Reputation was a contagion. It spread through the recycled air of Enclave 3's lower levels not like a sickness, but like a change in atmospheric pressure—unseen, but felt in the bones. For a week, Kael and Maya had been ghosts, an anonymous duo from the frontier, just two more scuffed-up souls lost in the city's ceaseless, grinding hum. After the fight in the factory ruin, they were something else. They were a story.
The story had a name. It was whispered in the noodle stalls where steam and desperation fogged the air, traded between off-duty freelancers in the dim, crowded bars of the Outer Ring, and logged as a low-priority security incident in the sterile data-hubs of the Core. The Scavenger who slapped the Lion.
The name was a brand, seared onto Kael's Aethel Frame. He felt it every time they walked through the market. The whispers would follow them, a sibilant wake in their passage. Heads would turn. Eyes, wide with a mixture of awe, envy, and predatory interest, would linger. He was no longer just a User. He was a data point, an anomaly, a prize.
"Table's taken, dust-jockeys," a voice sneered.
Kael stopped, the nutrient paste on his tray suddenly feeling heavy. The man blocking their path in the crowded mess hall was built like a reinforced bulkhead and wore the immaculate blue of House Valerius. His Aethel Frame was a low, arrogant thrum, the energy of a predator that had never known true hunger. His two companions flanked him, identical expressions of smug contempt on their faces.
"Funny," Kael said, his voice quiet. "I don't see a name on it." The Hound in his soul, Lyra, stirred. It recognized the lion's scent. It remembered the challenge.
The Valerius User's smile was all teeth. "There's a crest. Maybe they don't teach you primitives to read pictures out in the mud." He took a step forward, deliberately bumping Kael's shoulder. "Or maybe you need a better reason to move."
Before Kael could react, Maya was there. She didn't move in front of him. She simply shifted her weight, her hand resting on the hilt of her kinetic spear, her gaze flat and empty. She didn't look like a threat. She looked like a void, a place where things went to stop existing. The Valerius User, for all his bluster, was still a soldier. He recognized the look of someone who had faced a Phase Stalker and walked away. His bravado faltered for a half-second.
It was long enough.
"Corbin," a low gravelly voice cut through the tension. The mountain of a Nomad, his face a roadmap of old scars, appeared behind the Valerius trio. He wasn't looking at them. He was looking at their table. "You're in my seat."
The Valerius Users turned, their bravado evaporating into a cloud of nervous energy. Corbin wasn't just a big freelancer. He was a Nomad of Anya's crew, a man whose reputation was written in the broken shields of a dozen would-be pirates. The confrontation wasn't a matter of pride anymore. It was a matter of poor tactical positioning. They muttered something under their breath and melted back into the crowd.
Corbin grunted, nodding once at Kael and Maya before claiming his table. It wasn't a rescue. It was a statement. An acknowledgment of their new, fragile alliance.
"This is the new normal, isn't it?" Kael said later, back in the oppressive quiet of their tiny room. He was running a diagnostic on the Aethel Flow Regulator schematic, the alien geometry a cold comfort.
"Reputation's a blade," Anya's voice came from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, cleaning one of her pistols with a practiced, economical motion. "Cuts both ways. Valerius loyalists will make our lives difficult. Petty harassment, denied permits, maybe a 'random' patrol in a dark alley."
"And the other edge?" Maya asked, her own hands busy re-weaving the energy conduits in her combat gauntlet.
"The other edge," Anya said with a thin, humorless smile, "is that the enemies of Valerius are now very interested in us." She tossed a small, heavy object onto Kael's cot. It was a refined power cell, military grade, the kind he couldn't have afforded even with a year's hazard pay. "Found that on our doorstep this morning. No note. But the energy signature is traceable to a shell corp owned by House Thorne. It's not a gift. It's an application."
Kael looked at the power cell. It was an invitation to a different kind of war, a game of shadows played by factions who saw people as assets and alliances as temporary, tactical advantages. "They want to use us."
"Of course they do," Anya said. "Everyone wants to use you, Kael. The question is, who do you let hold the leash?"
***
Zane felt the Med-tech's pity like a physical itch. The sterile hum of the therapy machine was the sound of his own impotence, a constant, low-grade reminder of his shattered Frame. Permanently compromised. The words were a brand on his soul. He stared out the viewport at the impossible, glittering spires of Enclave 3, a world he could see but never again truly touch.
He wasn't a hammer anymore. He was a broken tool, left to rust in a charity ward.
The two figures appeared behind him, their reflections distorted in the thick plastek of the window. They wore the matte-black, light-devouring armor of House Thorne. Ghosts. Spies. Merchants of secrets.
"He has allied himself with the Nomads," Zane said, not bothering to turn. His voice was a dead, flat thing. "Anya's crew. They took on a contract in the old industrial sector."
"We are aware of the contract," the female agent's voice was a synthesized, emotionless whisper. "We are more interested in the unscheduled post-mission audit conducted by the Valerius house guard."
Zane's hands clenched into fists. Of course they knew. They probably had a man inside Valerius's own command structure. "Kael's team won. They left one Valerius User dead and a squad leader unconscious. It was… decisive." The word tasted like acid.
"Decisive," the male agent mused. The word held a different weight in his mouth. It wasn't an insult. It was a data point. "Lord Valerius sent his elite hunters after a pair of provincial scrappers and was publicly humiliated. This creates… opportunities."
"He's getting stronger," Zane spat, the resentment a familiar, warming fire in the cold ruin of his Aethel Frame. "His 'Synthesis'… it's not a fluke. It's evolving. The way he moves, the way he fights… it's not in any of the manuals."
"We know," the female agent said. "We have analyzed the Gauntlet data. We have acquired security logs from the factory ruin. User Kael is no longer just an anomaly. He is a new variable in a very old equation. A variable that is currently aligned against our primary rival."
The implication hung in the air, thick and cold. They didn't see Kael as a threat. They saw him as a tool. A weapon to be pointed.
"Lord Valerius will attempt to acquire him or destroy him," the male agent stated. "Both outcomes are inefficient. We prefer a third option. Observation. Understanding." He looked at Zane's reflection. "Your familiarity with the subject, your… personal investment… makes you the ideal instrument for this task."
Instrument. Not warrior. Not even agent. Just a tool. Zane looked at his own scarred forearms, at the faint, dark tracery of the Weaver's ghost. He had craved power, and it had broken him. Kael had craved answers, and it was making him a king. The injustice of it was a pure, perfect thing. It was the only thing he had left.
"What's the objective?" he asked, his voice a low growl.
"Observe," the Thorne agent said. "Report. And if the opportunity presents itself… test him. We need to know the limits of this new art. We need to know if it can be broken. Or if it can be taught."
The order was simple. The subtext was a serpent. They wanted to know if Kael was a weapon they could replicate, or a rival they would eventually have to erase. Zane looked out at the distant, glittering spire of the Valerius estate. For the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of something that wasn't just hate. It was purpose. A black, corrosive, beautiful purpose.
He would watch the scavenger. He would learn his secrets. And then, he would pick up the hammer again.