The thick, chemical-tainted air of Zaun pressed down around Caleb as he stood in the middle of the abandoned garage. The space buzzed with quiet tension, a thousand fragments of potential scattered across rusted shelves and dusty tables. Though cobwebbed and forgotten, the place was a craftsman's haven—provided the craftsman knew what to do.
And Caleb did. At least, he did now.
Jarvis's voice echoed in his head with polite efficiency. "It would be wise to construct something for self-defense. This area of Zaun is particularly unregulated and unpredictable."
Caleb nodded slowly, taking in the scale of the problem. The body he now inhabited was healthier than before—no signs of his old condition—but it wasn't strong. He still lacked muscle mass and endurance. If someone attacked him, he wouldn't be able to fight back with his fists.
He glanced at his hands. "I need something small. Defensive. Enough to stop someone or escape if I have to."
He paced slowly, the sound of his footsteps echoing off rusted walls. There were tools and scraps everywhere, but he also had access to the system shop now—at least Tier One. He mentally opened the menu and browsed through the list. Plastics. Iron. Steel. Copper. Glass. Wiring. Circuit boards. Alkaline batteries. Chemicals—unrefined, but plentiful. The system provided them in unlimited quantities, so long as he had unlocked their tier.
"Jarvis," Caleb said, "pull up a quick list of threats I might face out here."
"Threats include armed thugs, chem-barons' enforcers, unstable structures, toxic chemical leaks, and local gangs. Widespread hextech use is currently limited and rare/non existent. Avoiding confrontation is advised."
"Yeah, not always gonna be possible," Caleb muttered.
He sat down on a cracked stool, elbows resting on his knees. His mind churned, ideas sketching themselves out and collapsing just as fast. A stun baton? Too big. A hidden blade? Too aggressive. A taser? Definitely possible—but too obvious and noisy for this kind of situation. What he really needed was something subtle and discreet.
Then he paused. What about something that could create an opening for escape? He thought about Zaun's low visibility, narrow alleyways, and the heavy air.
"What about a gas disperser?" he said. "Not lethal. Just enough to blind or choke—give me time to run."
"A chemical irritant would be effective, assuming correct dispersion," Jarvis confirmed.
"Alright, let's start with that."
He stood and rummaged through both the shop's conjured supplies and the junk lying around. From the shop, he summoned a spool of flexible tubing, a small plastic pressurized canister, industrial-grade rubber, and a basic mixing solvent. From the garage, he scavenged an old welding glove, a fire extinguisher valve, and some aluminum brackets.
Combining the parts, he began assembling a crude chemical mist glove. The design was simple: a tank on the back of the glove, connected to nozzles at the knuckles. He used the rubber to seal the interior of the glove, ensuring none of the mist leaked inward.
He mixed a basic irritant compound from leftover cleaning agents and oxidized copper powder, reinforced with the system solvent to boost volatility. The smell alone was harsh—it clawed at his nostrils.
"Jarvis, range?"
"Approximately one meter. Short-term blindness, coughing, and respiratory irritation are expected results."
He fitted the tank into a harness mounted to his forearm and ran the tubing into small nozzles fitted into the glove's fabric. A pressure pad in the palm would trigger the spray when he squeezed.
After testing the seal, he set the glove down and exhaled. "Left hand: done."
He rolled his shoulders, letting the burn of effort settle before standing again. "Now something for the right hand. Shock-based, maybe. Non-lethal."
He considered his options again. A taser would deliver a strong shock, but it would be too bulky and noisy, likely drawing unwanted attention. Instead, he decided on a glove that could emit a short, controlled jolt—enough to stun briefly without making a scene.
"Small batteries. Copper contact points. Just a jolt."
He summoned a set of AA batteries and insulated copper wiring from the system, then dug through the local scrap for a voltage regulator and a damaged capacitor bank. With precise soldering and a few patched-together circuit boards, he began wiring the inside of a second glove.
Rubber insulation layered the interior. Two slim, flat copper pads were embedded in the knuckles and fingertips. The battery pack he mounted into a makeshift case on the outer wrist, connected through reinforced wires.
The key was control: he installed a spring switch in the palm that would only complete the circuit when he clenched tightly.
"Jarvis?"
"Voltage is within acceptable parameters. Duration capped at half a second. Stun-level power only."
"Perfect."
He tested it on a strip of metal. Blue arcs flickered and crackled from the knuckles. Caleb grinned.
He flexed his fingers. "Right hand: done."
Finally, he turned his attention to the wrist.
"I'll need a tool set," he muttered. "Nothing fancy. Just enough to cut, light, or unscrew something."
He summoned a metal band from the system—steel-reinforced polymer with a snap-lock fit. Then, over the next hour, he embedded multiple compartments:
A folding wire cutter made from sharpened steel.
A flashlight powered by a small cell battery.
A screwdriver with swappable heads.
A compact utility blade with a slide lock.
He housed each within spring-loaded compartments with thumb-latch releases. The structure wasn't perfect, but it was functional.
He slid the bracer onto his left forearm, beneath the chemical glove, and tested each compartment. Everything clicked into place.
"Jarvis, final diagnostic?"
"All devices are operational. Efficiency is acceptable within Tier One parameters."
Caleb stood and looked at his arms: one hand armed with gas, the other with electricity, and tools wrapped around his wrist.
No brute strength. No magic. Just intellect and innovation.
He tightened his gloves and looked toward the garage doors.
Zaun was waiting. But this time, he wasn't empty-handed
The garage doors groaned as Caleb pushed them open just wide enough to slip through. Outside, the gloom of Zaun greeted him — greenish light filtering through the haze, rusted piping weaving along the brick walls, and steam hissing from unseen vents. The air was wet with the smell of oil and metal.
He kept his hood low and walked with purpose, not fast, not slow — just enough to blend in. The shock glove on his right hand was hidden inside a leather glove he'd patched together, and the chemical mist unit was slung low under his left sleeve, with only the release nozzle barely peeking out over his knuckles. The utility bracer hugged his wrist beneath his coat.
He wasn't looking for trouble, but Zaun had a way of throwing it at you anyway.
About fifteen minutes into his walk, he heard something.
Shouting. The telltale sound of fists on flesh. He paused in the middle of a side alley and listened closer. It wasn't just noise — it was a fight. One group was clearly younger than the other. And something about the pattern felt familiar. He moved toward it.
Navigating Zaun's maze wasn't hard for him — not now. He ducked into a narrower lane, following the echo of conflict. After a minute, he found a spot behind a large refuse container and crouched low.
Up ahead, a fight was playing out.
Three kids — a lean girl with short red hair, a broad boy in goggles, and a wiry, fast-talking one — were going toe to toe with a gang of slightly older teens. Caleb recognized them immediately. Vi. Claggor. Milo.
He scanned the area for Powder, but she was nowhere in sight. That made sense. She'd already been told to run. That meant this was the moment — the canon event. Caleb gripped the edge of the container and watched.
Vi was fierce, throwing precise punches that dropped opponents twice her size. Claggor held the flank, pushing back two attackers at once. Milo was wild and fast, keeping them guessing. They were handling it… but just barely. They were outnumbered, and stamina wouldn't be on their side for long.
Then Caleb saw it — one of the gang members circling behind Vi with a rusted pipe, creeping up for a blindside hit.
Caleb's hand flexed, then closed. The mist glove hissed.
A dense burst of pale vapor shot from his knuckles, flooding the alley with a noxious cloud. The attacker staggered back immediately, clutching his face, eyes streaming. He doubled over, coughing violently. Others close to the blast began to choke, stumbling back and wheezing, some tripping over debris as they tried to retreat from the sudden fog.
In the chaos, one of them broke from the group and ran directly at Caleb, perhaps thinking him an easy target. Caleb didn't hesitate. He brought his right fist forward and triggered the shock glove. A sharp blue arc snapped out with a loud crack, dropping the attacker instantly. The boy crumpled with a groan, twitching as the current dissipated.
Vi noticed. So did Milo. They didn't stop to question it — not yet. Vi took advantage of the moment, landing a brutal uppercut that sent another thug crashing into a wall. Milo tackled one to the ground, and Claggor's heavy hands slammed another into the cobbles.
The rest of the gang scattered, coughing, cursing, some barely able to see through the mist now hanging in the air like smog.
For a moment, all was still.
Caleb stepped forward out of the haze, the echo of his boots quiet on the damp stone. He didn't raise his hands this time — he didn't need to. His body language was neutral, calm, and his hood still obscured much of his face.
Vi turned to face him, shoulders tense. Her fists were still up, though just barely. "Why did you help?" she demanded, not wasting time on anything else.
Caleb hesitated, then shrugged lightly. "You looked like you needed it."
Her eyes narrowed, reading him. She looked like she wanted to say more, maybe push, but then something flickered across her face — realization.
"Powder."
Without another word, she turned on her heel and sprinted off, Milo and Claggor close behind her.
Caleb exhaled and took a step back into the shadows.
Then he started walking again, this time in the same direction they went. He stayed behind, sticking to the edges of alleys and behind pipes, keeping them just in sight. He wasn't sure why. He just knew that for now… it felt like the right move.