The sun hung low over Forsaken when the first warning blared from Gearlock's interface.
Proximity alert.
Multiple energy signatures—unauthorized.
Kass paused mid-weld, a half-mounted stabilizer hanging from the Scraphawk's shoulder. He peered through the half-open hangar bay, spotting a dust plume rising near the southern ridge. Not traders. Not scavvers. Too coordinated.
"Corvin!" he shouted.
The older mechanic ducked from behind a scrap pile, adjusting his goggles. "Saw it. That's not the usual traffic."
Gearlock chimed in, voice grim. "Thermal profiles suggest armed vehicles, ground-based, jury-rigged combustion. Local gang configuration matches Blaze Raiders. Estimated threat level: moderate, but idiotic."
Kass's stomach twisted. "Is Lira in the group?"
"Nah, it looks like she sent some people to do the work," Corvin said, voice tight. "She probably thinks that you are not worth her time."
Kass vaulted into the cockpit. "Then I guess it's time for a demonstration."
The startup sequence hissed and clanked. Systems synced at 68%, barely functional, but enough. The newly installed beam lance was jury-rigged, its emitter coils wrapped in salvage wire and braced with heat-scavenged alloy, but it gleamed with promise.
He guided the Scraphawk toward the bay doors. Corvin scrambled to lock the workbenches and barricade the tools. Locals were already shouting, scattering through the outpost.
"Kass," Gearlock muttered. "You are not equipped for sustained conflict."
"No," Kass said. "But I'm done running."
The first of the raider bikes crested the ridge. Three of them—engine smoke trailing behind like war banners—followed by a stubby walker rigged with a mining drill. Improvised, brutal, and pointed straight at Forsaken's heart.
A warning shot from the lead bike seared the sky overhead.
Kass responded in kind.
The Scraphawk's beam lance flared, sending a crackling bolt into the ground at their feet. It missed—but just barely. Enough to make the first rider veer.
"That's right," Kass growled. "Notice me."
He charged.
The Scraphawk's legs bucked against the uneven terrain, hydraulics whining as rusted plates groaned with each step. Dust kicked up in swirling clouds, reducing visibility to a blur of silhouettes and shadow. Kass gritted his teeth, forcing the neural sync to respond as he balanced acceleration with control. One step, then another—then he triggered the spine-thrusters.
The mech jolted forward like a slingshot, its momentum jerky but fierce.
Gearlock snapped, "Trajectory compromised! You call that controlled movement?! I've seen drunken miners walk straighter!"
Kass ignored him. No time. No room for doubt.
The first raider bike zipped past in a blur. The second, too close. Kass pivoted just enough to line up the beam lance. It ignited with a hiss and flash, and on the second pass, he slashed clean through the bike's rear wheel. The impact sent the vehicle tumbling, the rider flailing mid-air before slamming into a scrap heap with a crunch of bent metal and bone.
The third bike opened fire. Kinetic rounds peppered the Scraphawk's flank—rat-tat-tat-tat—sparks flying as bullets chewed into the patchwork armor. Warnings flared on Kass's HUD, but the plating held. Barely.
"Armor integrity down twelve percent," Gearlock intoned. "At this rate, we'll reach zero just in time to explode dramatically."
Then came the walker.
It lumbered over the ridge like a rusted beast, thick legs stomping, a crude mining drill mounted where its right arm should've been. It reeked of exhaust and over-oiled pistons, and every step it took made the ground vibrate beneath Kass's feet.
"Visual analysis: poorly shielded core, weak joint articulation," Gearlock said. "Ideal target for a lunatic in a tin can."
Kass spun the Scraphawk sideways, triggering a short burst from the thrusters to redirect momentum. The mech skidded, foot talons screeching against packed dirt and exposed steel grates.
The walker lunged.
The drill whirled forward in a shrieking blur of teeth and rust, aiming for the cockpit. Kass dropped low—too low—and the Scraphawk's knee scraped the earth, trailing sparks. The drill barely missed the canopy, shredding the air just above his head.
"Warning: Joint stability compromised," Gearlock warned. "Also, that was stupid."
Kass didn't hear him. He was already twisting the controls, reversing the mech's posture mid-slide. With a shout, he brought the beam lance up in a brutal uppercut.
The lance slammed into the walker's undercarriage, carving a molten wound through armor plating and wiring alike. A geyser of flame and smoke erupted as fuel cells ruptured, fire licking through exposed vents. The walker staggered, knees buckling.
"Core breach imminent," Gearlock said with a hint of satisfaction. "Now that's controlled chaos."
The walker dropped to one knee and then collapsed in a flaming heap.
The crowd, gathered behind broken barricades, erupted in cheers.
SV collected: +100
Blueprint Level Up: BL 2 achieved.
Module Slots Unlocked: 2
Kass exhaled. He was shaking, but alive. The Scraphawk, battered and limping, still stood.
Gearlock's tone was more sober than usual. "Congratulations. You've just made yourself a target."
Kass popped the hatch and stood tall in the cockpit. The smoke was still curling upward when he saw her.
A figure on the ridge, barely visible, watching through binoculars. Platinum braid. Red-lined House Voss coat catching the wind.
Ariella.
She lowered the scope. Even at this distance, he could feel her gaze, sharp and calculating. The way she nodded once before vanishing behind the ridge sent a chill through him.
"She saw that," he murmured.
"Voss royalty has eyes everywhere," Gearlock said. "Consider yourself officially on her radar."
Corvin walked up, waving off the last of the townsfolk. "Hell of a first fight, Scrap King."
Kass leaned against the Scraphawk, sweat pouring down his face. "It wasn't much of a mech battle. Just a half-baked prototype and a few raider rigs."
Corvin handed him a rag. "Didn't matter. You made it walk. You made it fight. You stood between Forsaken and a gang hit. You think the people here'll forget that?"
Kass didn't respond, but deep inside, something stirred. Not pride. Not yet.
Resolve.
Back inside the workshop, the Nexus projection pulsed with new options. The Blueprint Level had unlocked a second slot. He could now install two modules.
The screen read:
Design configuration open.
Available Modules:
– Mobility: Spine-Thrusters II (+10 MS)
– Weapon: Beam Lance II (Experimental; +15 DPS, 25% overheat risk)
– Utility: Echo Scanner II (Critical +5%, Detection bonus)
– Armor: Patchwork Plating II (+50 HP)
All of them were straight upgrades; no new capabilities were offered this time. Oh well.
He hesitated.
Speed, or survival?
Speed meant evasion, but Forsaken didn't offer many places to run. Not when the next fight might come in the narrow alleys of the Scrap Bazaar or against a gang that outnumbered him five to one. He needed staying power then, something that could take a hit and still stand.
And the lance? It was unstable, sure, but it was his edge. No one expected a scrapper to hit that hard. If he played it right, one good strike might end a fight before it began.
He slotted in the beam lance and patchwork plating. Offense and defense. The Scraphawk wasn't a duelist yet, but it wouldn't crumple at the first punch either.
"Loadout confirmed," Gearlock said. "Let's hope it's not your last."
"Are you always this cheerful?"
"Only when the odds of fiery death spike above seventy percent."
Outside, the sun dipped low behind the scrap mountains. The outpost buzzed with the aftermath—locals chatting excitedly, children imitating Kass's movements with makeshift sticks, traders whispering rumors.
A legend had begun.
And legends required fire.
And Ariella Voss had just seen the first spark.