Chapter 7. We come in peace
(A few hours earlier)
Inside a condom factory, Gerald sat cross-legged atop a dusty box labeled Latex XL – Tactical Grade, sipping tea with the calmness of a monk. A book was open in his hand, and behind him, a few scrappy-looking men cleaned their firearms, each minding his own business. The vast, echoing space held a certain stillness—until that stillness shattered.
"GERALD!!"
The voice was a thunderclap. The kind that made you flinch, even if all he wanted was the salt.
Gerald didn't respond. He simply let out a long, weary sigh.
"GERALD!!" It came again, closer this time—like an avalanche approaching on foot.
He swiveled lazily to face the voice. "I'm here, Commander. There's no need to scream," he muttered.
Akira Fuji appeared, stomping in like a one-man parade. Towering at 6'2", bald, and wrapped in a dusty, patched-up military coat that had clearly lost a war with fashion. He adjusted his oversized glasses—glasses that begged for a cooler owner—and stroked his dramatic, villain-grade mustache with pride.
"Oh, there you are," he said with flair. "I was worried you'd vanished. Like... hope for mankind."
He began pacing with theatrical grace, mismatched boots thudding on tile. He glanced around at his men, struck a tragic pose, and sighed.
"This stillness—it makes me itchy. Like we're sexy, rugged, lonely ducks." His shoulders rolled like he'd just been possessed by the ghost of a Shakespearean actor.