After taking a moment to gather himself, Orion began patting down the Hound S.C.U., searching for cartridges. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped him as he realized that he and D-Mo weren't the only ones strapped for resources. No cartridges—just a decent weapon, which would definitely come in handy out here.
Passing through the red door, the meaning behind his contact's warning became instantly clear. A tunnel had been crudely excavated through one of the concrete walls, wide enough to fit a full-sized Hound Unit. The work was sloppy, the support beams sparse and unevenly spaced—barely enough to keep the whole thing from collapsing.
It didn't take long before the air turned harsh. Orion began coughing, the atmosphere thick and caustic, like breathing in metal shavings. He slipped off his backpack and pulled out an air purifying mask. Not knowing what lay ahead, he'd packed enough filters to last three days.
At last, they reached a stairway that led to a hatch above. When they pushed it open, a wash of sunlight poured down on them—not the golden kind they had imagined, but a muted, dusty light filtered through layers of pollution. Still, it was more sun than any of them had ever seen before.
Stretching out before them was a vast, desolate wasteland, fading into a haze of dust on the horizon. Behind them loomed the bleak gray walls of the districts, which—by comparison—suddenly seemed almost welcoming.
The sight was so disheartening that even Spark didn't speak. Not a single cheerful word passed her lips as they pressed forward toward The Plant. ArchTek had done an excellent job concealing what lay beyond the wall. The reality was far worse than any of them had imagined.
As far as their eyes could reach, everything felt lifeless—not just devoid of nature, but the very embodiment of death stretched endlessly around them. After two more hours of trudging through the dust-laden wind, a faint outline emerged on the horizon: the silhouette of a cooling tower. At last, The Plant was in sight.
The closer they got, the more movement became visible around the perimeter. All manner of vehicles and individuals encircled the structure. First came the faint hum of distant conversation—then the muffled roar of an arena crowd, barely contained by the walls enclosing it.
They slipped into the flow of the crowd unnoticed. No one seemed to pay them any mind, let alone recognize them. Orion scanned his surroundings in awe, taking in the sheer variety of Units unlike any he had ever seen.
Some were clearly ArchTek designs, though heavily altered—patched up with crude weapons and modifications, often with no regard for proper spellcasting integration. But the ones that stood out most were also the most unsettling.
Counterfeit Units. Some mimicked human forms, others bore animalistic features. Nothing was off-limits here. Many had extra limbs or none at all, forming a crowd that looked like a scrapyard brought to life. Some moved with the smooth precision of high-end components—others jerked forward like wind-up dolls, their mechanical awkwardness deeply uncanny.
They stepped into the power facility, where what resembled a registration desk had been cobbled together from scrap. Behind it sat a massive, bald man, hammering away at a console as Units and humans alike lined up to register or place bets on the fights.
His speech was little more than a series of grunts, barely intelligible on the first pass. Anyone who asked him to repeat himself was met with a far clearer—much louder—response that left no room for confusion.
Mounted above the desk was a massive screen, listing upcoming matchups, their scheduled times, and the betting odds based on current wagers.
When they finally reached the front of the line, Orion stepped forward and said, "I'd like to register an S.C.U. for the next round of fights."
The man opened a new tab on his terminal, his voice rough and gravelly. "Callsign. Class if it's ArchTek. Specialization if it's not."
"D-Mo. Phantom Class," Orion answered, the words slightly muffled behind his breathing mask.
The man finally looked up, raising a thick eyebrow. "First-timers, huh? I asked for a callsign, not a serial number." He gestured broadly to the crowd beyond them. "These freaks want entertainment, not a specs sheet. Give me something catchy—or your Unit's getting trash hurled at it before the fight even starts."
Orion let out a weary sigh. "Go ahead and take the next person. We'll come up with something and try again."
They withdrew to a quiet corner to talk, Orion wearing a scowl. "Callsign," he muttered bitterly. "Of course they want a callsign. All S.C.U.s have some cool name."
D-Mo folded her arms and shot him a look, accompanied by a universal hand gesture that needed no translation.
"That's not what I meant," Orion clarified quickly. "I like 'D-Mo' too, but we need something crowd-friendly—something they can shout from the stands."
"I already have a cool name!" Spark chimed in, entirely missing the point.
Orion paused, running a hand over his face before speaking again, voice uncertain. "I... I probably should've brought this up sooner," he said, swallowing. "I found a recording in your system. From your time at ArchTek. I was trying to repair it before I showed you."
At Orion's words, D-Mo visibly stiffened, her arms uncrossing as tension settled into her frame.
"The audio I managed to salvage called you the prototype for Project War—something. The rest was too degraded to make out," he said. "But I think I've pieced together enough."
After a brief conversation between them, D-Mo gave a silent nod, and the group made their way back to the registry line. The man at the desk barely looked up, grunting through the same routine. "Callsign. Class if ArchTek. Specialization if not."
Orion inhaled deeply, then answered, voice firm. "Phantom class—
SPELL CONTAINMENT UNIT
D-M0
CALLSIGN: WARDEN