“Tago’s graduated speed limit system: 100 kph residential, 200 kph commercial, 300 kph executive, reflects our commitment to both safety and efficiency.”

  — Tago PD Transportation Guidelines

  The moment I settled into the passenger seat, restraints shot out from the sides and locked across my chest with a decisive click. I blinked down at them, surprised.

  “Uh, is this really—”

  Erika grinned, her hands danced across the holographic controls, and the gravitic engine hummed to life with a sound that went straight through my chest. The Vantrel lifted smoothly off the ground.

  Rising...

  Rising...

  Then she gunned it, and the world became a blur.

  We shot forward so fast my helmet slammed back against the headrest. The park disappeared behind us in an instant, replaced by streaking buildings and traffic sky-lanes that we blazed past rather than through. The speedometer climbed—120, 160, 200 kilometers per hour… and kept climbing.

  “E-Erika?!” I managed, my voice shaking from the vibration.

  She glanced at me, one eyebrow raised, and actually rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re one of those?”

  We swerved around a slower transport, missing it by what felt like centimeters, the proximity alarm screaming before Erika casually silenced it. Then we dropped twenty meters in altitude, threading between two buildings, and shot back up through a gap in traffic that definitely wasn’t meant to be used as a lane.

  My knuckles were white where they gripped the seat.

  “I mean—” I swallowed hard as we banked hard left, G-forces pressing me into the expensive leather. “—is this legal?”

  Erika threw me a look, her grin absolutely feral. “Obviously.”

  I blinked. “Obviously?”

  “Not.” She laughed, the sound completely bright. “But I love it!”

  The Vantrel climbed higher, breaking through the standard traffic levels into the upper skylanes where only certified corporation drivers and emergency vehicles were supposed to fly. The city spread out below us, a glittering sprawl of lights and movement.

  I forced myself to breathe, trying to relax despite every survival instinct screaming. “I... I saw posts where you were at the Tago Fast Circle. You pilot those?” I was grasping for conversation, anything to distract from the fact that we were currently breaking at least seven traffic laws simultaneously.

  Erika snorted, pulling into a corkscrew maneuver that made my stomach try to exit through my throat. “Those? Those cost a million credits just for the privilege of sitting in the passenger seat.” She leveled out, though we were still going at least twice the posted limit. “I race in the real ones.”

  “Illegal street races,” I whispered, the pieces clicking together.

  “You watch too many holos,” Erika said, shaking her head. “It’s much tamer in reality… and not street races.”

  “No?”

  Her grin widened, and she suddenly pulled the Vantrel into a near-vertical climb. “Sky races!“ She pushed the throttle even higher.

  As the speedometer hit 400, I decided to close my eyes and just... trust.

  Erika laughed through the engine’s hum and actually eased back on the throttle. The Vantrel dropped smoothly back into the normal traffic lanes, and the speedometer... settled at 150.

  One hundred and fifty kilometers per hour.

  After hitting 400, it felt... tame?

  I blinked at the realization. Was this how Erika got used to it? Flying at speeds that should terrify any sane person until they became the new normal? This speed didn’t even raise my adrenaline anymore.

  My heart rate was actually slowing down, and that was probably concerning. I forced my mind to refocus, pushing past the weird numbness. “Uhm, Eri... can you keep it a secret?”

  “Eh?” She glanced at me, confused, before swerving around a cargo hauler. “Don’t you have a system diver license? It literally says you’re a system user on your card.”

  “I mean the draining part. I don’t know if they know I know, and… if they know they pulled me down so much.”

  “Oh.” She blinked, and I watched understanding dawn across her face. “Duh, silly me. Of course.” Her expression turned serious, hands on the controls. “But how do you plan to deal with that? Compatibility’s kinda important.”

  “Don’t know yet,” I said, and let the frustration show in my voice. The anger I’d been holding back, the helplessness of not knowing who was doing this or why or how to stop it.

  Erika flinched slightly, just a small twitch of her shoulders.

  “Sorry,” I said immediately. “It’s just...”

  “I would kick their groins if I could,” she said firmly, nodding with absolute conviction. Then her expression softened, and she glanced at me with a small smile. “Hey, at least now you can try to catch up.” She winked. “And I promise to hang out... more. If you’re fine with...”

  She deliberately swerved toward another car, missing it by centimeters, the proximity alarm blaring before she silenced it again.

  “...this,” she finished, tasting the word like she wasn’t quite sure how it would land.

  My heart did something complicated in my chest that had nothing to do with the near-collision.

  Then her brows furrowed, and an actual pout formed on her lips. “I actually have to slow down to a hundred,” she complained as we crossed into Central District airspace. “Tago PD actually shows up here.”

  I was fighting, and losing, my fight not to blush at seeing her pout about following traffic laws. The heat crept up my neck, and I was suddenly very grateful for my helmet hiding most of my face.

  I opened my mouth to say... something. Anything, but words failed me completely.

  And then we were already nearing my block, the familiar buildings of my neighborhood rising around us. Erika eased the Vantrel lower, actually following the designated approach vectors for residential landing.

  She brought the Vantrel down with ease, the gravitic engine purring as we descended toward the residential landing pad near my house. Through the canopy, I could see the familiar outline of our maison rising against the sunset… all smooth panels and soft-blue lighting strips.

  The car touched down so gently I barely felt it, a perfect landing that somehow felt disappointing after the chaos of the flight.

  The restraints released with a soft click.

  Neither of us moved.

  The engine idled, filling the silence with a low hum. Through the tinted canopy, the Central Sector gleamed around us; biosculpted trees, silent serv-bots, everything pristine and controlled.

  “So,” Erika said finally, her hands still resting on the controls. She wasn’t looking at me. “The book arrives soon, right?”

  “Yeah,” I managed.

  “And you’ve got...” She trailed off, then turned to face me properly. Her green eyes caught the last rays of sunlight, those gold flecks almost glowing. “A week to integrate it before they take it back.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Or kill me trying,” I added with a weak laugh.

  She didn’t laugh back. “Don’t joke about that.”

  The seriousness in her voice made my chest tight. “I’ll be careful. Promise.”

  She gave me a small smile that didn’t quite hide the worry in her eyes. “Good. Because if you die from some corpo hit squad over a book, I’ll be really pissed.”

  “Can’t have that,” I said, my voice barely working.

  “No,” she agreed softly. “You can’t.”

  Then Erika’s comm buzzed, shattering the spell. She glanced down at her wrist, and I watched her expression shift back to professional. “My mentor,” she said apologetically. “I need to—”

  “Go,” I said quickly, reaching for the door release. “Yeah, of course. Thanks for the ride, and for, you know, saving my life back there.”

  “You held your own,” she said, and there was genuine pride in her voice. “For Level 1? You did really well, Dash. This day… reminded me of our mischief at school, and it was fun.”

  The canopy hissed open, and I climbed out… then froze, looking down at the passenger seat in horror.

  Dark streaks marked the expensive leather where my damaged armor had pressed against it. The pristine surface looked as if someone had dragged a chef’s set of knives across it.

  “Oh shit,” I breathed. “Erika, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think—the armor’s trashed and I—”

  She leaned over, following my gaze, and her eyes widened. For a moment, I thought she might actually be upset. This was probably a hundred thousand credit interior, but then she reached into the center console and pulled out a small cloth.

  One wipe across the dark streaks, and they... peeled away. Like a polymer film lifting off.

  Erika held up the cloth, now covered in grime, and grinned at me. “Protective layer,” she said, winking. “You’re so lucky.”

  The relief was so intense I almost laughed. “I was about to offer to detail the entire car.”

  “With what money?” she teased, but her smile was warm.

  I climbed out properly, my legs slightly unsteady on the landing pad, and cool afternoon air rushed in, carrying the smell of biosculpted flowers and whatever expensive air freshener Central Sector used today.

  Erika leaned across the seats, looking up at me through the open canopy. “Hey, Dash?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Level up. Don’t forget.” Her smile turned slightly mischievous. “You need to catch up with me.”

  I laughed despite everything. “I’ll try.”

  She nodded, satisfied, and the canopy closed. The Vantrel’s engine pitch changed, gravitic systems powering up for takeoff. I stepped back as the car lifted smoothly off the pad, rising into the skylanes with that effortless grace that made flying look easy.

  Then she was gone, a streak of crimson disappearing into the traffic patterns, leaving me standing alone on the landing pad as the sunset faded to dusk.

  I stood there for a long moment, brain replaying the entire conversation and somehow finding seventeen different things I should have said instead. “Smooth, Dash,” I muttered to myself. “Real smooth.” But I was smiling as I turned toward home.

  The smile faded as I took in the sight of our maison and headed straight for the side path, circling around to the back garden where great-grandpa’s statue loomed against the darkening sky. The eternal plasma flame flickered in its bronze hand, casting dancing shadows across the biosculpted hedges.

  I stepped over the low decorative wall, pressed the hidden button at the pillar’s base, and punched in 1-2-3-4-5.

  The monument shimmered and dissolved.

  I descended into my bunker as the pillar reformed above me, sealing me into the familiar concrete space. The automatic lights flickered on, revealing my makeshift workshop in all its chaotic glory.

  Home sweet underground home.

  I started with the armor, pulling off each piece and laying them across the workbench. The chest plate went first; warped, cracked diagonally, with three deep gouges that had nearly punched through to my ribs.

  Scrap.

  The pauldrons were worse. One was barely attached, the metal torn where a shrike’s talons had ripped completely through. The other had a hole the size of my fist. Both went on the scrap pile.

  Shin guards? Dented beyond recognition. The left one had buckled so badly I’d need industrial equipment just to flatten it out again.

  I kept going, methodically disassembling my TitanWard setup piece by piece. Each component got assessed: salvageable or scrap. The ratio was depressing.

  Scrap. Scrap. Maybe salvageable if I had three weeks and a miracle. Scrap.

  By the time I finished, I had exactly four pieces worth keeping: two forearm guards that had somehow escaped major damage, one thigh plate with only cosmetic denting, and a single hip connector that might be reusable.

  Everything else? Garbage.

  I slumped into my folding chair, staring at the pathetic pile of salvage versus the mountain of scrap.

  “Not profitable,” I muttered to myself. “Not even close.”

  The payment from Scavantis had been decent, 519 sols after all the fees and taxes, but replacing this armor would cost easily three times that. And that was if I built it myself from scratch.

  I needed the Michalski Shield. The parts Asti had ordered would arrive soon, and once I had my crafting bench set up, I could build proper defensive gear. The kind that wouldn’t disintegrate the moment a Level 1 incursion looked at me wrong.

  But then I’d need mana batteries to power it.

  “Damn,” I breathed. Mana batteries weren’t cheap, and I’d need to use them… the next incursion wouldn’t wait for my budget to recover.

  I grabbed the buckets from under my workbench and started sorting the scrap, breaking down the larger pieces into unrecognizable components. Couldn’t just throw away an entire armor set; too many questions if someone, like my mom, found it. But scattered parts? Random metal chunks?

  Those could be anything.

  Bucket one: torn plating and bent struts. Bucket two: damaged circuitry and fried power regulators. Bucket three: fasteners, bolts, screws… the small stuff that might actually be reusable.

  Twenty minutes later, the TitanWard armor that had saved my life twice in two days was completely disassembled, distributed across three buckets like it had never existed.

  But I wasn’t done yet.

  I pulled out an old holo-tablet from the shelf, not my school one, but a scratched-up model I’d salvaged from a junk dealer two years ago. It was slow, and the screen had a dead pixel cluster in the corner, but it worked well enough for design work.

  For the last time.

  I ordered a fancy designer rig called Orbital. Expensive thing, for me it was 25k sols, but market value was “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it”. I sat back down at the workbench and opened my blueprint files.

  The Shield, not even Michalski specifically, had been sitting in my “someday” folder for months. Now “someday” was on the horizon, when Asti’s shipment arrived with the crafting bench and materials. System-grade components and actual fabrication equipment: ACCIW.

  Automated cutting, component integration, and welder system.

  Finally.

  I could design something properly instead of just cobbling together whatever scraps Eddy had lying around.

  I pulled up a new schematic and started with the basics: the shield matrix casing. I sketched out a rectangular housing with mounting points, keeping it slim enough to attach to my belt without being obvious.

  Yeah, belt-mounted. I liked that idea. Accessible, protected by my body positioning in most combat stances.

  The batteries could go anywhere, chest rig, thigh pouches, even integrated into armor plating if I got fancy. Two batteries minimum, one mana, one normal and maybe two more, if I wanted extended operation time. I’d need to design the power distribution system to handle multiple inputs, with redundancy in case one failed mid-fight.

  Then there were the shield emitters.

  I pulled up reference designs, scrolling through options.

  I sketched out three different configurations, running rough calculations for power draw and coverage angles. The math got complicated fast; energy dispersion patterns, field coherence at various distances, refresh rates for sustained impacts.

  My stylus hovered over the screen, trying to decide between a dual-emitter setup or a four-point distributed array.

  Then I stopped.

  Shook my head.

  No point worrying about this when I didn’t even know what the ACCIW could do and would have to re-do the blueprint with Orbital anyway. The design would have to adapt based on what actually showed up.

  I saved the file, closing the blueprint with a frustrated sigh.

  Soon. Soon I’d know exactly what I was working with, and then I could finalize the design properly. Until then, I was just spinning my wheels.

  I changed into my civilian clothes, plain shirt, decent pants, and stuffed the underlayer into the washing bin.

  Time to face the house.

  I climbed the stairs; the pillar dissolving to let me through before reforming behind me and walked to the front door, pressed my palm to the scanner, and stepped inside.

  The house was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  “Mom?” I called out, more from habit than expectation.

  No answer.

  Right. Tuesday afternoon. She’d still be at work for another few hours at least, probably stuck in some endless meeting about quarterly projections or supply chain optimization or whatever corpo workers did to justify their salaries.

  Which meant Comma wasn’t home either; Mom always picked her up from school on the way back. Hopefully she wouldn’t break another arcade.

  I almost felt relieved.

  Almost.

  Because that meant I didn’t have to explain the new bruises, didn’t have to deflect questions about where I’d been, didn’t have to—

  My holoband buzzed, I glanced down, and my stomach dropped straight through the floor.

  TRANINUM SOUTH HIGH - HOMEWORK REMINDER

  Due: TODAY, 11:59 PM

  Subject: Mathematics - Advanced Calculus

  Status: INCOMPLETE

  Today was Tuesday.

  I’d missed yesterday’s homework completely.

  And today’s was due in... I checked the time. Eight hours.

  “No, no, no—” I was already sprinting up the stairs, taking them two at a time, my civilian clothes suddenly feeling too light without the armor’s weight.

  I burst into my room, the lights flickering on automatically to reveal the disaster zone I called a workspace. My desk was completely buried under projects, none of it more important than the homework I’d completely forgotten about.

  I dove for the desk, shoving aside a half-disassembled power coil, sending screws scattering across the surface. My hands found the holo-tablet’s corner, and I yanked it free from its prison of wiring and metal.

  The screen flickered to life, loading my student account.

  HOMEWORK QUEUE:

  1. Mathematics - Advanced Calculus (DUE: TODAY)

  2. Fighting Theory - Reading Assignment (DUE: THURSDAY)

  3. Mining Safety Protocols - Quiz (DUE: FRIDAY)

  I tapped the math assignment with fingers that definitely weren’t shaking.

  The problem set loaded.

  Differential equations. Partial derivatives. Integration by parts. Twenty problems, each one more complicated than the last, all of them requiring the kind of focused attention I definitely didn’t have after fighting two waves of crystal shrikes and a boss-class entity.

  I dropped into my desk chair with a groan that came from somewhere deep in my soul. “Math,” I muttered, staring at the screen like it had wronged me. “Of course it’s math.”

  The cursor blinked at me expectantly.

  Problem one: Evaluate the following integral... I grabbed a stylus, pulled up the scratch pad, and got to work.

  This was going to be a long night.

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