Inside, everything looked incredibly neat. Not sterile—
but the kind of order you see in a place that’s lived in… and cared for.
Short scrolls with kanji hung on the walls in thin frames.
Under one of them stood a small incense bowl. A thin stream of smoke rose from it, not fighting the scent of the hangar—
but quietly claiming its own space.
To the right, a small altar-like corner:
A photograph in a wooden frame.
A small figurine of a deity.
A tiny lantern.
Not a ritual.
Not for show.
Just a quiet personal island.
The floor was warm, light-colored, not metal.
The contrast with Mülldeponie scrap plates was immediate.
Further in, the space opened into the main compartment.
On the floor—to the left—a perfectly rolled yoga mat, set beneath a small dome in the ceiling that opened to the stars during long interstellar flights—an ideal place for quiet meditation.
Against the wall at the right side—kettlebells and weights. Heavy, metallic, polished so clean they reflected faces.
Nearby—a barbell, its plates aligned with deliberate symmetry.
Not a speck of dust.
And somehow, all of it blended with the soft lighting and gentle scents so naturally that it didn’t feel like a mercenary training space—
but like a private spa…
that just happened to have iron in it.
At the center stood a circular platform.
As they approached, its surface softly lit up in blue,
and a holographic map of the galaxy rose above it.
Zeros leaned in.
“Hm. Automatic navigation.”
Blindy noticed the pilot seat up front. Classic design. Straps. Controls.
But it looked… untouched.
The fabric wasn’t worn.
No dust.
The back perfectly straight, almost symbolic.
Like the seat existed out of formality, not necessity.
Blindy whispered.
“The hell…? She ain’t flyin’ it—
like—like totally not flyin’ it…
yeah… yeah…”
Zeros gave a short grunt.
“Looks like the ship does everything itself. She handles what matters.”
Blindy shivered.
Not sure if it was admiration.
Or envy.
Or the strange feeling that, for the first time in his life,
he had stepped into a place that wasn’t his—
not because it was hostile…
but because it was too right.
He stood at the threshold and stuttered:
“S-Shiori… your ship… it’s—uh…
Airi?
Heh… that—
that’s kinda… cute…”
Airi whispered softly:
“Aww, thank you, Buraindi-kun… 《《o[≧◇≦]o》》”
Shiori nodded.
“Hai.”
Zeros noted briefly:
“Order and consistency. Nothing interferes with functionality.”
Blindy took a deep breath.
“An’ your Airi… s-smells like this…?
That’s—
that’s too nice…Ain’t no bounty hunter ship smell like this…
That’s—sus—
suspicious…”
Shiori gave a small nod, acknowledging the observation.
“This is not just a hunting ship.”
She stepped forward, gesturing for them to enter.
Zeros was already inside, studying the map.
Blindy inhaled, like he was about to jump into the sea—
and finally crossed the threshold.
And then Airi activated.
Her voice was soft, feminine…
but underneath it was such cold discipline
that Blindy’s spine locked up.
“Buraindi-kun… please remove your shoes. [ಠ_ಠ]”
He flinched like he’d been shocked.
“Huh—?! Oh—! Yeah—yeah—of course—of course!”
He started yanking off his boots, hopping on one foot, grabbing the wall to keep balance.
Zeros raised an eyebrow.
Shiori didn’t even blink. She was used to this.
Blindy took two steps forward in his socks—
and immediately began shifting nervously back and forth,
leaving tiny damp prints on the perfectly clean floor,
like a walking hygiene disaster.
Airi’s soft voice came again—
polite, but absolutely merciless:
“Arē… better put them back on. [－‸ლ]
…This will be cleaner, Buraindi-kun.“
Blindy froze like an animal that had just been emotionally destroyed.
“…WHA—WHAT?..”
Zeros answered calmly:
“Logical. The amount of dead skin cells shedding from Blindy’s feet exceeds acceptable dust levels by approximately 2.7 times.”
Shiori turned slightly away, hiding a smile.
Blindy flushed red to his ears and quickly put his boots back on—this time carefully, like he was afraid to step on air itself.
“I—I’ll just…
just walk in…
alright…? Slow…
like—real slow…”
Airi chirped approvingly:
“Hai! You can do it, Buraindi-kun! [oT-T]尸”
For a moment, it really felt like the ship itself sighed in relief.
Further ahead on the left, between the navigation terminal and the cockpit, stood the personal cabin—directly across from the weaponry wall, where her katana lay on its katanakake, flanked by rows of advanced blaster rifles.
The room was small, but just as precise as the rest of the ship.
Something Z-P-N-E-S had never given him.
Not even close.
Inside, the light softened. Warm.
Colors of sand and morning mist.
At the center—a low bed, perfectly made.
But the pillow—slightly pressed on one side.
Meaning she lived here.
Not just slept like a dead mercenary.
On the wall hung a vertical scroll with kanji.
Below it—a miniature tea set.
Gray-white porcelain. Simple. Exact. Almost fragile.
In the corner—a small training setup: resistance bands, straps, compact weights.
Nothing extra.
The same ritual minimalism that existed in Shiori herself.
On another wall—photographs, arranged in a thin magnetic frame.
Elderly faces.
Children.
A middle-aged woman—likely her mother.
Blindy swallowed.
“Uh… you—you got your own room…
See that, d☒☒☒-droid? She got—
huh—PRI-VACY!”
Shiori glanced at him briefly.
“Hai.”
Said like it was normal for everyone.
Blindy shifted his gaze to the photos.
“Th-that…
that your family, ain’t it?”
“Hai.
Everyone has someone. Don’t they?”
Her voice was even.
Not sad. Just… a fact.
Zeros continued observing the space.
“Living structure is optimal.
Personal items are placed with sufficient spacing for movement.
Contrast with Blindy’s container he calls a ‘ship’ is approximately thirtyfold.”
Blindy winced.
“Yeah, thanks, you m☒☒☒☒…”
[Annoyed voice over the broadcast]“You know, Dick, I refuse to read vulgar words…”
[She exhales softly, rating spike +75%]“Anyway…”
Blindy cleared his throat and continued:
“Man… I ain’t gonna lie…
she was rusty as hell…
piece of s☒☒☒, really…but—but I still miss Z-P-N-E-S. I mean—yeah…
she was…
she was dear to me… somehow.”
For the first time, Shiori allowed herself a small, open smile.
“Buraindi-sama…
a ship is part of the pilot—
like a hand, or a leg.
Loving a part of yourself…
is normal.”