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Kael Varn didn't jack in that night. The crown sat on the cot like an accusation, its clamps dulled by the flop's perpetual damp, the undergrid's hum outside a low roar that drowned Mira's encrypted ping. *Rematch awaits.* Veyra's words, laced with that old venom, flickered in his neural queue, but he dismissed it with a thought-swipe—defer, not delete. Two weeks had bought him clarity, or at least the illusion of it; fourteen days of unfiltered ache had stripped the code's gloss, leaving the raw edges of a man who'd outlived his ghosts but not his scars. The relic core, caged and quiet, didn't protest. For once, the void felt patient. He let the flop's single bulb cast its yellow pall over the room, the light buzzing faintly like a trapped insect, and instead of syncing, he lay back on the cot, the thin mattress sagging under his weight. The fabric was coarse, pilled from too many washes in recycled graywater, and it scratched at his neck through the threadbare shirt. Sleep came not as escape, but as surrender—fitful, laced with the distant clank of undergrid machinery and the occasional scream from the vents, where the homeless huddled in the ducts.
Morning crept in grudgingly, the bulb's automatic timer flickering on at 0600 sharp, its harsh glare stabbing through eyelids crusted with last night's sweat. Kael groaned, a low rumble from deep in his chest, and swung his legs over the cot's edge. His feet hit the cold ferro-concrete floor, toes curling against the chill that seeped up like groundwater. The flop was a shoebox of neglect: walls patched with duct tape over cracks that wept moisture, the air stale with the faint mildew tang of unvented humidity. He rubbed his face, stubble rasping under palms still rough from scrapyard grips, and shuffled to the sink. The faucet sputtered to life with a metallic cough, water running brown for the first three seconds before clearing to a tepid stream that smelled faintly of chlorine and rust. He cupped his hands, splashing it over his face, the droplets cold enough to shock the fog from his brain but not the ache from his joints. The mirror above the sink was a fractured pane, spiderwebbed from some long-ago tenant's rage, reflecting his image in shards: one eye bloodshot and ringed with the purple bruise of neural bleed, the other shadowed by the Mark's faint scar—a red line like a poorly healed burn, itching under the skin as if the void remembered its claim.
Thirty-two years old, and he looked like he'd been dragged through the cull twice. Kael ran a hand through his hair, greasy strands falling back into place with defiant disorder, and spat into the sink. Toothpaste was a luxury he rationed—a pea-sized dollop on a frayed brush, the minty burn sharp on his tongue as he scrubbed mechanically. The routine was autopilot, muscle memory from pre-rig days, when mornings meant school runs and Dad's coffee, not bounty pings and stat dumps. Brushing done, he rinsed, the water swirling down the drain in lazy eddies, carrying flecks of last night's stubble and the invisible grit of the Warrens. He stripped off the shirt, tossing it into the corner pile destined for the communal washer in three days, and examined the gash on his arm. The nano-salve had done its work—scab tight and pink, no pus, but pressing it sent a dull throb up to his shoulder, a reminder of Veyra's arrow and the toxin's lingering bite. He flexed his fingers, joints popping softly, and reached for the salve tube, squeezing a clear gel that smelled like antiseptic pine. It went on cool, tingling as it soaked in, the bots beneath his skin humming faintly—a micro-vibration that made his teeth ache.
Dressed in yesterday's pants—faded cargo with pockets sewn shut against pickpockets—and a fresh hoodie from the flop's "wardrobe" (a hook by the door holding three identical grays), Kael turned to breakfast. The hotplate was a relic itself, coils glowing orange as it heated, the synth-noodle packet crinkling in his hand. He tore it open, dumping the dehydrated brick into a dented pot with a packet of flavor powder that promised "forge-spice" but delivered mostly salt and regret. Water from a jug—boiled the night before to kill the giardia—hissed as it hit the heat, steam rising in lazy curls that fogged the window. Kael stirred with a bent spoon, the noodles softening to a mushy tangle, the aroma filling the flop with a deceptive comfort. He ate standing, bowl balanced on the sink's edge, each forkful a deliberate chew—no rig to fast-forward the tedium. The texture was gummy, the spice a faint burn on his tongue, and swallowing felt like swallowing stones. But it filled the hollow in his gut, the carbs settling heavy, grounding the relic's distant thrum in his pocket. 800 calories, he calculated idly—enough to burn off in an hour of physio, but a start.
Outside, the Warrens stirred like a beast rousing from slumber. Kael stepped into the corridor, the door hissing shut behind him on pneumatic hinges that stuck halfway, requiring a shoulder shove. The hall was a narrow vein of flickering strips and graffiti—*Pantheon Lies, Cull Lives* scrawled in faded spray, overlapping with eviction notices peeling from the walls. Neighbors nodded or ignored: the old woman from 3B, her aug-leg whirring as she dragged a cart of recyclables; the kid from 5C, kicking a dented ball against the grate, echo sharp and lonely. No small talk—undergrid etiquette was silence unless bartered—but Kael slipped the kid a Credit chit for "the game," the boy's eyes widening before he bolted. The stairwell smelled of urine and fried circuits, steps slick with tracked-in mud from the flooded levels below. He descended carefully, hand on the rail—rust flaking under fingers, a hazard in its own right.
The street level was chaos contained: hover-cabs idling with throaty idles, their repulsors kicking up puddles that splashed his boots; vendors unfurling awnings over stalls of knockoff augs and vat-meat pies, steam rising in greasy clouds. The air hit like a slap—diesel fumes from illegal gensets, the sizzle of skewers on open grills, underlaid with the wet-earth rot of the basements. Kael wove through the press, shoulders bumping strangers: a corp-runner in a too-clean suit, barking into a wrist-comm; a family of four huddled under a tarp, the mother's aug-arm cradling a bundled infant against the drizzle. No HUD to filter the faces into avatars; they were real—creased with worry, scarred by life, eyes darting for the next score. He paused at a news-holo vendor, the screen crackling with Pantheon feeds: *Rig Safety Mandate: Mandatory Scans for Schism Anomalies.* Kael's scar itched; he moved on, hood up against the fine mist that beaded on his lashes.
The mag-lev station was a crush of the desperate. The platform jutted over a chasm of old rail lines, now flooded and glowing with biolum algae, the air thick with ozone from the arc-lights. Kael queued for the 0745 car, body pressed close to a woman in welder's leathers, her scent of sweat and solder sharp in his nose. The line shuffled—arguments over chits, a baby's wail cutting through the murmur, the PA's synth-voice droning delays: *Next car in 12 minutes. No pushing.* When the doors finally wheezed open, it was a scrum: elbows jabbing ribs, a man's curse as his bag split, spilling ration bars onto the grate. Kael claimed a strap, the vinyl worn smooth, the car lurching forward with a groan that vibrated up his legs. The ride was a rattle of ads and anonymity—holo-bills flickering *Aug Upgrades: 20% Off for Cull Vets!*, passengers swaying in unison, breaths mingling in the stuffy air. A kid next to him chewed gum with wet pops, bubble bursting against Kael's sleeve; he didn't mind. The motion rocked him, stirring memories: Dad's hand on his shoulder during pre-Cull commutes, Elara's sketchpad open on her lap, Miko counting tunnel lights like stars. The cull had stolen that normalcy, but here, in the sway and stink, it echoed faint.
The arc-forges loomed at the line's end, a monolithic beast of smoke and steel, its stacks belching gray plumes that blotted the dome's false sky. Kael badged through the perimeter—*Freelance Consult, Level 2 Access*—the scanner beeping green after a tense whir. Lena waited by the gatehouse, her coat dusted with forge-ash, aug-eye dimmed to match the overcast. "Punctual," she said, no smile but a nod that warmed more than the thermos she thrust into his hands. Forge-brew: coffee boiled in the heat exchangers, strong as tar, laced with caffeine tabs that hit like a kick. They sipped as they walked the fence line, chain-link rattling under gloved fingers, the forges' roar a thunderous backdrop—hammers slamming durasteel with bone-jarring clangs, welders' torches hissing blue-white arcs that lit their faces in stark relief.
Conversation started slow, words traded like Credits in the bazaar. Lena spoke of the post-cull scramble: scavenging the crater for Elara's pad, finding it half-buried under slag, pages warped but sketches intact—"Stars, always stars, like she knew they'd take the sky." Kael listened, the coffee's burn grounding him, sharing his own fragments: the rig's first pull at 13, a bootleg crown scavenged from rubble, its highs a drug that numbed the sirens but amplified the loss. "Dad taught me the basics—'Code's math, bend it.' First hack was a drone jammer, bought us ten minutes during the evac." Lena's laugh was rough, smoke-scarred. "Joren always was a sly bastard. Miko took after him—tinkering that damn drone till it flew circles around the hab-kids." They paused at a weld-bay overlook, the forges sprawling below like a mechanical beast's innards, pistons pumping in oily rhythm, workers in masks moving like shadows. Sparks flew in lazy arcs, landing on Kael's boot with sizzles that stung through the leather.
The meal stall was a grease-trap wedged between coolant towers, its awning sagging under rain-weight, the proprietor—a one-armed vet with a hook prosthetic—flipping skewers over glowing coils. "Two specials," Lena ordered, Credits clinking into his palm. They sat on crates, the wood splintery under thighs, steam rising from the plates in savory clouds. Vat-protein threaded on sticks, charred black at the edges, sauce slathered thick—tangy chilies scavenged from hydro-pods, mixed with forge-scrap herbs that bit the tongue. Kael speared a piece, the meat yielding with a juicy pop, fat dripping onto the foil plate, pooling warm. No rig to enhance the flavors; it was pure—smoky char, spicy kick that made his sinuses run, the chew satisfying in its resistance. They ate in companionable quiet at first, the forges' heat baking their backs, rain pattering on the awning like impatient fingers. Then words flowed easier: Elara's laugh, sharp as shattering glass during family sim-nights; Miko's obsession with wiring fireflies into lanterns, their glow lighting the cube during blackouts. "He'd say, 'Kay, make it fly to the stars,'" Kael said, voice low, sauce burning a spot on his lip. Lena nodded, hook clinking against her plate. "She sketched you as a hero—cape and all, fighting AIs with a drone army. Thought it was kid stuff. Turns out, you lived it."
The walk back dragged with the limp's rhythm, Lena's aug-leg whirring softly, Kael matching pace without pity—equality in the grind. Rain picked up, misting their faces, beading on hoods and eyelashes, the undergrid's chill seeping through layers. They talked less now, silences filled with the mag-lev's distant rumble and water gurgling in grates. At the platform, Lena pressed the drone's remote into his palm—smooth plasteel, worn from Miko's small hands. "For the stars. And Varn? Life's the mess—the skewers that burn your mouth, the rain that soaks your socks. Don't let the grid steal that." Kael pocketed it, the weight light but solid, a talisman against the void. The car arrived in a whoosh of hot air and wet bodies, doors hissing open to another scrum. He waved her off, swallowed in the crowd, the remote's edges digging into his palm like a promise.
The ride home was a meditation in monotony: strap vinyl sticky under fingers, a woman's perfume cloying in the press, the kid from before now asleep against his mother's shoulder, thumb in mouth. Kael stared out the grimed window, tunnels blurring to black, reflections overlapping—his face over the kid's, Elara's sketch in the rain-streaked glass. Rent due tomorrow—1,200 Credits, scraped from odd deck-jobs. Stim ration low, but the salve held. Life's math, unyielding.
Back in the flop, the door stuck again, shoulder shoving it open to the familiar damp. He unrolled Elara's sketch on the cot, charcoal lines smudged but defiant—Orion's belt crooked, a stick-figure Kael with a cape battling pixel-dragons. The drone hovered at his touch, projecting the constellation on the ceiling, lights dancing faint and wobbly across water stains. Kael lay back, arms behind head, the cot creaking protest. Rain pattered steady, a white-noise lullaby, the relic's cage humming soft in the corner. No ping from Mira tonight—he'd deferred it again. Sleep came cleaner, dreams of fireflies in the cube, Miko's giggle cutting the sirens, Elara's hand in his under false stars. No void, no fangs—just breath, in and out, the weight of a sketch pinning him to the now.
Dawn of day 15 filtered gray through the window, the bulb auto-off, leaving the room in half-light. Kael rose smoother, joints less angry, the gash a pink line under fresh salve. Breakfast: noodles again, but he added a scavenged onion from the stall, diced rough, its sharp bite watering eyes as it hit the pot. The mag-lev waited, routine now, the crowd a familiar press. But at the station's edge, a snag: a bounty hunter's drone, sleek Pantheon black, hovering low, scanner beam sweeping the line. Kael's scar itched—neural sig flaring. He melted into the throng, hood low, heart kicking up to 120. The beam passed, whirring away. Close. Too close.
The flop welcomed him empty-handed—no chase, no shot. Rent paid via wrist-comm, balance dipping to 900. He sat with the sketch, drone humming stars overhead, the relic uncaged for a tentative touch. Its void energy brushed his skin cool, not burning—alliance, not invasion. Mira's ping resurfaced: *They're closing. Vault's hot.* Kael synced the crown, clamps biting familiar, neural jack humming to life. Sync: 96% stable. Aetherion bloomed sharp, Blackspire's spire piercing the horizon, Veyra's icon pulsing like a wound. Stats roared: Health 300/300, Void Crimson Lord, Hemovore Override ready. The drone's stars lingered in his mind's eye, smudged and stubborn.
Respite's threads held, fragile but real. Kael stepped into the code, fangs bared. *Your move, Veyra. But mine first.*