The mech hangar was the beating heart of Prism Base, and also its most heavily guarded chamber.
Beneath the vast stone dome, giants of steel slept in silence. Rows of mechs—different sizes, different classes—stood in their docking berths like dormant titans, their cold armor catching the harsh white lights above.
Maintenance crews swarmed at their feet like ants, sparks crackling from welding torches, hydraulic tools shrieking with every adjustment. The thick scent of oil and iron hung heavy in the air. For Neo, the smell was strangely familiar—comforting, almost like home.
Evelyn Kane stood before one of the hangar's crown jewels: a Defender-class medium mech, far more advanced than the battered Ravager Neo had once salvaged. Its armor gleamed, its maintenance record clearly meticulous. Evelyn's left arm was still bandaged, but she stood tall in her combat uniform, the bandage no weakness to her steel posture.
She acknowledged Neo with a slight nod, then gestured for him to follow. Together they crossed the hangar floor into a tactical briefing room, its walls layered with soundproof plating.
The door shut behind them. The outside noise died. The air grew heavier.
"I've heard about your training," Evelyn began without preamble, storm-gray eyes pinning him in place.
"You've adapted faster than I expected. Too fast. And you've drawn attention we don't need."
Neo's heart gave a subtle twitch. He kept his voice calm. "I only did my part, and shared knowledge that might be useful."
"That's exactly the problem," Evelyn countered, striding to the tactical board. A schematic of Prism Base sprawled across it in rough lines.
"Prism survives because of unity. But unity here is an illusion. In truth, there are two voices."
Her pen tapped twice—once on the blue of the research sector, once on the red of the industrial and militia blocks.
"One side, led by Dr. Dane. The researchers. They believe our future lies in rediscovering the Old World's secrets—especially the truth of the Obscure Tide and new energy systems. To them, you are…" She smirked faintly, her tone dry. "…a living archive dropped in their laps."
Her pen stabbed the red zone.
"The other side, led by Leighton, our industrial chief. The pragmatists. The survivalists. They see chasing dead technology as waste. They want crops, defenses, ammo, and stronger walls. They've had enough of the research division hogging resources. To them, you're not a miracle—you're a dangerous waste of trust."
Neo immediately understood. "So my presence—especially the practical skills I showed in training—could be used by the research faction as proof of their worth. But the pragmatists will see me as another excuse for their rivals to drain the base."
"You see it clearly," Evelyn said, a rare note of approval in her tone.
"Dane has already submitted a petition to the council—he wants you formally transferred to his lab, tied into something he calls the Fireseed Project. Meanwhile, Leighton's people are sniffing at your past, questioning why an unknown stray should be handed such trust."
A dull ache pressed into Neo's temples. He had only wanted a foothold, a way to survive. Instead, he had stumbled into a power struggle.
"And your stance, Commander?" Neo asked carefully. Her answer would weigh more than either faction's whispers.
"My stance," Evelyn said, her voice sharp as steel, "is Prism's stability and survival. I don't care if it's the past or the present—we pursue nothing that jeopardizes this base. For now, your knowledge has value. But your background remains a threat."
She stepped closer, storm-gray eyes drilling into him. "Remember this. Dane's Fireseed might sound like salvation, but he is poking at powers we may not be able to control. Leighton's camp—if they decide you're a risk—they won't debate. They'll remove you."
Neo exhaled slowly. "What should I do?"
"Stay low. But don't bury yourself," Evelyn instructed.
"Keep showing your worth, as you did in training. Results speak louder than any rumor. But never pledge yourself to either side—not until the council decides your place. Until then, you follow me. My authority is your shield. Understood?"
"Yes, Commander," Neo answered, the words heavy.
"Good." Evelyn's gaze softened ever so slightly.
"There's something else. A task. No—an order."
She pointed toward the hangar outside, at the gleaming Defender.
"My mech, Bastion. During the Burrower siege, its left leg actuator suffered abnormal wear. Our engineers can't pinpoint the cause. They're swapping parts, but spares are limited. You have a talent for reviving relics. Go see for yourself. Consider it your first official assignment as part of Prism."
Neo understood instantly.
It was more than a repair job. Evelyn was handing him a shield—an excuse to linger in the mech hangar, close to Prism's core, and away from the political knives of the civilian blocks. And if he succeeded where Prism's engineers failed, he would prove his worth in a way that neither Dane nor Leighton could monopolize. His value would be his own.
"Yes, Commander. I'll do my best," Neo said firmly.
When he stepped out of the briefing room, all eyes seemed to find him.
Maintenance workers paused, curiosity bright in their gazes. Guards lingered nearby, chatting too casually, their stares measuring. And above, behind the reinforced glass of an observation deck, Neo caught sight of Dr. Dane watching intently, expectation gleaming in his eyes.
Neo inhaled deeply, pushing aside the noise, the politics, the wolves circling in the dark.
Here, before him, was a steel giant—cold, silent, waiting. The world of men was treacherous. But machines… machines spoke a language he could master.
He placed his hand on Bastion's armor, feeling the silent power thrumming within.
The currents of politics surged all around him, but in this moment, his battlefield was pure, clear, and his own.