After Dane's truck disappeared over the ridge, Mia stood still for a long moment, eyes on the horizon where the storm loomed like a living wall. The wind wasn't howling yet, but it had weight to it, and she could already taste sand in the air, a gritty prelude to the onsught.

  She turned back into the shelter, moving quickly. The air inside was cool and still, a stark contrast to the churn building outside. But Mia's thoughts weren't on safety. Not entirely. Her mind raced, calcuting risks and running diagnostics on systems she hadn't touched in years.

  The North Tower was failing.

  Seven years. It had been seven years since she'd id eyes on the storm shield towers, but she remembered their design. Their systems. Their weak points. And if Dane was right—if the North tower was unstable—then the whole system was at risk of cascading failure.

  Sand like this could fy a face clean off. But it wasn't just skin she was worried about. It could clog strip sor ptes, shred every inch of exposed wiring. If the shield went down, the town wouldn't be coated in a dusting—it would be swallowed whole by the storm, buried beneath tons of wind-bsted debris.

  She moved with purpose to the far side of her shelter, yanking open a wide drawer beneath one of the lower workbenches. Her mother's old flight suit was folded neatly inside, a time capsule of memories. Leather, dark brown, reinforced seams. The gloves were stiff but whole. The helmet is scratched but functional. It still smelled like oil, ozone, and her. That ache of familiarity made Mia pause for the briefest moment, throat tightening as she ran calloused fingers over the worn material.

  Then she slid into it fast, buckling straps with practiced hands. Her mother had been her size. It fit perfectly, like it was meant for Mia all along. A second skin, an armor forged from a legacy of defiance in the face of the storm's fury.

  "What are you doing?" Asrell asked, voice low and puzzled.

  "Fixing what I should've been fixing days ago," Mia muttered, grabbing her toolkit and slinging the heavy rucksack over one shoulder. Her movements were brisk, purposeful.

  He didn't understand her urgency, not really. But he understood what it meant to want to protect a pce, even one that didn't want you back. So he didn't argue. Just buzzed faintly beneath her skin, a constant presence.

  She moved to the far wall, her boots scuffing against the concrete floor. The rolling shelf groaned as she pushed it aside, revealing the heavy steel hatch behind it. With a grunt of effort, she pulled it open, and the stale air of the old tunnels breathed out around her, musty and thick with the scent of earth.

  "These tunnels were carved by the first terraformers," she told Asrell, her voice echoing in the dim passage. "Before the air was breathable. Before there was a town."

  The tunnels were a patchwork of old diggers' work—some hand-cut and narrow, others reinforced with metal ribs wide enough for a mining cart to rumble through. Signs still clung to the walls, some faded by time and neglect, others surprisingly intact. One pointed toward the old SVC offices. Another toward the dam. But she veered right, toward the main spoke, her footsteps echoing with purpose.

  Toward the North exit.

  The tunnel eventually brought her to a steel access hatch just behind Hal's tavern. Above that hatch—on the roof—stood the North tower, a silent sentinel against the encroaching storm clouds.

  The storm had rolled in, its dark tendrils unfurling across the sky like the fingers of some malevolent entity.

  She tapped the panel beside the exit hatch, surprised when the old screen flickered to life, bathing her face in a sickly green glow. Legacy code scrolled across the terminal, lines of numbers and symbols that held the secrets of a bygone era. Still functional.

  The tower was still holding. For now.

  She found a stool tucked behind the console and sat, arms crossed, helmet visor up. For the next hour, she watched, unblinking, her gaze fixed on the flickering dispys and readouts that monitored the town's defenses.

  When the flicker came, it was small. A blink in the shield grid—barely noticeable unless you were looking. But Mia was looking, her eyes sharp and alert, trained by years of experience to catch the slightest anomaly.

  Back in town, Dane saw the same flicker in the forcefield. His datapad pinged, the alert harsh and insistent. Shield integrity warning: NORTH NODE.

  "Shit," he hissed through gritted teeth, grabbing the radio from his belt with a calloused hand. "Hal, north tower's flickering."

  Static crackled for a tense moment before Hal's voice cut through, low and gravelly as ever. "I know."

  In the Tavern, Hal didn't hesitate. He grabbed Moozy by the colr of his floury apron and started push-shoving the rge baker toward the hidden shelter below the tavern floor. Moozy cursed and protested, but Hal's cybernetic grip was unrelenting.

  "Stay," Hal barked, his one cybernetic eye fring as it scanned Moozy.

  Moozy huffed, face flushed from the abrupt manhandling. "Get your ass in here too, you old rust bucket!"

  But Hal didn't answer. He smmed the reinforced hatch shut, locking it behind him with a heavy thunk. Then he turned, shoulders set, and strode toward the gathering storm outside.

  On the roof of the Tavern, Mia saw the north tower stagger again under the onsught of wind and sand. The forcefield flickered violently, its integrity blipping in and out, and held. But not for long at this rate.

  She pulled out her coiled rope and carabiner clip, deftly anchoring herself securely to the sturdy base of the tower. Working as quickly as her nimble hands could manage, she reached into her battered satchel and retrieved a protective swath of flexible material. It was a mini-shield generator—something to help blunt the scouring wind and stinging sand. She wrapped it around the maintenance panel, tucking the reinforced edges beneath her arms to anchor it in pce.

  Pulling out her well-worn multitool, she flicked it open and pried at the small maintenance hatch cover. The shield flickered again, the power fluctuation causing the hatch's seal to groan in protest. But the malfunction was obvious and, thankfully, retively simple—just a matter of rerouting power past a failing coil to restore integrity. It was delicate work, but manageable for someone of her skill. The only catch: once the reroute was finalized, the shield would need to fully reset and reboot before coming back online and restoring full coverage.

  There was no choice. It was either that or let the town be sandbsted raw by the storm's unrelenting fury. Asrell's voice growled in her ear, his concern bleeding through their bond.

  "You're going to get yourself killed, little fool."

  "You'll eat well today," she muttered through dry lips, the hint of a smirk ghosting across her face. She yanked off one insuted glove with her teeth, fingers already trembling from the bitter cold and the tension coiling in her muscles. Then she got to work, deft fingers moving with practiced precision. She finalized the reroute, soldered the failing coil into its new configuration, smmed the hatch pte shut, and finally hit the reset button with her bare knuckle.

  The forcefield dropped with an ominous whine of discharged energy.

  The wind howled in triumph, seizing its chance to sh the town.

  Sand smmed into Mia like a freight train, raw and merciless. The protective material sheet was torn away in a heartbeat, whipped into the screaming gale like a discarded scrap of trash. Her lost glove went with it, stripped from her grip. Bare skin met the storm's fury head-on, and it screamed in agony.

  It was like thousands of tiny razors biting at her hand and wrist, stripping flesh from bone in stinging, blood-warm peels. She grit her teeth until her jaw throbbed, tendons straining against the onsught. Her fingers, exposed to the elements, burned and wept.

  Twenty seconds.

  Twenty seconds of pure, unrelenting hell.

  The shield finally surged back online with a low, rising hum of power—but not before the wind caught her like a ragdoll in its grasp. The anchor tether snapped taut as she was flung sideways, smming her body into the unforgiving tower structure with a bone-deep crack. Her ribs sang with fire. Her shoulder screamed in protest, fiery agony ncing through her nerves. Her entire side felt lit with broken gss and blooming bruises. Her visor on the helmet was sand-bsted to translucent haze, her visibility reduced to an indistinct blur and shadow.

  She hung there, breath ragged and shallow, one gloved hand clutching the cable in a white-knuckled grip, the other—a mangled mess of torn skin and muscle—still twitching from the searing pain. Asrell surged to life under her skin, a hiss of borrowed energy racing down her spine as he tried to patch what he could of her injuries through their symbiotic bond.

  The access hatch below burst open with a cng. Heavy cybernetic limbs clomped up the dder, the sound of metal on metal ringing out. She felt calloused hands grab her, lift her like she weighed nothing more than a feather.

  The harsh winds cut off abruptly as the hatch smmed shut behind them, sealing out the storm raging above. Hal carried her inside the dimly lit tavern like she was made of delicate paper, gently dropping her onto a worn stool at the bar.

  He didn't know who she was yet, this battered figure cd in scuffed armor and tattered fabrics. "Dumb as hell, girl," he muttered gruffly, his voice a low rumble. "Ain't nobody asked you to be a ghost hero."

  She didn't answer, remaining silent and still, her head bowed as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. Hal knelt before her, his cybernetic joints whirring faintly as he carefully checked her spine, her ribs, her neck for any signs of serious injury. With deft movements, he removed the sand-bsted helmet, and he blinked in surprise.

  Mia Virelli. The terrorist of Avenridge.

  His weathered face didn't shift, betraying no outward emotion save for a slight shrug. "Well, shit. That tracks." Of course, it would be her, the one who had blown up a bridge to make a statement to SVC, but with deadly consequences.

  She stared at him, dazed and exhausted, her eyes pleading for understanding, for sanctuary.

  He looked down at her mangled hand, watching in muted awe as the torn flesh knitted itself back together, healing before his very eyes. Looking up at her face, he saw in the dim light of his tavern the unusual blue glow in her icy-blue eyes, a telltale sign of something more than human.

  "Hell. SVC got to you too, huh?" His gravelly voice held no judgment, only a weary resignation born of a lifetime of witnessing the depths to which humanity could sink.

  She gave him a silent shake of her head, and he knew he wasn't going to get a peep out of her regarding what he was seeing with his own two eyes, even the enhanced one.

  He leaned back, considering her for a long moment before giving a curt nod. "Seen worse. Seen weirder." Whatever she had been through, whatever secrets she now carried, he would not turn her away. Not tonight.

  She exhaled, a tremulous breath of relief. "Food?"

  Hal snorted, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, I can do that."

  A few minutes ter, she was halfway through a bowl of something mysterious and meat when a cat rubbed against her leg. Her whole body lit up with warmth and familiarity. She reached down with her better hand, scratching under its chin and feeling the rumbling purr against her calloused fingers. Another cat appeared, weaving between her boots, and then a third joined the small furry congregation.

  Asrell's curiosity was sparked by the strange little creatures. "These animals..." he mused, his tone almost wistful. "I like them."

  Mia smiled, a fleeting expression that softened the hard lines of her face. The simple joy of being surrounded by friendly felines was a balm on her weary soul.

  Then came Moozy's dog, barking madly from around a corner where he had been hiding under someone's bed. The scruffy mutt bounded over, tail wagging furiously as he recognized the long-lost friend. She dropped to the floor with a ugh, wrestling with the excitable pup as if no time had passed at all.

  Hal leaned on the bar, arms crossed, watching her with a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You can't be that bad," he said, his gruff voice carrying a hint of approval, "if that mutt still likes you."

  The radio crackled with static, Dane's voice cutting through the rexed atmosphere. "North tower stabilized. Hal? What's your status?"

  Mia looked at him, silent, her expression unreadable as she waited for his response.

  Hal rolled his eyes, a familiar gesture of exasperation. Picking up the receiver, he replied with a casual indifference, "Stable. Don't ask me how. It's just fixed."

  Dane grumbled something unintelligible before signing off with a crackle of interference.

  Mia finished her soup, savoring the rich fvors and the simple comfort of a warm meal. But the moment was fleeting, as pounding came from below, accompanied by Moozy's muffled yells to be let out from whatever predicament he found himself in.

  She stood, her movements purposeful and unhurried, grabbing her sandbsted coat and helmet and looking for an exit.

  Hal frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "You just saved this damn town. Why the hell are you hiding it?"

  Her voice was quiet, ced with a weary resignation that spoke volumes. "Because it won't make a single difference to anyone who truly hates me."

  And that simple statement, delivered with such brutal honesty, shut him up more effectively than any argument could have.

  She paused at the edge of the tavern, by the back door, casting one st look around. Her boots scuffed against the floorboards, the sound echoing in the empty space. For the first time in her life, she took in the tavern she'd never been allowed to enter growing up. Adobe walls met worn psteel supports, creating a strange fusion of old and new. Soft, dust-filtered light spilled through stted windows, casting long shadows across the room. It smelled like old smoke, whiskey, and grease.

  The bar itself was sturdy, all dark wood and scuffed corners, a testament to the years of use and abuse it had endured. Futuristic wall panels blinked alongside rustic chalkboards, a juxtaposition of technology and tradition. A weathered jukebox sat silent in the corner, its once-vibrant colors faded by time. The tables were mismatched, an eclectic collection of shapes and sizes, each with its own story to tell.

  But despite the wear and tear, the tavern exuded a warmth. It felt real, lived-in, a sanctuary from the harsh realities of the world outside. For a moment, she let herself breathe it in, savoring the rich tapestry of sights, sounds, and smells that surrounded her.

  Then, with a pang of reluctance, she turned and slipped back out the door, disappearing into the night as silently as she had come.