Lyra's mind still buzzed as she stepped into the shared workshop.
The scent of solder and thermal plastic hung in the air — sharp, metallic, familiar in an unfamiliar way. Her interface pinged softly as she crossed the threshold.
[ELECTIVE: CRAFTING FROM SALVAGED MATERIALS]
Instructor: Mira Lorre — Manual Interface Specialist
Seat 11-B confirmed.
Today's Focus: Purpose through Reconstruction.
The workshop was half-lit, the glow panels flickering in irregular pulses as if they, too, had seen better days. There were no desks — just shared benches, scattered parts trays, and scavenged tools older than some of the students.
Sorrel was already there, sleeves rolled up, grinning.
"Welcome to the junk cathedral," she whispered. "We salvage. We sweat. We build."
Lyra offered a faint smirk. "Anything explode yet?"
"Only someone's pride. Tried to rig a stabilizer with a cracked filament coil. Mira just watched." Sorrel tilted her head. "I guess her teaching style is 'learn by combustion or don't be an idiot.'"
The door clanged open.
Mira Lorre strode in without ceremony — older, lean, one synthetic leg wrapped in patch-tape, and arms peppered with burn scars. She wore her uniform sleeves rolled, utility pouches clipped to her belt like someone who had long stopped caring about standard appearance codes.
"I'm Mira Lorre," she said. "Former field engineer. Now your instructor."
"No lectures," she said flatly. "No sim feeds. If you want theory, go ask the System."
"Here, we build."
She dumped a tray of random parts onto the central table — glass shards, scorched alloys, drone casings, old solar gel packs.
"Pick a piece. Doesn't matter what it was. Only what you'll make of it. No blueprints. No guidance."
Lyra sat at her assigned station. A dented parts tray waited for her — a cracked pressure switch, frayed wiring, two broken optic lenses, and something that looked like the jaw hinge of a very small drone.
Junk. But maybe not useless.
Across the aisle, Sorrel had already begun arranging her pieces — a snapped lightcap, a shard of patterned ceramic, and a half-burnt ID tag she was polishing like it had sentimental value.
"That's your project?" Lyra asked.
"Might be. Depends on what they tell me."
"The components?"
Sorrel shook her head. "The story."
Lyra didn't know what to say to that.
She turned back to her own bin. The optic lenses caught the light for a moment — fractured, but intact. She picked one up and set it gently on the work surface.
Lyra turned back to her own bin. The optic lens glinted — fractured, catching light like it was trying to remember what it used to see. She turned it in her fingers.
Maybe a sensor. Maybe a monocle. Maybe nothing at all.
Just as she reached for a stripped wire spool, a shadow passed across her station.
"That one," said Mira Lorre, her voice low but certain. "That lens — it was probably from a K4 scout drone. Single eye. High compression. Fast, but fragile."
Lyra looked up. Mira had her arms folded and her expression unreadable.
"It's cracked," Lyra said.
"So are most of us," Mira replied. "Put in the right setting, we still work."
She tapped the hinge beside it. "Not standard. But with the right tension band? Might stabilize. Not perfectly."
She paused.
"But sometimes, clarity's not the point."
"You mean function?"
Mira shook her head. "I mean perspective."
Then she turned, already commenting on a student's twisted capacitor two benches down.
Lyra looked down again.
Perspective, not function.
A soft ping broke her focus. A notification hovered at the edge of her vision.
[System Notice: Module Enhancement Opportunity]
Early Prototype Submission Initiative -
▪ Bonus Merit: +15 (Functional Project Completion)
▪ Optional: Peer Presentation Eligible
▪ Deadline: End of Week 1
▪ Ranking Boost Potential: Moderate
Note: Merit bonuses will scale based on creativity, practicality, and risk.
She dismissed the window but made a mental note of it.
Fifteen points wasn't much. But it was more than she had. And in a place like this, sometimes a little momentum was all you could afford to hope for.
Lyra picked up the optic again, turning it gently until the fractured light landed on her palm.
Not clear. Not whole. But maybe still useful.
"Looks like you found your soul-part," Sorrel said lightly, peering over from her station.
Lyra blinked. "My what?"
Sorrel gestured with her pliers toward the optic lens in Lyra's hand. "Y'know. That one piece that clicks. Not because it's useful, but because it reminds you of something you didn't know you missed."
Lyra stared at the fractured glass.
"I think it reminds me I don't know what I'm doing."
"Same difference," Sorrel said, smiling as she threaded a copper filament through a cracked sensor plate. "Maybe remembering that is part of the point."
"You ever consider teaching philosophy to broken drones?" Lyra asked, eyebrow raised.
Sorrel grinned without looking up from her wiring.
"Only if they promise to short-circuit existentially, not electrically."
Lyra blinked. Then let out a breath that might've been the beginning of a laugh.
"But your optimism is refreshing. I'm not used to anyone around here… remembering why they're trying."
Sorrel looked up. Her expression softened.
"Then you're in the right elective."
She held up her half-assembled mess of wires and ceramic. "It's not going to work. It's definitely going to spark. But maybe, for a second, it'll feel like something mattered."
Lyra didn't respond right away. Just looked back down at her optic piece and hinge bracket.
Then: "If I make a prototype that does work…"
"…you're going to get that merit boost and climb over everyone else in the rankings?"
Lyra smirked. "No. I'm going to build goggles so I can keep watching you short-circuit old capacitors."
"That," Sorrel said, mock solemn, "is the most sincere compliment I've received this cycle."
Lyra smiled back.
After class ended, Sorrel said she was going to stay back and try to finish the assignment. Lyra needed a break from precision work, so she headed to the Physical Conditioning Zone — one of the Academy's few open-sim spaces dedicated to balance and endurance drills.
She hadn't expected it to be so… vertical.
The simulation rendered a crumbling cityscape: broken rooftops, half-collapsed scaffolding, and scattered ledges that might've once been balconies. It looked like someone had fused a parkour course with a disaster drill.
Other students were already there — running wall routes, leaping gaps, rolling through impact landings like they'd been doing this since their sim-nursery days.
Lyra had not.
Unless climbing jungle gyms in public parks counted as formal training, she was starting from zero.
Far above, someone darted across the scaffold's edge — too fast to see clearly, but clean in every motion. Lyra narrowed her eyes. Definitely not a beginner.
She tried to follow the System-recommended path — a clean route etched faintly in pale blue across the environment.
Her hands hit the ledge. Her foot slammed against the wall.
And then: thud.
Even on the third try, the same result.
"As your foot hits the wall, push off hard while swinging your arms upward," someone said behind her — calm, but not mocking. "Your other leg should drive up, like you're pedaling a bike midair."
Lyra turned.
It was Talen Ive — the same student who'd stood up to Caden Vars during the cohort gathering.
"Also," he added, walking over and gesturing toward the wall, "don't jump forward. You need to jump up and forward. You're throwing yourself at it like it owes you something."
Lyra wiped her palms on her pants and gave him a look.
"It kind of does."
He smirked. "Then don't give it the satisfaction of winning."
Lyra stared at the wall again. This time, she didn't overthink it. She didn't follow the glowing path or wait for a system prompt.
She just moved.
One step. Then a second. Her foot hit the wall. She pushed off hard, arms swinging upward, and her knee drove up like she was kicking open a locked door.
Her fingers caught the edge.
Not clean. Not elegant. But solid.
She hauled herself up, boots scraping against the concrete texture until she rolled over onto the ledge, breathless but grinning.
Talen nodded once, not surprised.
"Better."
Lyra looked down at the obstacle, then back at him.
"Told you it owed me."
He gave a short laugh, then stepped back toward the next section of the course without another word.
Lyra stayed on the ledge for a moment longer, letting the quiet weight of victory settle in her chest.
Not much.
But enough to keep going.
High above, balanced on a narrow beam between two crumbling support towers, someone stood watching.
Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching.
It was Aylin Rho.
Her stance was casual, arms at her sides, visor inactive. No System overlay, no visible ID. But there was no mistaking the stillness of her silhouette, the way she held herself.
She gave a faint nod. Barely perceptible.
Then turned and disappeared between the scaffolding shadows before Lyra could even react.
Lyra stared after her, unsettled but not sure why.
Does she just live on rooftops?
The thought was half sarcasm, half curiosity.
She dropped down from the ledge and exhaled.
Tomorrow, she'd be sore.
But tonight?
She'd made progress.