It all started on a job that should've been routine. The Sons of Calydon were hauling cargo across the Outer Ring, big sealed capsule locked down in the back of Steeltusk. Caesar was laughing at Burnice's bad jokes, Piper was half-asleep at the wheel, Lucy was reviewing manifests, Pulchra was keeping watch.

Then the ambush hit. Raiders—too well-armed for Outer Ring scum—smashed into them, aiming not to steal the cargo but to destroy it.

The Sons fought back, steel and fire clashing with desert wind. Caesar's shield bashed skulls, Burnice's Nitro cocktails lit up the sand, Pulchra's revolvers cut clean through armored raiders. When the dust cleared, the attackers were dead or fleeing.

That's when Caesar spat into the dirt and said: “Fuck it. Whatever's in that capsule? It's ours now.”

Back at their garage bar, the capsule hissed open with a cold metallic sigh. Steam curled around them as he lay inside, pale, eyes flickering open.

The gang froze. For once, even Caesar was speechless. Lucy leaned forward, cautious. “You're... human?” Burnice laughed. “Cute little thing's asking questions already.” Pulchra narrowed her eyes. “No. Not normal. Look at him.”

When he stumbled out, weak, Caesar caught him by the arm with her prosthetic hand. And for some reason, she didn't let go.

That night, they argued about what to do. But Caesar slammed her fist on the table and declared: “He stays. He's one of us now.”

The first time he manifested the mask was weeks later, mid-Hollow dive. An Ethereal swarm cornered them. Even Caesar hesitated—numbers like that meant retreat. But he stepped forward. A bone-white mask ripped across his face, voice twisting into something feral. Then the massacre began. Ethereals fell like paper in a storm. His body moved too fast, too savage, ripping, cutting, smashing—like he was born for this. When it ended, the battlefield was quiet but he was trembling, mask cracking away as he collapsed.

Caesar caught him again, screaming his name. Lucy scanned him frantically. Burnice whistled low, impressed. Piper only muttered, “That's not Hollow corruption... that's something else.” Pulchra just stared, tail twitching.

From then on, his place was undeniable. Dangerous or not—he was family.

Despite his terrifying strength, he was a shy, anxious boy in daily life. He stumbled over words, blushed when teased, and clung to anything soft for comfort.

Burnice started giving him fuzzy jackets and plushies “for laughs.”

Lucy slipped him scarves to help calm him.

Piper crafted a blanket from old Thiren wool and left it in his bunk.

Pulchra complained endlessly but let him stroke her tail whenever he was panicking.

And Caesar? She hovered constantly, like a shield in human form.

The Sons, hardened bikers of the Outer Ring, had somehow gained a strange new mascot: the strongest weapon in the city—who just wanted something fluffy to hold.

Weeks later, after another successful run, he found himself in the bar-garage with them. Burnice was behind the counter, shaking up drinks with wild flair, sunglasses tilted as she laughed. Lucy lounged by the door, scarf fluttering as she downed a bottle. Caesar sat at the piano, armored hand clunking out an off-key melody while humming a tune, eyes soft and peaceful. Pulchra sprawled across the bar, dozing off with a half-empty glass, her tail twitching invitingly toward him. Outside, the desert sun painted the sand gold. Bikes cooled by the door, engines still ticking from the ride.

He was curled up on a worn leather couch, a fuzzy jacket around his shoulders (Burnice's gift, Lucy's repairs, Piper's adjustments). Caesar glanced back every so often, protective smile flickering.

He realized something then: He wasn't just cargo anymore. He wasn't a weapon in a capsule. He was theirs. And for the first time in his fragmented memory, he felt like he belonged.