the majestic spacecraft, home to hundreds of souls pretending to know what the hell they're doing. And in the wild, the Rudra — a rare species — continues his search for meaning… or a bathroom.'
He chuckled to himself, then paused when two officers passed by, giving him weird looks. He straightened up immediately. "Oh yeah, no, totally normal," he said under his breath. "Just talking to myself."
He stopped at an intersection — four identical corridors stretching like copy-pasted code. "Man, they should label these halls," he grumbled. "How the hell am I supposed to find the main hall when every hallway looks like IKEA's"
He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Alright, brain, let's try north. Or… whichever way feels like the plot wants me to go."
And with that, Rudra set off again — guided by nothing but s bad intuition, and a faint sense.
Rudra froze mid-step at the sound of a voice behind him — thick, nasal, and soaked in the most unmistakable Aussie twang he'd ever heard.
"Oh boy, you're awake!"
He turned around slowly, eyes narrowing. Standing there like a fever dream given form was a man who looked like someone had taken a cowboy, a surfer, and an outback wildlife mascot and fused them together in a blender. The guy had a shock of messy red hair tucked under a dusty hat, a lazy smirk on his face, and pants that were—Rudra blinked twice—kangaroo-themed. Literal kangaroo pouch designs on each leg.
"…There's no way you're real," Rudra muttered.
The redhead tipped his hat, grinning wider. "Real enough to drag your sorry arse outta that island when you were half-dead, mate. Ring any bells?"
Recognition hit like a slap. "Oh, you," Rudra said, pointing accusingly. "The insane guy who gave me beer while I was bleeding out."
"Oi, that was medical-grade lager," the man said with mock offense. "Killed the germs, didn't it?"
Rudra stared. "…Pretty sure it killed a few brain cells too."
The man just laughed, a booming, easy sound that filled the sterile hallway. "Good to see ya vertical again, Phantom Flame."
Rudra's jaw tightened. "Don't call me that."
"Right, right," the cowboy said, hands up in mock surrender. "Forgot you're the serious type. Anyway, name's Riley Kangston. Captain Kangaroo, at your service." He gave a theatrical bow that made his hat nearly fall off.
Rudra just stood there, blinking. "…You're joking."
"Nope," Riley said proudly, slapping one hand on his kangaroo-print thigh. "Name fits the pants, don't it?"
Rudra sighed, rubbing his temple. "I feel like my life's being written by a drunk author."
Riley chuckled, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "Welcome to the Hercules Command, mate. Don't worry — it only gets weirder from here."
"I have many questions," Rudra said flatly, his eyes dragging up and down Riley's absurd outfit like he was inspecting an alien creature. "First off, why are you dressed like a kangaroo cowboy? And second—why are you a redhead? That's… that's an Irish thing, not exactly Aussie."
The grin on Riley's face froze. A vein twitched at his temple. Slowly, he removed his hat, placed it over his heart, and gave Rudra a look that could curdle milk.
"Now listen 'ere, you lanky curry-powered skyscraper," he began, his accent somehow thickening as if fueled by rage. "I'll have ya know my granddad came off the boat from Dublin in the fifties and earned his citizenship the hard way — wranglin' crocs, drinkin' petrol, and out-running spiders the size of your ego. You don't call a Kangston half-blood Irish, ya hear?"
Rudra blinked, taken aback. "…You just called yourself half-blood Irish."
"Yeah, but I can say it!" Riley snapped, pointing at him with mock fury. "You can't! Bloody tourist."
"I have many questions," Rudra said slowly, eyeing him up and down like he was trying to figure out if the man was part of some experimental species. "First off—why the fuck are you dressed like a kangaroo cowboy? And second—why are you a redhead? That's an Irish thing, not exactly Aussie."
Riley froze mid-smirk. His posture straightened like Rudra had just insulted his entire bloodline. "...Oi, you take that back, ya cheeky bleedin' grommet," he said, voice dropping an octave into that offended Aussie growl that could only come from years of sunburn and bad beer. "You think just 'cause me great-great-granddad hopped off the boat from Dublin means I ain't Aussie through an' through?"
Rudra blinked, unimpressed. "Your pants literally have pouches, mate."
Riley's eyes narrowed. "At least I own pants, ya scrawny curry-scented skeleton. I seen you in that tattered shit back on the island!"
Rudra squinted. "Wow. So we're just throwing racially confused insults now?, leprechaun"
Riley jabbed a finger at his chest. "You started it, mate! Calling me Irish like that's an insult—bloody hell, you're lucky I don't sic me kangaroo pants on ya!"
"Okay, okay, I get it," Rudra said, lifting his hands in mock surrender, trying to dial the chaos down a notch. "Let's calm down—we're all friends here." His voice softened for a second before snapping back to irritation. "But at least tell me where this ship is."
"Underwater," Riley replied casually, like he was stating the obvious.
Rudra stared at him blankly for three seconds straight. "Underwater," he repeated slowly, the words grinding through his teeth. "Underwater but where exactly underwater? You realize that's, like, seventy percent of the planet, right? There are so many places to be underwater."
Riley scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting like he was trying to recall a half-forgotten geography lesson. "South China Sea," he finally said, squinting. "Currently near the coast of… uh… Philippines… or maybe China. Depends on who you ask."
"Geez," Rudra said, rubbing his temples. "So where are we heading?"
"Mongolia," Riley replied in his thick Aussie accent, popping the g like he was proud of it.
"Mongolia? Cool, I like that place," Rudra said, perking up a little. "Literally no one lives there. So much open space, clean air, less people. Finally, a country that gets my vibe." He nodded to himself, half-serious. "But I gotta pack my winter clothes though. Which place we visiting? I'd love to see that big-ass statue of Genghis Khan. Oh—but we gotta stay away from those big-ass rats that spread diseases… what were they called again?"
Riley squinted, trying not to laugh. "The word you're lookin' for is… marmot."
"Yeah, that thing," Rudra snapped his fingers. "adorable little plaque bearers."
There was a pause. Riley tilted his head, blinking. "Wait, mate—" he said slowly, realization dawning on him, "we ain't goin' on a vacation."
Rudra froze mid-thought, still picturing Genghis Khan's statue. "…We're not?"
Riley grinned, resting his arm on Rudra's shoulder. "Nah, mate. We're goin' monster huntin'."
Rudra groaned. "Of course we are. Because God forbid I get five minutes of rest."