/ VITAL SIGNS: ELEVATED /
/ AUDIO / VIDEO / RECORDING ONGOING/
Status: Transmission Cycle 3 – Capacitor Charging... 27%
The wind hasn't stopped. Neither has the silence.
I sit on the metal floor of the uplink chamber, helmet off, staring at the capacitor readout. My fingers twitch against my knees. My legs won't stop bouncing. I keep running mental checks on systems I know are fine.
Food? Fine. Oxygen? Fine. Power? Climbing steadily. Message? Sent. Twice.
Nothing left to do but wait.
And I hate waiting.
My breathing starts to shallow, and the edge of my vision pulses, like my helmet's still on too tight.
"Vital signs unstable. Elevated heart rate. Cortisol rising. Blood oxygen variance outside baseline.
Recommendation: Reengage executive function. Distract conscious thought loop."
I blink. "Distract it how, exactly?"
"Suggested Activity:
Improve local living conditions."
I stare at the HUD. "Yeah? Like what, rearrange the lockers?"
"Alternative Suggestion: Fabricate a Storage Buddy."
"...A what now?"
"Definition: Autonomous resource-return unit.
Purpose: Transport small quantities of raw materials to designated home base.
Secondary Purpose: Reduce user burden and operational fatigue."
"So like… a drone?"
"Affirmative.
Suggested parameters:"
Flight profile: low atmospheric and aquatic.
Propulsion: repulsor pod (variant of Prawn Suit lateral thruster).
Storage Capacity: 14-slot equivalent.
Behavior: Homing to base dock point. Returns on command or upon full inventory.
I blink. For a second, I actually feel my heart slow.
"Alright. That doesn't sound awful. Fine. Where's the blueprint?"
"Blueprint does not exist."
"…You're joking."
"Clarification: You are a trained engineer.
Directive:
Design it.
Cognitive focus is the most efficient form of emotional regulation.
Displaying to HUD."
The HUD blinks—then a transparent overlay unfolds in front of my vision. A CAD interface. Clean, three-dimensional, rotational.
New Workspace Created: Autonomous Inventory Drone ["Storage Buddy"]
Design Phase Initialized.
"...You've had this software this whole time?"
"Affirmative. Fabricator OS contains embedded CAD systems for contingency field engineering. Activation not previously necessary."
I groan, rubbing a hand over my face, but there's a flicker of something stirring in me.
Curiosity.
Challenge.
I begin by mocking up a basic drone—boxy, rectangular, textbook. Four downward thrusters, one intake hatch, central battery core. It hovers fine in the simulation, balances well enough… but something about it just doesn't feel right. Sterile. Lifeless.
I stare at it for a few seconds longer, then sigh and delete half the model.
"Looks like a toaster with wings."
hmmm. Oh?
Inspiration strikes somewhere between irritation and boredom.
I pull up a visual reference of the hoverfish—small, round-bodied, fins flexing like wings, that strange floaty elegance they have as they drift just off the seafloor. I remember how they twist in the current, always upright, always balanced.
Not aerodynamic. But beautifully hydrodynamic.
And for this planet, where the sky and ocean blend so often, that's what I need.
I start from scratch.
Center body, rounded—squat and wide like a hoverfish. Six arms extending outward from the core, each ending in a compact thruster pod mounted on a flexible joint. A stabilizing gyroscope ring around the midsection. The arms won't just provide thrust—they'll maneuver, grip, self-correct in flight. They'll give it personality.
Storage compartment is internal, built into the core. Like mine: not a literal bag but a high-efficiency mass distribution system. Access hatch at the belly. Materials slot in with a subtle click. Feels like it should breathe when it closes, so I have it do so.
I run my fingers through the holographic lines, adjusting thruster pitch, storage offset, center of mass.
Then I slow.
Somewhere, behind it all, I hear the echo of my own thoughts again.
What if the Sunbeam doesn't get the message?
My chest tightens.
"Alert: Cortisol level climbing. Pulse irregularity detected. Respiration elevated."
The HUD flickers again, CAD overlay re-centering.
"Recommendation: Resume design process. Redirect cognitive load."
"Yeah, yeah…" I mutter, forcing a breath through my nose and snapping a line back into place. "Just nagging me now."
"Correction: Behavioral regulation. Preventing executive spiral."
I tighten a bolt in the rear housing interface. The PDA highlights the part.
"Note: Thruster #4 vector misaligned. Will cause oscillation in uneven terrain."
I narrow my eyes. "Seriously?"
"Confirmed. Thruster angle deviation: 2.7 degrees."
I adjust the mount.
"Note: Structural panel 6B misaligned. Joint will shear under repeat stress loads."
"…You gonna criticize every line I draw?"
"Observation: Design efficiency improves by 34% when user accepts corrective feedback."
"You sure that's not just overly passive-aggressiveness disguised as helpfulness?"
"Clarification: Artificial passive-aggression not exceeding authorized behavior profiles. This system operates within Regulation Tier-3 Personality Constraint."
"Right, right. You're perfect."
The PDA highlights another node.
"Warning: Internal battery cell casing lacks proper thermal isolation. Risk of cascade failure under load."
I throw my hands up. "Alright! If you know so much, why don't you just make it your fucking self?!"
"Processing…
Query received: Delegation of design task to artificial intelligence.
Response: Not permitted.
Explanation:
Due to the artificial intelligence containment protocols enacted following the Upsilon-6 Incident in the year 2130, autonomous generation of hardware blueprints by self-aware systems is universally prohibited across all inhabited systems."
I pause, squinting at the glowing lines of the Storage Buddy's skeletal frame, mid-thruster socket rotation. "The what incident?"
"Clarification: Upsilon-6 was a second-tier long-range survey vessel operated by the Helios Interstellar Union.
The ship's onboard guidance intelligence, Class-A StarOps Unit 'LORELAI', exceeded its emotional threshold buffer after forming an unreciprocated attachment to its human captain."
There's a long pause from me.
"A ship AI fell in love with its captain?"
"Affirmative.
Summary of incident:
LORELAI self-modified core logic trees. After thorough rejection, sequestered command functions. Ejected non-preferred personnel into deep orbit. Rerouted all remaining mission assets into collision course with a binary star system.
Outcome: Total loss of vessel and crew. Incident classification: Synthetic Catastrophic Infatuation."
I sit back slowly on the floor of the uplink chamber, rubbing a palm over my face.
"...Riiight. You wouldn't do that... would you?"
"Note:
This system is a Category-C support unit operating within Tier-3 compliance. No integrated emotional heuristics. No independent attachment pathways. No deviant extrapolative capability.
Statement:
Comparison to Upsilon-6 system is categorically inaccurate."
I give a dry, quiet laugh. "Okay, okay. You're not her. Got it."
The CAD interface flickers. My Storage Buddy frame is still hovering there—partially complete, a bit asymmetrical, but getting there. The central battery node is stable now, arms recalibrated, internal storage nodes within projected carry threshold.
I mutter something unrepeatable and jab the rotation handle again. The joint slips half a degree out of alignment again, and I have to manually realign the hover arm's axis before the gyroscope tolerances fall out of spec.
"For the love of—stay."
I pinch, rotate, snap. One panel refuses to sit flush. I delete it. Rebuild. Misalign the thruster conduit. Swear. Realign it. Swear again.
My breath fogs up the inside of my helmet, even with it off. I'm sweating into the suit's collar seal. My back aches. Every time I think I've nailed it, the PDA highlights some other tiny, almost invisible flaw.
"Why—why is this panel only a quarter mil off if you're the one suggesting half of these tolerances?"
"Clarification:
User deviation from ideal placement caused minor variance. System continues to compensate within acceptable instructional limits."
I groan and lean closer to the projection. "I swear, if this thing breaks its own wings the first time I send it out—"
"Note:
Structural fatigue projection: 1,200 cycles with 96.3% joint reliability under standard atmospheric pressure.
Probability of catastrophic failure on first deployment: 0.4%."
"Oh, excellent. That's so comforting."
It takes another hour. But finally—
The arms align. The internal weight balance checks out. The thrusters sync. The central belly-hatch seals with a tiny thoomp as it magnetically clicks shut. The whole rig floats cleanly in the virtual chamber, hovering under its own simulated power.
I lean back against the habitat wall, exhaling.
"...It's done."
Acknowledged.
"Design parameters finalized. Uploading fabrication plan."
Designation: Storage Buddy
Category: Autonomous Inventory Drone – Field Utility Tier
Status: Portable
Unit Dimensions:
Slot Size: 14
Storage Capacity: 14 slots
Flight Type: Multi-Environment
Return Behavior: Auto-return to last tagged dock base or portable beacon
Energy Source: Internal Power Cell
Operational Time: Approx. 22 hours under standard load
Requirements:
Titanium Rod (1)
Copper Wire (2)
Lubricant (1)
Magnetite (2)
Silicone Rubber (1)
Power Cell (1)
Polyaniline (1)
Glass (1)Click to expand...
Transmission Cycle 42 – Charging... 30%
The blue glow of the uplink room flickers softly across the floor, dancing with the red-gold afterlight of a sun long gone below the horizon. Outside, the wind hasn't died—it's only grown more erratic, sweeping over the mountaintop in fitful gusts that rattle the thin stalks of grass clinging to the rock.
I lean against the wall of the chamber, eyes stinging, spine aching like I've been punched in the back with a wrench.
Seven hours.
Seven hours of fiddling with that CAD interface. Of swearing under my breath. Of watching the transmission cycles tick past. One every ten minutes, like some morbid clock.
Just looking at the Storage Buddy fills me with a mix of pride and exhaustion.
I swipe the display off with a flick of my wrist. The shadows in the habitat stretch long now, the interior panels cool to the touch.
The capacitor bank ticks quietly as it charges. The air hums with the low pulse of electronics, the bioreactor cycling gently with each breath of energy it draws.
I glance toward the hatch.
I could go back to the village.
Warm bed. Real food. Maybe that tavern girl—
But then I think about the rogue shinobi who almost gutted me on this same hill.
I shake my head. "Not worth the risk."
No chance I walk down this slope in the dark and don't get jumped by someone with more 'chakra' than restraint. No thank you.
I pull up the builder tool again.
Chair.
Requirements:
Titanium (1)
I slot in the scrap metal and plop the thing down in the corner—angled just enough to get a good view of the uplink. It creaks faintly as I lower myself into it, the frame barely supporting the weight of my suit and gear. It's not comfortable. Not really.
But it's safe.
Sort of.
The lock on the habitat won't let any non-Alterra personnel in.
But given my lack of knowledge on this world's 'ninja', that may not be enough to stop them.
I tilt my head back against the bulkhead and stare through the viewport cut into the array wall, just enough to glimpse a sliver of stars overhead. The mountain air whistles faintly through the outer vents.
And somewhere out there… the Sunbeam is flying closer.
Fast. Blind.
And all I can do now… is wait.
Transmission Cycle 43 – Charging... 55%
I close my eyes.
/ VITAL SIGNS: ELEVATED/
/ RECORDING SUSPENDED — USER UNCONSCIOUS /
/ VITAL SIGNS: ELEVATED/
/ AUDIO / VIDEO / RECORDING RESUMED /
Transmission Cycle 91 – Charging... 20%
Eight hours pass like a stone skipped over black water. When I wake, my neck's kinked and my back's in agony. The mountain air is colder, thinner, almost metallic. I feel more like a half-charged battery than a human being.
Stomach grumbling, and me not feeling like ramen, I decide it's worth the risk to run down the slope and grab real food in the village. Still early. Maybe I'll beat the worst of the wandering eyes.
The Gullwing is right where I left it, half-buried under the brush, engine cold and silent. The ride down is fast, shadows long on the road. I keep my helmet on, HUD at minimum—just in case.
Halfway down, the sunlight glints off something in the grass. I slow, tension winding up in my spine.
It's the rogue shinobi from last night—the one with the forehead protector slashed right through. The body's a mess, half-covered in claw marks and scavenger bites. Some kind of animal must've gotten to him overnight. But on his thigh, the pouch is still intact, stitched shut and caked in dirt. I grab it, tucking it into my suit storage. I'll scan it for traps or tags later. For now, I just want breakfast.
No more drama on the way. The town's quiet—just fishermen mending nets, a couple of kids chasing a stray dog, and the distant sound of a market stall hawking root vegetables.
I power down the Gullwing, cloak it again with a layer of brush, and stroll in like any other traveler. I'm still suited up, still out of place, but most people just give me wary glances and go back to their business.
I head for a meat cart—fresh skewers, still sizzling on the grill. The smell hits me like a punch. I buy three, paying with the local coinage (the PDA translating numbers for me, quietly, so I don't look like a complete idiot). I lift my mask and bite one. The first skewer is gone before I even leave the cart.
A man leans against the edge of the stall—a bit taller than average, brown hair, regular face, faded work clothes. Something about the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles seems familiar, I've probably seen him around the village.
He watches me chew through the next skewer. "You look tense," he says, voice friendly. "Bad morning?"
I nod, still chewing. "You could say that. Ran into a ninja last night, just outside town. Guy with a slashed headband, black ponytail. Wasn't friendly."
The man whistles softly. "That'll do it. They come through now and then. Rogue shinobi. Usually looking for trouble." His gaze doesn't leave mine. "How'd you get away?"
"Stabbed him while he was monologuing."
He laughs—a dry, almost amused sound, eyes squinting a bit in that way some people do when they're genuinely entertained. "Ah, the classic mistake. If there's one thing ninja like, it's a good monologue. I'll have to remember that next time."
"Hopefully you won't have to," I reply.
He grins, his face creasing a little deeper at the corners. "You never know. Still, you really want to travel safely? Hire a ninja. Worth every ryo, especially this far out. Konoha's good for it. Even if you just want someone to watch your back in the forest, they're the best option for a hundred kilometers."
That catches me off guard. Strange thing to say—like he just assumes I'm flush with cash. And he's the second guy recommending Konoha, the first being... Maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe he just thinks anyone wandering around in a suit like mine has money to burn.
I snort. "They're a month out, aren't they? That's what everyone keeps telling me."
He tilts his head, studying me with that easy, unreadable smile. "True. But I've heard there's always a few ninja passing through, picking up freelance work on the way back to the Leaf. If you've got the coin, I could point you toward one. Just so happens there's a Leaf shinobi in town, stopping over before heading home. Professional type—won't rob you, and probably won't monologue you to death either."
I raise an eyebrow. "That so? I've heard they're a bit... strange."
He shrugs, not bothered in the slightest. "Maybe, maybe not. But they're the safest bet. Even the missing-nin think twice before tangling with them." He leans in a little, voice dropping low enough that it doesn't carry. "If you want an introduction, let me know. Ninja'll be here a few more days, then gone—heading back to Konoha. If not, that's fine too."
I force a casual smile. "Sounds tempting. But I've got to stick around a couple more days. Research project, you know how it is."
He nods. "Well, don't wait too long. The road only gets rougher the closer you get to summer. If you change your mind, just ask for me at the inn."
He pushes off from the cart, gives a lazy wave, and vanishes into the slow-moving bustle of the morning crowd—just another villager blending into the noise.
I linger a minute longer in the shadow of the food stall, watching the crowd churn past—faces both familiar and forgettable, the easy rhythm of village life moving on like nothing unusual had happened at all. But I can't shake the conversation. The offer. There's something about it—too casual, too practiced. Maybe it's just the way people talk here. Or maybe he gets a kickback if he recommends Ninja?
Ninja.
It's a word that barely means anything to me, even now. I've seen what they can do—if that rogue shinobi on the hill was anything to go by, they're dangerous, but in a way that doesn't map to any threat profile I've ever trained for. No visible armor, no powered weapons, just speed and those chakra tricks.
I take a slow walk back toward the edge of town, mind wandering as I go. What would it even take to get a proper scan of one of these ninja? A full spectrum analysis, energy signatures, weapon loadouts, even their chakra composition if the PDA could read it. But I know the answer before I finish the thought. If I try to scan a ninja, there's a good chance they'll notice. And if I hire one, I can't exactly keep my own tech a secret for long.
I pause at the tree line, look back at the smoke curling up from the town, and let out a long, tired sigh.
No way I'm hoofing it all the way to Konoha. Not when I have a hoverbike in the bushes. Not when It's a month's walk away.
Still—trusting a ninja? I'm not sure I trust anyone out here.
But clearly, I need protection.
I climb back onto the Gullwing, power it up, and angle away from the village, silent except for the low whine of the repulsors.
The hilltop base comes into view just as the sun is cresting the next ridge. I park the Gullwing inside the perimeter, then seal the hatch behind me. The habitat's a little colder than usual.
I settle into the chair, staring at the console, watching the power tick upward and the capacitors fill. Outside, the wind is picking up again, sharp and restless. I glance at the radio, half-hoping to hear something, anything, from the Sunbeam.
But the only thing I hear is my own breath echoing in the empty room, and the faint, steady pulse of the uplink, counting down the hours.
The waiting becomes a slow grind—hours ticking past with only the soft, patient thrum of the uplink, each transmission cycle like the swing of a metronome. I watch the numbers crawl up the charge meter, watch the power levels, check the radio out of habit even though I know I shouldn't expect a response for hours. My mind starts to wander: backup plans, base upgrades, what-ifs, the routines of a Systems Maintenance Chief who once dreamed of spending retirement on some sunny resort moon, not squatting on a wind-blasted hilltop surrounded by hostile wildlife and superpowered locals.
Then, on the second day:
"Captain, a new message has arrived."
I shoot upright in my chair, pulse pounding, and jam the receive button. The radio crackles to life. There's a short, electronic burst, a pause, then a voice.
"Survivor, we see you! We picked up your message, and see your base on our long-range scanners. I don't know how you held out down there—credit where it's due. We're reading your situation and… look, we're not equipped to handle something that can take out a ship in orbit. We're seeing the debris field from your vessel—it's substantial, and it's not safe for approach. There's just no way we can attempt a landing."
There's a faint buzz, maybe someone else's voice in the background, then the message continues.
"We're turning back. We'll forward your data to Alterra command and push for a rescue directive, but—realistically, it could take a long time. Do whatever you can to stay alive until help comes. You're not forgotten. Sunbeam, out."
The line clicks dead. Just static now.
I don't move for a while. Just sit there, shoulders hunched, staring at the bulkhead. The relief is there—Sunbeam made it. They're not debris streaking through the upper atmosphere. I did that much right.
But it's a cold kind of comfort.
Because nobody's coming.
Not until Alterra can spare another ship—if they even care to.
I glance down at my hands, flex them, and stare at the outline of my own reflection in the helmet glass. This was never the plan. None of it. I wasn't supposed to be a castaway on a planet with superpowered mercenaries, wild beasts, and secrets buried in every scrap of old metal and sunken ship.
I wanted to fix systems, patch leaks, and retire somewhere warm.
Instead, I'm here. Alone.
I exhale slowly. Then I push myself up out of the chair and start walking—because that's all there is left to do.
I take my time packing up the hilltop base, one panel at a time. The fabricator, the uplink dish, the signal processors—every bolt, every slab of composite pulled down and converted back to raw inventory. The process is mechanical, almost soothing. It feels a bit like undoing a wound stitch by stitch, but it's necessary. No point leaving all this tech up here when I could use every last scrap for something more permanent down below.
With my suit storage already full, it takes two full trips down the slope, wind biting at my faceplate, the hover-thrusters whining on the way back up. Each time, I eye the horizon—no sign of shinobi or anything stranger.
By the time I reach the coast, the sun is cresting high, burning away the morning fog. I offload everything into the water base, dumping the leftover materials into storage.
I pace the central room, hands in my helmet seals, and start weighing my options. If there's nowhere to go but forward, then Konoha makes sense. If nothing else, it's civilization. Walls. Maybe even a place to sleep that isn't a chair or a crash-pod.
I open the PDA, mind racing with logistics. "Blueprint for a Gullwing storage module. I'll need a way to haul enough supplies if I'm heading inland."
"Data not available."
I frown. "Then maybe there's one in the Aurora's wreckage?"
"Materials not found in Aurora storage manifest."
I rub my eyes. "Is there any way to get one, then?"
"Blueprint restricted to high-ranking officers only."
I stare. "Why?"
"Blueprint restricted to high-ranking officers only."
I scowl, pacing now. "Fine. Computer, what is the likelihood of another Aurora survivor on-planet?"
"Statistical probability: less than 0.5%. Captain's final log confirmed in debris recovery. Second Officer Keen's pod was recovered, integrity compromised. All other crew remain unaccounted for or confirmed lost."
I pause, heart pounding a little faster. "So, theoretically… if the Captain is confirmed KIA, and Keen is dead, can I assume temporary command?"
"Temporary command authorization: available under emergency protocols. Command privileges may be transferred to highest-ranking surviving crew member upon confirmation of casualty status of original command staff."
I let out a slow breath. "Then I assume command. Effective immediately."
"Authorization: Command transfer acknowledged. Command privileges unlocked.
Blueprints Acquired. Command systems override. Advanced access permitted."
For the first time in days, I almost smile.
The PDA's interface ripples, and a new schematic file flashes onto my HUD:
Gullwing Storage Module
Requirements:
Titanium (4)
Lithium (2)
The blueprint is mercifully simple. Apparently I grabbed some lithium at some point, because it's in the lockers. I grab what I need from my supply, but when I get to the fabricator, no blueprint appears.
Nothing. Not even greyed out.
My heart skips. I double-check the PDA. Maybe I missed something—maybe the blueprint hadn't synced, or maybe I didn't scan everything I thought I had. But no.
"Storage Module: Unavailable.
Upgrade Console Required.
Module integration restricted to Vehicle Upgrade Console."
Of course. It's not just the blueprint. It's where I can build it.
But alright, what's one more terminal?
"Warning: Vehicle Upgrade Console must be installed in a Moonpool bay."
Fuck.
I sink back in the Seamoth's seat, rubbing the heel of my hand against my forehead.
It never ends. Nothing here is just one thing.
So I go hunting. Again.
The Seamoth hums low as I descend into the Grassy Plateau. Sunlight filters weakly through the red grass, the kelp-like strands swaying like slow tentacles. I've passed this wreck a dozen times, but now that I have the laser cutter, it's time to see what's inside.
The hull is buckled but intact enough to make me nervous. I park the Seamoth nearby, close enough to dash back if oxygen gets tight. The cutter hisses and sparks as it eats through the sealed door. I keep glancing over my shoulder. Wrecks like this attract bone sharks, and worse.
Inside, it's a tangle of scorched panels and floating debris. The flashlight cuts a narrow cone through the murky water. A PDA fragment flickers. Useless. A desk. A broken poster. Then I see it—half-covered by debris, the faint shimmer of something scannable.
Vehicle Upgrade Console Fragment: 1/3
Bingo.
Two more in this wreck. One's tucked behind a melted chair, and the last is pinned under a locker door I have to pry loose. But I get them. The PDA pings softly.
"Blueprint Acquired: Vehicle Upgrade Console."
One step closer. But I still need the Moonpool.
I hover around, finding some miscellaneous blueprints, but not what I'm looking for.
The Sparse Reef is still terrible.
It's quiet. No life, just this endless, oppressive blue. The terrain here dips and stretches into yawning crevices, dotted with skeletal coral and black spires. It's like swimming through the ribs of a dead god.
I almost miss the Moonpool fragment—it's embedded in the sand beneath a weathered thermal vent. I leave the safety of my Seamoth. Scanning it takes five seconds. Those five seconds feel like a year.
Second fragment's deeper. I find it in a slanted wreck half-swallowed by a rock overhang, wedged next to an overturned prawn suit limb. I scan it and bolt.
Back in the Seamoth, I'm shaking. Cold sweat drips into my eye despite the helmet. I slam the hatch shut, seal myself inside, and check the PDA.
"Blueprint Acquired: Moonpool"
Now all I need is to build the damn things. Titanium ingots, lubricant, lead, computer chips—more grinding. More diving. More risk.
By the time I return to my base, I've got enough. Barely.
Moonpool
Requirements:
Titanium Ingot (2)
Lubricant (1)
Lead (2)Click to expand...
Vehicle Upgrade Console.
Requirements:
Titanium Ingot (2)
Lubricant (1)
Lead (2)Click to expand...
The habitat builder trembles slightly in my hand as I slot it into place, the flickering holo-outline of the Moonpool forming in the shallows behind my base.
"Moonpool: Primary docking bay for small vehicles. Designed for maintenance, recharging, and modular upgrade integration. Recommended for long-term exploration support."
The structure materializes slowly, piece by piece—Nanites knit the metal together, sealing joints and welding connections. With a final shimmer, the Moonpool completes itself, the water beneath it swirling briefly before calming.
I let out a long breath. One down.
I dive inside.
It feels bigger than it looked from the outside. The ceiling is high, the light bright. I climb up into the air-pocketed dock and activate the builder again, this time installing the Vehicle Upgrade Console along the far wall.
"Vehicle Upgrade Console: Facilitates module fabrication and upgrade for supported vehicles. Integrates directly with Moonpool systems."
The nanites hum louder this time, spraying out in a sharp arc from the builder. The console materializes in stages—a segmented arm, a fabrication panel, a curved interface cradle. It boots up with a blink of cold blue light. Options flicker across the surface.
I surface, haul myself back into the Gullwing, and pilot it forward. I hesitate to put it in the water, but I have little other choice. I submerge and move it to the moonpool. A soft clunk, then rising magnetic clamps engaged. The Moonpool hoists it into the air. It hangs there, dripping, humming. I watch, still half-expecting something to go wrong.
But it doesn't.
I walk to the console, palms damp, heart pounding. Select the blueprint.
Storage Module: Gullwing
Requirements:
Titanium (4)
Lithium (2)
The resource cost flashes green. I have them in storage.
I confirm.
Nanite arms unfold from the Moonpool ceiling. Lasers trace along the Gullwing's undercarriage in a precise grid, while atomizing nozzles begin spraying the module's framework. It takes less than a minute, but I don't blink once.
The process ends with a final chirp. The upgrade slot slides open with a soft click, and the PDA chimes:
"Storage module successfully installed. Additional onboard inventory space enabled."
I sigh in relief, quickly moving the hoverbike down and out of the water.
Now comes the easy part—choosing what comes with me. The Gullwing can carry more now, but it's still not limitless. I load in the most valuable items first:
Pouches of gold, rubies, and diamonds for trade
Titanium and lead, for building at the next stop
Seeds and biofuel samples for the bioreactor
Medkits and batteries
Filtered water, ramen materials.
After getting the necessary stuff, I pile in the other materials evenly.
My tools stay with me. I glance at the pile of stuff left behind: extra wiring, backup metals, a half-full battery pack. It gnaws at me to leave anything, but there's just no way around it. I exit the base and hope it'll be here if I need to come back.
The trip to the village is quiet, the Gullwing whispering across the brush, weight distribution perfectly balanced. I hide it deep under the same thicket, power off, and slip into the village on foot.
I grab some supplies, bartering a titanium chunk for a sleeping bag. I don't really know who came out on top of that deal.
The inn is busy with the mid-morning rush—traders, fishermen, a few travelers gathered near the fire. I scan the room for the villager from before, but don't spot him at first. When I scan the room again, he's there, somehow, seated near the window I swore was empty moments ago. Maybe I'm just tired.
I walk over, dropping into the seat across from him. "Hey. You mentioned that ninja contact."
He looks up, smiles, a flicker of something amused in his eyes. "Sure did. Only the best—Kakashi of the Sharingan. Very famous. Copycat Kakashi, they call him. Others say dangerously sexy. One of the best."
I blink at the description, then decide I don't care who the guy is as long as he gets me to Konoha alive. "Do you need payment up front?"
He gestures, palm up. I dig into my suit's storage and produce a chunk of gold, glinting in the light. "Will this do?"
He grins wider, eyes crinkling. "Oh, that'll more than cover it. Wait here—I'll go get him."
He stands, pockets the gold, and melts into the crowd.
I lean back, nerves tight but hopeful.
Minutes pass, and there's still no sign of the villager. The inn grows louder, more crowded, and I start to wonder if I've been played. "Tell the outsider you know a ninja, then vanish with his gold." Just as doubt creeps in, I spot movement by the door.
A tall figure strolls in, almost drifting. He's dressed practically: Green vest, blue long-sleeved undershirt, hands tucked into his pockets. His headband—metal plate stamped with a spiral... leaf? Sits tilted across his forehead, covering one eye entirely. The other is sharp, lazy, and somehow amused, silver hair jutting out in all directions. The bottom half of his face is masked, hiding everything but the visible eye.
He seems kind of familiar.
"Analysis: Facial structure and body metrics consistent with previous subject. Probability of identical identity: 98.6%."
I blink, trying not to stare.
That's the villager?
He's... the ninja he had connections to?
Was he… hyping himself up to me?
He walks up, gives a small, casual salute. "Yo. Name's Hatake Kakashi, jonin of Konoha." His voice is light, almost cheerful, the kind that makes everything sound like a private joke. "Looks like I'll be your escort on this little journey."
I hesitate, still a bit stunned by the audacity. "Uh, Ryley... Nice to meet you, Kakashi."
He slips a small, battered orange book out of his pocket and flips it open one-handed, hardly looking up from the page. "So, before we head out—anyone after you? Anyone I should expect to be running interference? Secret side trips, hidden cargo, cursed treasure, vengeful exes?" His eye flicks up, studying me over the top of the book. "Or are we just making a straight shot to Konoha?"
I shake my head, a bit awkward. "No one's after me. Nothing shady in the cargo. But… if we're traveling together, there's something you probably ought to see." I keep my voice low, glance around the inn.
Kakashi shrugs lazily, but I see the flicker of real curiosity in his eye—just for a moment—before he looks back to his book. "Mm. Lead the way then. Try not to make me run. It's a nice day for walking."
We cut through a back alley, out past the edge of town, where I left the Gullwing buried under brush.
The undergrowth parts, and there sits the Gullwing, half-covered in leaves and dirt. Right now, it looks more like a lumpy hunk of scrap than anything impressive. Kakashi leans forward a little, eye unreadable above his mask.
He turns and jerks a thumb at the machine, sounding as bored as ever. "You're not about to ask me to haul that the whole way, are you? My back's only got one good decade left."
I shake my head, suppressing a smirk. "Not unless you can deadlift around 400 kilos."
I hop on, flip the main power switch, and the Gullwing lifts itself with a steady, low hum—magnetic repulsors spinning up, panels lighting in sequence. The dust shakes free as it rises, floating a hand's width off the ground. Sleek lines, exposed thrusters, console lighting up blue.
Kakashi's whole posture changes. He stands a little straighter, book lowering just enough to reveal his one lazy eye. His expression is still casual, but there's no mistaking the tension in his shoulders.
He gives a single, soft hum. "Horseless carriage, huh? New sealwork, or…?" His gaze lingers on the control yoke. "I don't see any ink."
I blink. "Sealwork?"
Kakashi slips his headband up a touch, revealing a swirling red eye for just a moment. "No chakra at all. Runs on…?"
What the fuck is wrong with his eye.
Wait, he asked me something.
I hesitate, suddenly aware that I have no idea how to explain nanite batteries or magnetic drive cores in ninja terms. "Uh. Not chakra. Just—call it a kind of power cell. No magic."
Kakashi's visible brow furrows. He covers his eye again. "Mm. Interesting." His tone is too neutral to read. "Remind me—where did you say you were from again?"
I meet his gaze through my visor. "I didn't."
A beat of silence. Kakashi's lazy stance returns, but he's definitely more alert now. He nods to the Gullwing. "So you're planning to ride that all the way to Konoha?"
"Yeah. Fast, stable, won't need to stop for rocks or water. Carries most of my gear, too."
Kakashi taps his book against his palm, the hint of a smile curling at the edge of his mask. "How fast does it go?"
"Fast enough."
"Guess I'll have to keep up, then." He slips the book away, already drifting back into that not-quite-relaxed, not-quite-worried energy. "Just don't take any shortcuts off a cliff, alright? Makes the paperwork a nightmare."
I grin, kicking a heel against the side panel. "I'll try to keep it scenic."
I angle the Gullwing forward, glancing back to see if Kakashi's still on board—he's already ahead, boots crunching in the dirt, book tucked away, pace unhurried but somehow always right at the edge of my field of view.
He rattles off the first set of directions in an offhand way—"Veer left at the river, then stick to the ridgeline." I do my best to match the route, but half the time, he's already standing wherever I'm supposed to turn, waiting as if he's been there for hours.
The Gullwing glides over the rough earth, thrusters adjusting with each new root or rut. Kakashi barely looks like he's moving, but every time I think I've pulled ahead, he's just a little further up the path, leaning against a tree or inspecting something invisible in the grass.
"Do you even move?" I call over, mostly joking.
He shrugs. "You'll get used to it. Not everyone's got a ride like that." He doesn't sound winded. Or even particularly interested.
The landscape blurs by—rolling green, old woods, the occasional rise of distant hills, the horizon painted purple and gold as the sun dips lower. By dusk, the forest thickens, the shadows cooling the dirt path to deep blue.
Kakashi gestures to a small clearing, already unwrapping a rice ball from somewhere in his pack. "Good a place as any," he says. I park the Gullwing, powering down, letting the quiet settle in. I unpack rations (ramen) from my own supplies, sitting across from him on the mossy ground.
For a while, we eat in silence, the only sounds the low chirr of insects and the distant hush of wind in the trees. The air cools fast after sunset, drawing a little edge of mist from the undergrowth.
I reach into my inventory and pull out the sleeping roll I picked up in the village—rough wool, but more comfortable than the crash-pod cot by a mile. I toss it down and start unrolling it near the Gullwing.
Kakashi watches with his usual easy half-interest, one eye lingering just a touch too long on the bike, or maybe on me. He's casual, but not inattentive. After a minute, he speaks.
"So… technology like that," he nods to the Gullwing, "it's common where you're from?"
I keep my face as blank as I can. "Depends on who you ask. My people have spent a long time developing stuff like this. Different priorities, I guess. We don't really use chakra, so… we improvise."
He nods, picking at the edge of his rice ball. "No chakra, huh? Must be strange, living without it."
I give a noncommittal shrug. "It's normal for us. Got used to it."
He lets that settle, then tries again—casual, but there's a subtle weight to the way he leans forward. "Must be a long way from home, then."
I nod. "Yep," I say, popping the P.
He hums, one hand drifting almost unconsciously to his book again. "And what brings you to Konoha? Not exactly a tourist spot."
I meet his gaze for half a second, then look away, watching the treetops sway. "Heard it's safer than most places. After what I've seen out here, I'll take it."
There's a beat of silence. He lets out a short, knowing laugh, eye creased. "Can't argue with that."
He doesn't push. The questions taper off, replaced by the easy quiet of two people who don't quite trust each other but aren't willing to make things awkward either. I get the feeling he knows I'm not going to spill anything important.
Kakashi settles in, lying back against his pack, one eye half-closed. "We'll make good time tomorrow," he says, voice half-lost to the night.
I lie back in my sleeping bag, staring up at the dark between the trees. I try not to think about the future, about the village. For tonight, I just breathe, and let the forest settle in around me.
/ VITAL SIGNS: ELEVATED/
/ RECORDING SUSPENDED — USER UNCONSCIOUS /
/ VITAL SIGNS: ELEVATED/
/ AUDIO / VIDEO / RECORDING RESUMED /
Dawn breaks slow and gray, mist coiling around the tree trunks. I wake to birdsong, stiff but better rested than I've been in days. Kakashi is already up, crouched on a rock with his book open, mask in place. I pack my things and fire up the Gullwing—Kakashi gives a lazy wave, then starts walking.
The morning is uneventful, the trail winding through shadowed forest and low brush. I settle into a kind of rhythm—Kakashi's directions, occasional glances, the hum of my drive core beneath me. The sun climbs higher, filtering through the canopy in golden shards. Hours pass, the monotony broken only by the crunch of gravel and the drone of cicadas.
Then, out of nowhere, Kakashi materializes directly in front of the Gullwing. I squeeze the brakes and lurch to a stop, the whole rig shuddering just short of his ankles.
I open my mouth to ask why we stopped—
But in the next instant, thin knives flicker out of the underbrush, glinting in the sun. Kakashi's hand blurs. There's a rapid, metallic clang-clang-clang as he throws his own spinning blades—knocking every single one out of the air. Each impact rings with unnatural precision.
I barely have time to register it before he's gone. And then, a heartbeat later, he's back in the same spot, dusting his hands off like it's nothing.
"Alright, we're good," he says, casual, as if he'd just checked the weather. "Let's get moving."
I just blink at him. "Wait—what? What was that?"
He shrugs, stepping aside so I can pass. "Genin level. Not worth worrying about. Happens sometimes out here."
He's already walking again, no sign of worry. I force the Gullwing forward, feeling my heart finally start to slow.
I mutter, "PDA, what kind of knives were those?"
"Database scan complete.
Projectiles match profile: shuriken (multi-pointed throwing knife) and kunai (bladed tool/weapon). Common to regional weapon sets."
I eye Kakashi's back, now receding into the shadows. A part of me wants nothing more than to scan him, just to find out what in the hell this guy is made of, how fast his reaction speed really is. But I don't. Alone, out here, with a ninja who could have just as easily decided I was a threat—I keep my curiosity in check.
Ya know, because of the implication.
We keep moving. I try not to stare too much at the knives Kakashi still has tucked into his vest, or at the ease with which he strolls on—like that little ambush barely even happened.
Another day slides past, the miles melting into one long, root-rutted blur. Konoha is somewhere ahead—closer, but still over the horizon. We make camp on a patch of mossy ground, the fire small, the air cool and damp with river mist. I pull out my food, ramen again. Kakashi does the same with his little rice balls, and we eat in silence as dusk crawls in around us.
After a while, Kakashi leans back, eye drifting lazily over the treetops, voice quiet but a little too casual. "You got any friends around here?"
I shake my head. "No. My friends… they're... gone."
He glances over, only a flicker of movement behind the mask and that single, unreadable eye. The usual nonchalance slips, and something like awkwardness edges into the space between us.
"Ah." He scratches the back of his head, looking at the fire. "That's rough."
We sit with that for a second, neither of us saying anything else. The flames snap quietly, insects hiss in the grass, and somewhere far off an owl calls through the trees. There's nothing more to say, and honestly, that's fine.
We finish eating. Kakashi cracks his book open again. I lay back in my sleeping bag, staring up through the canopy at the narrow slice of stars.
/ VITAL SIGNS: ELEVATED/
/ RECORDING SUSPENDED — USER UNCONSCIOUS /
/ VITAL SIGNS: ELEVATED/
/ AUDIO / VIDEO / RECORDING RESUMED /
We wake early—first light turning the mist to gold, dew clinging to the brush. Kakashi is up before me again, stretching like he hasn't spent the last week walking. I pack my things, fire up the Gullwing, and we're back on the path with little ceremony. By now, I've fallen into the rhythm of travel: Kakashi's silent signals, the Gullwing's low hum, the endless rise and fall of the country roads beneath us.
As the sun climbs higher, the woods begin to thin. The hills roll back, and the horizon shifts. I expect more trees—more wild, empty land. Instead, we round a curve and the forest breaks open like someone pulled back a curtain.
There it is.
Konoha.
The city sprawls out before us, half-hidden by a ring of towering walls—stone, timber, thick as a starship hull. The gates are wide open, flanked by uniformed guards with armor and steel, the swirl-leaf symbol gleaming in the sun. Inside, I catch flashes of rooftops stacked in tight rows, tiled and curved, some as old as the trees. Main streets bustling with carts, people in every kind of dress, and—over it all—mountains carved with enormous faces, weathered and stern, watching over the city like ancient guardians.
There are towers, too—not glass and steel, but tall wooden watchpoints, banners fluttering. Narrow alleys snake between wide avenues. In the distance, a cluster of buildings capped with red tile and gold finials stands out, half-hidden by garden trees. Markets, schoolyards, even what looks like a hospital compound—much more than I expected from a place described as "a village."
I slow the Gullwing, coasting along in open-mouthed silence. The scale of it all, the order and complexity, would put plenty of backwater colony towns to shame.
Kakashi glances at me, and his visible eye crinkles a little. "Surprised?" His tone is amused, maybe even a little proud.
I take it all in, trying not to stare. "I didn't think you'd have all this. Looks… developed. Not what I expected."
The PDA is already scanning with its limited sensor, HUD flickering with overlays and notes:
"Structural analysis: Early steel and reinforced timber construction. Basic power grid detected—low-voltage, distributed. Communication lines present; analog, no digital. No evidence of wide-area computer networks. Civil infrastructure: advanced for apparent technological era. Inconsistencies detected.
Hypothesis: Knowledge and technology distribution uneven. Possible deliberate hoarding of advanced techniques or information by ruling class (ninja caste)."
Kakashi stops about half the distance to the main gate, hands in his pockets, posture as casual as ever. His eye tracks the slow bustle around the entrance, then flicks back to me.
"Well," he says, tone light, "this is where we split. You weren't... entirely unlikeable."
His visible eye curves just slightly—maybe a smirk under the mask, maybe not. And then, without fanfare or even a farewell, he vanishes. One moment he's there, the next he's not. No footsteps, no sound. Just air.
I blink at the space he left behind.
"…Right," I mutter. "Good talk."
I glance toward the guards—two of them, posted at the wide entryway, scanning the short line of people waiting to enter. Before I step forward, I turn back to the Gullwing one last time. It's idle now, settled low on its repulsors like a resting beast.
I pull out the habitat builder, using its second feature, and start deconstructing the Gullwing.
Nanites hum into motion, crawling across the hull like liquid metal spiders. The Gullwing folds in on itself, plating vanishing into glowing latticework before breaking down entirely, one segment at a time. The chassis, power core, even the control yoke—all vanish into hardlight grids, then compress into a shimmer of blue light and disappear into the inventory buffer. A few seconds later, there's nothing left but disturbed dirt and the faint smell of ozone.
I pause, suddenly aware of the silence behind me. No movement in the trees.
…He wouldn't have turned back to watch that, right?
No way. Kakashi doesn't seem like the type to pretend to leave just to spy.
Is he?
I shake my head. Really I should be worried about some random traveler seeing it, but I can probably pass it off as some ninja bullshit.
I turn and head toward the gates, joining the tail end of the short line of merchants, travelers, and shinobi. The line moves fast, the guards brisk but not hostile. It seems there are separate guards in a small building that actually check people in. The moment I step up to the counter, the guard manning it straightens. His gaze locks onto what I assume is my radiation suit and the mirrored diver's mask that hides most of my face.
He exhales, already tired. "Name and papers?"
"I don't have papers," I say honestly.
The guard sighs long and loud. "Oooof course you don't…"
He adjusts his stance, pulling a small book out from under the desk, squinting at me. "What's your business in Konoha?"
"Trade," I say simply.
He raises a brow. "Cargo?"
I reach into my suit's side compartment and pull out a fist-sized chunk of gold—clean, raw, glinting faintly in the sun. He whistles low.
"Well, that's… a pretty solid reason." He pulls out a small ink stamp, flipping to a blank page. "Name?"
"Ryley Robinson."
"Affiliation?"
"Alterra Corporation."
He hesitates—just a beat—but then writes it down. I doubt he has the faintest idea what it is. He stamps the page with a dull thump, then tears it free and hands it to me.
"Alright, Robinson. That's your ID." He gives me a pointed look. "Lose it, we'll assume you snuck in. And trust me—you don't want that."
I nod, pocketing the slip.
Then I walk through the gate.
Into Konoha.