Right. Just breathe, Hales. Take it easy. Don't look down. Or perhaps do glance down, to ensure that rusted beam isn't about to collapse completely. Gods, what a crap.
Another cycle, another plunge into the depths of the world hoping to grab something bright enough to keep the lights on—or at least prevent the local gang leader from thinking my kidneys are good trade material.
This entire area smells like charred ozone and something somewhat fungal trying to consume outdated insulation. Home sweet home, right? The delightful outskirts of Sector W-11. Just gotta love the atmosphere.
Let's see. . . where am I heading? Ah, right. The 'client'—and isn't that a generous term for Scar-Lip Jin—needs a working relay core from that Pre-Collapse communications substation near the Blackline fringe.
Concentrate. Check the chrono-display. Year 117 P. A. Huh. Post-All Might. One hundred and seventeen years since the last true Symbol kicked the bucket and the entire hero system choked on its own capes.
Left the world wide open for the Singularity disaster to spill out, and who came in? Not heroes. Just the builders of our current prison: Eternal Academia and the Core Authority. Up there in their shiny towers, acting like places like this, acting as if we, don't even exist.
Simpler that way, I suppose. Sweep the dirt, the failures, the Nullborn like me, under the trillion-ton rug of Neo-Kyoto.
Damn steam vent. Nearly singed my eyebrows off. See? No flashy quirk to phase through it or freeze it solid. Just good old-fashioned situational awareness and equipment that ideally won't fail.
Fortunately for me, being quirkless means I don't have to stress about my own damn DNA throwing a party and turning me into sentient goo like those unfortunate souls during the Collapse, or even the Flares now in progress.
Alright, the substation should be just beyond this caved-in transit tunnel. According to the salvaged schematics—which are likely fifty years outdated—the main relay housing is shielded, perhaps intact. Big maybe. Must bypass the old security grid first. Let's see what my little friend thinks. . .
(Drevin pulls out a handheld device, wires trailing from it, and carefully connects with a rusted panel on the tunnel wall. )
Alright, baby, talk to me.
[Old AEGIS security protocols. . .]
A sloppy work, even back then a simple handshake bypass should…
There we go. Door cycling open. Easy peasy. Sometimes, brains and technology triumph over flashy powers, though it never pay well.
Now for the exciting part. Substation interiors are infamous nesting areas. Scorchrats are bad enough, but occasionally you encounter those larger, more vicious creatures attracted to residual power signatures.
[Activating bio-scanner. . . minimal readings nearby.] Good. And let's just engage the 'Whisper Field'.
(He taps his device, and a low hum resonates, a subtle shimmer warping the air surrounding him. )
My small prototype. Scrambles basic bio-signatures, renders me less appealing to anything dependent on scent or basic energy detection. It cost me nearly three months' worth of credits in black market components, but it's preferable than ending up as someone's meal. Alright, Hales, stop conversing with yourself. Locate the relay core, exit, collect payment.
Alright, into the darkness we proceed. Let's discover what treasures are in store this time. Just need to remain alert. Down here, the line between earning a paycheck and becoming part of the food chain is generally about half a second. And I intend to avoid the menu.
Luckily, I was able to bypass the secondary lockdown on the relay housing unit. It appears that the main casing has sustained significant damage – scorch marks are everywhere, deep gouges in the plasteel. . . yeah, definitely something large and nasty nested here not long ago. I hope it decided to move on.
The air feels thin in this location, heavy with that metallic taste that typically indicates lingering bio-toxins or worse. And my wrist rad-meter is doing a jittery little dance.
Perfect. Just the sort of environment you want to stay in for delicate salvage work. It should be quick, however. If the core's intact, I retrieve it, ghost out, and claim Scar-Lip Jin's credits before he changes his mind.
Alright, gently now. . .
[opening the access panel. . .]
Yes! It appears that the inner shielding held. The Series 7 capacitor assembly seems… undamaged? Unbelievable luck at last. I just need to disconnect the power feeds with caution and...
Wait there's a movement.
[Peripheral vision activate]
Not a crawling mutant. Something small, close to the ground, near that heap of collapsed conduits.
(Drevin freezes, immediately crouching lower behind the relay housing, muting his 'Whisper Field' emitter to prevent drawing attention. )
What in the rusted hell is that? A kid? Here? No way. Not this deep. This isn't Zone W-11's upper market levels where strays occasionally cling to the edges.
This is nearly Blackline territory. Down here, you won't find or discover lost children; you find stains on the floor, perhaps a gnawed bone if you're fortunate. This area is teeming with rad-leaks, unstable tunnel segments, and creatures that have evolved far beyond the need for sunlight or recognizable anatomy.
(He carefully looks around the edge of the housing unit, utilizing a small optical periscope. )
Okay, it's definitely a kid. Tiny. Six, maybe seven cycles old? Scrawny as hell, dressed in rags that appear to have been salvaged from other rags. But. . . look at him. He's kneeling by the conduit pile, methodically extracting thin strands of copper wiring, coiling them with intense focus. He doesn't seem panicked.
And he's. . . doesn't ave any injuries? No fresh bloodstains, no evident burns despite the fizzing energy conduits nearby, no signs of the tremors you experience from chronic toxin exposure. How is that possible? How does a kid this small manage to survive five minutes here, let alone appear completely unharmed? His eyes resemble… like old chips of granite, continuously scanning. Not the wide, terrified eyes of a lost child.
(Drevin conducts a quick scan with his handheld device, discreetly aiming it at the kid)
Still nothing. No active quirk signature that my gear can detect, not even the low-level background hum most individuals emit. Quirkless? A quirkless six-year-old surviving this sector alone? Doesn't make sense. Unless…
(His cynical, opportunistic mind kicks in. )
In some way. A kid this skilled at remaining unnoticed, his really at ease in a danger zone. . .
This is a skill that can be beneficial. A highly coveted talent in the Underscape. Information dealer? Tiny assassin-in-training for some more sinister gang? Or just a freak? Whatever he happens to be, he's interesting. Someone capable of navigating areas like this unseen could be far more valuable than this capacitor.
Alright, Hales. Curiosity ended the mech-rat, This little ghost is too interesting to ignore. Let's check him more closely. Perhaps he's just another lost kid of Underscape freak ready to attack me. Only one way to discover.
(Drevin retrieves the periscope, verifies the charge on his stun-prod – just in case – and starts moving silently from behind the relay housing, strategizing his approach toward the unaware, scavenging child. )
Alright, ghost kid. Let's see what're you. I maneuvered around the heap of fallen conduits, staying low, observing him. He didn't respond to my presence, merely continued meticulously organizing his salvaged copper wires from ceramic insulators. Like I was merely another shifting piece of debris. Or perhaps just dangerously unaware?
I halted approximately ten feet away, rested against a chunk of ferrocrete. "Did you discover something shiny, rat?" I stayed in a relaxed tone, greeting with the typical Underscape style.
He paused for half a moment, then slowly and deliberately turned his head. He didn't stand, didn't flinch. Just… stared at me. The flat black eyes were disturbingly old for a face that was just ripe for his age. He look at me from head to toe – my equipment,my probable intent.
Then he shifted back to his wires. Ignored me. Why retrieve something safe when you can dance around with radiation zones and whatever mutated horrors took refuge there after the Flares went into full swing?
That's when I noticed it. To grasp a particularly extended strand of copper, he had to lean directly over a puddle dripping from a fractured pipe above.
The substance was thick, iridescent, emitting fumes that made my eyes sting even from this distance. It smelled like Grade-3 Chemlab runoff – the type that erodes synth-leather boots and makes your lungs feel like they're filling with acid. I reflexively held my breath, checked the seal on my rebreather.
But the kid? He leaned right into the fumes, inhaled normally, didn't even cough. Then he dipped his hand into the edge of the sludge – the substance smoking slightly where it contacted the ferrocrete – to seize the wire. He withdrew his hand, wiped the toxic goo off on his rags as though it were mud, and resumed whatever his doing.
(Drevin's internal thoughts sharpen, cynical curiosity replaced by cold calculation. )
Wait… did I just witness that? Is he inhaling that filth? That sludge should be erasing his skin, at the very least. It should be causing him to choke and eyes watering. . . but nothing. The kid's inhaling it like it's fresh Academia-filtered air. And he touched it! Wiped it off as if it were nothing god daym this kid!!
Alright. Set aside the capacitor for now. Set aside Scar-Lip Jin and his credits. This kid. This kid's the true prize here.
Immunity to any toxic air. He's a damn walking miracle cure for half the dangers in the Underscape. He's an asset.
Imagine it. Train him up. Someone capable of traversing toxic areas, radiation spots, chemical spills without perishing or needing costly equipment. . . someone able to evade sensors. . .
He could serve as my eyes, ears, and hands in places where I wouldn't put my own life at risk. The kid is a blank slate, as tough as rusted nails. . . could shape him into the ideal Black Ops Spy!
Oh, gods, yes. This surpasses any piece of technology I could scavenge. I must take him this little treasure.
"Alright kid, new plan," I stated, pushing away from the ferrocrete, infusing my voice with a bit more authority. "Playing silent is cute, but the fun is over. What's your name? "
He looked up again, that same flat, analytical gaze. No answer. Just observing.
"Look, I can make things easy for you," I attempted, raising a ration bar I had saved for emergencies. Genuine food, not just paste.
Usually gets some reaction. "Stick with me, you'll eat better than rats. Work for me. Whaddya say? "
Silence. He didn't even glance at the ration bar. His stare flicked towards the tunnel entrance behind me, then back to me. Still assessing.
Damn it. "Are you deaf, kid? Or just dumb? Speak!" I snapped, my patience thinning. He just. . . stared. Didn't even blink. How am I supposed to deal with this? If he won't make a sound. This is going to be difficult. What a hassle.
Drevin sighs, running a hand through his greasy hair. Right, plan B then. Silent treatment, huh? Fine. We'll approach this the difficult way, ghost kid. Seems like talking isn't your forte. Let's see how you react to action. You're coming along, whether you want to or not. Time to discover how fast those little legs can actually move.
(Drevin takes a purposeful step towards Kaizen, dropping into a predatory crouch, prepared to seize the child before he can escape back into the Underscape's shadows.)