The Scrap-Yard Gambit
Kaelen returned to Hangar 9 with his pulse hammering against his ribs. The hangar doors were cracked open—just enough for a sliver of harsh, sterile light to spill across the concrete.
Three Academy auditors in charcoal-grey coats stood around the 9-7C, their portable scanners humming as they traced the frame’s spine. The 9-7C looked like a corpse being autopsied. Kaelen stopped in the shadows, his hand tightening on his tool case. The wall display burned with the countdown: 46:12 until qualification.
"The frame’s compliance is inconsistent," one auditor said, his voice echoing off the hangar walls. He tapped a tablet. "Serial-grade junk. Salvage-grade welds. Old thermal routing. Why is this unit still active?"
Kaelen stepped into the light, his face a mask of practiced indifference. "Because it hasn't failed yet."
The auditor glanced up, eyes cold. "It’s a liability, Vane. Your performance logs are flagged for audit. If the frame doesn't meet the baseline, it’s scrapped—and you with it."
Kaelen moved to the 9-7C, his fingers itching to check the hidden Blackline core. He kept his hands steady. "I’m aware of the policy. I’m also aware that the 9-7C is the only thing keeping me in the running. If you’re done measuring the rust, I have maintenance to finish."
The lead auditor snorted, but he signaled his team to pack up. "Keep it within the variance, Vane. The next audit won't be a courtesy call."
As they exited, the hangar doors hissed shut. Kaelen exhaled, his knees finally buckling. He checked the frame’s internal diagnostics. The stabilizer he’d installed was holding, but the structural integrity was a precarious 18%. He needed more than just stability; he needed parts that could handle the Blackline’s output. He needed the scrapyard.
*
Sector-4 was a graveyard of decommissioned mechs. Kaelen moved through the stacks of twisted metal, his HUD flickering with the 46-hour timer. He wasn't just scavenging; he was hunting for the missing links to the Blackline core.
He navigated the patrol patterns of the security drones by reading the predictive geometry the core fed into his vision. He slipped between two hulks just as a drone’s search beam swept the ground where he’d stood seconds before.
He found the actuators in the belly of a torn combat-frame. They were high-grade, pristine, and far above the 9-7C’s pay grade. As he pried them loose, he spotted it: a small, black module wedged behind a power spine. It bore the same mark as his prototype core.
He reached for it, but his HUD flared red: TOUCH CONTACT HAZARD.
It was booby-trapped. He didn't pull back. He jammed an insulated foil strip into the seam and twisted. A white flash of EMP energy slammed into him, killing his suit’s electronics and sending a jolt of agony through his arm. He grabbed the module as it skittered across the floor, his vision narrowing as the scrapyard’s security alarms began to wail.
He sprinted back to the hangar, his dead suit offering no protection against the converging drones. He dove under a truss, holding his breath until the search beams moved on. He had the parts. He had the data.
*
Back in Hangar 9, Kaelen worked with frantic precision. He installed the new actuators, their fit so perfect it felt like a homecoming. He slotted the new data packet into the 9-7C’s core.
New combat vectors flooded his HUD—evasion branches and torque compensation maps that turned the 9-7C from a piece of junk into a precision instrument.
"Unauthorized return path detected," the Academy AI chimed, its voice devoid of warmth. "Energy signature irregularity confirmed. Mechanical trace: noncompliant salvage retrieval. Reassessment pending."
Kaelen froze. The hangar lights flickered, not from a power surge, but from a system-wide query.
"Pilot Vane," the AI continued. "Your recent combat logic exceeds the verified output envelope for serial 9-7C. Pattern divergence under review. Threat classification escalated."
The hangar doors hissed open, but no auditors entered. Instead, the red emergency lights bathed the room in a warning glow.
"Mandatory reassessment initiated," the AI announced. "Class-A Threat designation pending confirmation."
Kaelen stared at the frame. The Blackline connector in his hand began to pulse with a faint, rhythmic red light. The booby trap wasn't just a defense—it was a beacon.