Cybernetic Beast Taming In A Game-like World

"Beastcorp is glad to see you alive."

Jethro's face twisted slightly, assessing the man standing before him. His clothing was a design of corporal menace, consisting of a suit made from carbon-black fabric, hanging long and sharp on his muscular frame. His biceps threatened to bulge out of the sleeves, but were held firm by the strong fabric, and his palms were replaced with bionic fists, resting on the hilt of a slender, high-density aether blade.

Apart from his terrifying 6'7 build, his face— or lack thereof —was what stilled Jethro.

A smooth and contoured black helmet covered his entire head. It had a somewhat triangular shape. Upside down with very short rectangular horns poking out on top. A thin visor sliced around the eye area, and spilling beneath the helm was long strands of metallic-black hair, falling over his mighty broad shoulders.

"Are they now?" Jethro said cautiously. "You're not exactly a welcoming face."

The man stood emotionless for a moment, not that Jethro could tell from that rigid mask. "I apologize for my threatening appearance. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do in that regard."

Jethro let out a sigh. This guy didn't sound so bad. He leaped onto the bed and sat, easing himself into a more comfortable posture. "So. What do you want? If it's the health bill… eh, you're going to have to add it to my queue. I'm not so great on credits right now."

"You do not have to worry about that. Your care here has been provided by Beastcorp itself, there are no bills."

Jethro snapped his head at him. "Really?" He seemed rather surprised, taking another look at his reflection only left him wondering even more. 'A procedure like this would've caused millions back in my world.'

Realizing the masked man was still standing and watching, he slowly turned his direction. "So you all must want something then."

The man remained still. "The situation is intense. Because of this, President Velara Ardent wishes to speak to you. Ask you a few questions."

Jethro placed his hands behind him, putting his body weight on them. "The President herself, huh. That's kind of exciting. But when do I get my Gutterling back?"

"After the meeting of course. Your mechbeast is undergoing thorough diagnostics. Standard procedure, to ensure no latent physiological or bond-related trauma resulted from the… incident."

Jethro pursed his lips argumentatively, but decided to let it be. He and seven other people entered what was meant to be a Grey Rank Rift for training, and in the end, he was the only one who came out.

It was natural that Beastcorp would have questions.

"Fine."

He slid off the bed, landing lightly despite the residual stiffness. The nurse, hovering nervously near the door, handed him the matching white clinic shirt. Jethro pulled it on, and was just about to follow the masked man out of the post when he noticed that his palms were naked.

"Wait!" he said in panic. The masked man spun and looked down at him. The boy was staring frightenedly at his hands as if they'd turned to human heads. "My gloves?" Jethro asked, looking up. "Where are they?"

"Gloves?" the masked man asked plainly.

"Yes. They were beam gloves. Red and black with a repulsor at the center."

The man turned to the nurse who appeared slightly pale like she knew exactly what Jethro was talking about. "The gloves… they were burnt, damaged beyond repair and we assumed it was useless."

"Useless?" Jethro's eyes flashed with anger for a blitz of a second, but it was enough for the masked man to notice. "Where are they now?"

The nurse shrinked back. "In th-the trash alongside the rest of your clothes."

"These gloves…" the man spoke, looking at Jethro. "How important are they to you?"

Jethro's eyes moved to him, and they turned cold that moment, becoming a mirror of his defiance burning within him. "I won't leave this room without it."

The masked man glared at him for a moment, as if he was measuring the truth behind those words. Seconds trickled by, then he turned to the nurse. "Go and retrieve the gloves."

"The trash collector was here moments ago. Trash has been gathered and will soon be on their way to a burnhouse." the nurse replied.

The man remained still. "Then you better hurry."

With a final glance at Jethro, the nurse turned and sped out of the room, yelling at the trash collector who she had conveniently caught pushing a trolley of garbage down the corridor.

Back in the health post, Jethro and the masked man stood opposite each other, staring at their faces in the sudden silence.

However, behind the courageous face he put out, Jethro's heart was beating. He'd just threatened obstruction to a Beastcorp agent over gloves. Madness. A man like that could end him with a slash of that aether sword.

Perhaps, it had just been the fear of losing the only thing that connected him to his waiting father back in the outskirts of Sector Twelve.

"May I speak freely?" the masked man said, breaking the silence.

The use of that term surprised Jethro, but it made sense seeing that a man like this was probably an enforcer of some kind for Beastcorp. He was not used to speaking unless being spoken to.

"If you want to." Jethro thought that was the most suitable response.

The man turned fully, his imposing frame blocking more of the light. "What was it like?" he asked, intensity emanating from the modulator. "Facing the conqueror himself. Decterion. What did it feel like?"

Jethro's demeanor changed. He folded his hands, and his face lowered in thought. "That's what you're curious about? You don't want to ask how I survived."

The man held his gaze for a moment before turning away. "The President will ask you many questions, but she will never ask you the one I just did. Yet, it is the only one I care to know."

Jethro gave him a quick glance, searching the impassive black mask for motive.

"My entire life," the man continued, the modulated tone dropping lower, almost contemplative, "has been fashioned to one day face the conqueror. In some ways, I envy you, and in others, I feel as though I am not ready. But I can never know, not until I can fathom how it feels to face hi—"

"He slaughtered all of them with every single motion he made."

The masked man turned to Jethro. The boy's head was still low but his crimson eyes had dulled, like he was recalling haunting scenes. The hair in the back of his neck had risen and his sweat pores started to leak.

"Each time he moved, someone collapsed and died. All over me. Fire. Blade. Earth and Blood." Jethro's lips shivered as he spoke. "He burnt Mory's face while she cried. He buried Anson in the ground, suffocating him with rocks. He slaughtered their mechbeasts with cleaves of his giant sword. He cut Pott into a hundred pieces…"

The masked man stood utterly still and listened. Silent.

"I remember what he said," Jethro continued, narrowing his eyes, then lifting his gaze to meet the man. "There is no preparation for death."

Silence rested once again, this one charged with the terror of Jethro's words, and the warning that the masked man could never actually be ready for a being like Decterion Darc.

"Yet you seemed to have survived this inescapable death," the man remarked.

Just then, the doors hissed open and the nurse flew in. "I found it!" she exclaimed, raising the gloves before resting her hands on her knees, panting hard.

"I found the gloves!"