The sun had barely crested the horizon when Kass opened the workshop door and stepped into the dim light. The air was cold and damp, filled with the metallic tang of rust and ozone. His prototype stood in the middle of the room like a skeletal beast summoned from the scrapyard's dreams: unfinished, awkward, but undeniably his.
He paced around the frame. The Nexus projection hovered nearby, quietly cycling through diagnostics.
`Prototype: Scraphawk Mk-0`
`Class: Light Scout`
`Mobility Module: Spine-Thrusters`
`Power Core: Unstable – Limited Output`
`Weapon System: None Installed`
`BL: 0 | SV Available: 0 | Status: UNTESTED`
Not perfect. Not even close. But it would walk.
He climbed into the cockpit—more a hollow shell than a sealed chamber—and slipped the control harness over his shoulders. The neural link flared to life with a hiss of static. Data scrolled across the inside of his visor as the Nexus synced.
`Neural sync: 63%`
`Gyro calibration: Offline`
`Manual override required`
Kass gritted his teeth and began the start-up sequence. The servos groaned, the core flickered, and for a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the mech twitched.
The Scraphawk lifted one leg, unsteady and jerking, and slammed it back down with a hiss of compressed air. Balance was off. Thrusters needed timing correction. But it moved. It was alive.
He laughed aloud, exhilarated. It wasn't much, but it was his.
Corvin entered mid-chuckle, carrying two cups of synth-coffee. "Well I'll be damned. You actually got the thing upright."
"It moves," Kass said, practically glowing.
"Ugly as sin, but I've seen worse," Corvin grinned, handing him a mug. "Still needs a name, though."
Kass tilted his head toward the chassis. "Scraphawk."
Corvin nodded. "Fits. Gangly, awkward, probably mean if you piss it off."
Kass smirked and adjusted a relay node. "It'll fly."
Corvin's brow furrowed. "You're not actually planning on testing it outside, are you?"
"Already calibrated the thrusters." Kass double-checked the bracings and began walking the Scraphawk forward. The motion was jerky, like a newborn foal, but functional. "I need to know if the legs hold weight at full stride."
"You'll bring half the outpost running."
"I hope so."
By mid-morning, a small crowd had gathered along the edge of the southern testing lane. Mostly scavvers, mechanics, and bored traders. Word spread fast in Forsaken: 'the exile kid built something that walks.'
Kass throttled power to the limbs and sent the Scraphawk into a light jog. It kicked up clouds of rust dust and left deep impressions in the metal-lined track. A few kids whooped. One of the merchants filmed it with a battered lens drone.
Corvin crossed his arms as the mech lumbered past. "Dumb or brilliant, hard to tell."
"You say that like the two are mutually exclusive."
Then, the interface pulsed.
`Performance milestone achieved.`
`SV bonus awarded: +30`
`Gearlock AI core detected. Initialize? [Y/N]`
Kass blinked. "Wait—AI core?"
Corvin leaned closer, confused. "What now?"
Kass hit [Y], because duh.
The cockpit lights flickered. A soft blue glow radiated from the central console, and a synthetic voice crackled to life—gravelly, clipped, and with just enough sarcasm to sound deeply unimpressed.
"Diagnostics complete. System integrity: laughable. Combat potential: negligible. Pilot aptitude… pending."
Kass stared. "What—who—?"
"Designation: Gearlock," the voice said. "I am the embedded AI core salvaged from Voss Sentry Unit 4.0. You have illegally awakened me from dormant archive mode. Congratulations on your mediocrity."
Corvin whistled low. "Well, he's charming."
"I'm not here to charm," Gearlock snapped. "I'm here to keep this rust pile from killing its pilot."
Kass grinned. "Then welcome aboard."
"Do not thank me. I'm already regretting it."
The crowd around the testing lane murmured as the Scraphawk came to a halt. Kass popped the hatch and emerged, flushed and beaming. Several traders clapped. Even a few of the more stoic locals gave nods of approval.
One of them held up a slate. "You might want to see this."
Kass wiped sweat from his brow and took it.
The display showed a sleek mech in sharp focus, gliding through an obstacle course with predatory grace. The Voss insignia gleamed bright on the hull. The camera zoomed in to reveal the pilot—a young woman with platinum-blonde hair pulled back into a tight braid, her face sharp and calm under the pressure of speed.
Ariella Voss.
The voiceover was unmistakably hers.
"To the challengers out there… if you think your rust bucket can keep up, you're welcome to try. The next Expo qualifier hits Forge Station in ten days. Don't blink."
The promo cut to black, then listed the names of sponsors.
Kass stared, jaw tight.
Corvin stepped beside him. "You know her?"
"We've… met," Kass said quietly.
Kass hesitated, then added, "She's Ariella Voss. Heir to House Voss. We crossed paths back on Aetheris—briefly. She was visiting the Iron Spire during a systems exchange seminar. Sharp, disciplined, probably trained since birth. We argued. About mech design, of all things. She called my modular loadouts 'unstable experiments.'" He gave a dry laugh. "She wasn't wrong. But she wasn't right, either."
Gearlock hummed. "Voss royalty. Fascinating. This just got more interesting." The AI's tone sharpened with amusement. "Let me guess—she quoted efficiency curves and energy stability thresholds while you tried to graft experimental modules onto half-legal frames?"
Kass didn't answer, but his silence was enough.
"Charming," Gearlock continued. "So now you're building a tin-can deathtrap in a junkyard to impress a noblewoman who once called your designs unstable. Tell me, are all Rho exiles this emotionally compromised, or just the brilliant ones?"
"I'm not trying to impress her, Gearlock. I'm going to outbuild her."
Kass handed the slate back, turned around, and walked toward the Scraphawk.
He needed a weapon system. And he needed it fast.
His mind raced through the catalog of parts still stored in the workshop. The optics unit he'd yanked from the ruined scout might be rigged for targeting. If he could align that with a stabilized mount—maybe using the gyroscope casing they'd salvaged the day before—he might lash together a functioning rig for the beam lance prototype buried at the back of the tool rack. It wasn't pretty. Hell, it might melt itself after one use. But it would be something.
Kass rushed back into the workshop, pulling open crates, shoving aside coils and rig components. Gearlock droned on about failure probabilities and energy output inconsistencies, but Kass tuned it out. He knew the math well enough. This was about building faster than doubt could catch him.
As the crowd dispersed, Corvin lingered a moment longer, arms crossed. "Looks like you've got a fire lit under you."
Kass didn't look up. "She called me a rust bucket."
Corvin chuckled and turned to leave. "Then prove her wrong, Scrap King."