The corrosive wind of the Poison Flats did not blow; it crawled. It was a heavy, sulfur-laden fog that clung to the basalt ridges of the subterranean fringe, tasting of old copper and battery acid. Every breath through Hana’s respirator was a warm, chemical struggle. Her throat burned with the phantom trace of sulfur, but she kept her fingers wrapped tightly around the cold brass handle of Silas’s High-Frequency Welding Torch. It was her only anchor, her only proof that the old man had once stood beside her in the grease-choked dark of Sector 9.

Beside her, Tessa crouched low behind a jagged column of pressurized shale, her matte-black flight suit smeared with toxic green mud. The black-market pilot adjusted the heavy strap of her kinetic rifle, her sharp, cynical eyes scanning the vast, dimly lit cavern ahead. Here, at the edge of the flats, the artificial gravity of the Silt had deteriorated into a floaty, unpredictable low-G pocket. Every step felt like walking through deep, viscous oil; a single careless leap could launch a person into the toxic mist pooling in the deeper craters.

"The distress beacon is coming from that scrap hangar," Tessa whispered, her voice crackling through Hana’s short-range comm receiver. She pointed toward a massive, partially collapsed iron ore refinery wedged into the basalt cliffside. "It’s Silas’s old emergency frequency. The Rust-Welders must have set up their forge inside. But they aren't alone."

Hana leaned over the ridge, her heart hammering against her ribs. Through her soot-smeared protective goggles, she saw the unmistakable blue-and-grey markings of the Junta’s local security garrison. A squad of six Light Enforcers, clad in reinforced iron boots and holding glowing kinetic shock batons, had established a tight perimeter around the refinery’s primary hangar doors. Above them, hovering with a heavy, rhythmic drone, was a Vanguard-class light patrol ship. Its central searchlight swept the scrap-metal yard below, casting long, sweeping shadows across piles of rusted scrap steel plating.

"They’re pinning them down," Hana rasped, her hand tensing on her plasma torch. "If the enforcers breach those blast doors, the Rust-Welders are dead. And we’ll never get the carbon-fiber plating Marcus needs to stand again. We have to do something, Tessa."

"We can't fight a whole squad and an armored patrol ship head-on, kid," Tessa muttered, her jaw tensing. "But we can make some noise. Hold your breath."

Tessa shifted her weight, locking her boots into the loose shale. She raised her custom kinetic rifle, aligning the iron sights with the patrol ship's cockpit. The ship’s reinforced canopy gleamed under the searchlight—a thick, military-grade polymer designed to withstand atmospheric pressure and high-altitude debris. Tessa took a slow, deep breath, her finger tensing on the trigger.

*CRACK.*

The rifle kicked violently against her shoulder, the heavy steel slug launching with a deafening metallic roar that echoed through the narrow cavern. The projectile struck the ship's cockpit canopy with a brilliant shower of sparks, but the military-grade polymer barely pitted. The slug deflected uselessly into the basalt roof above.

"Dammit!" Tessa hissed as the patrol ship’s searchlight instantly snapped toward their ridge. "The canopy’s too thick! They’re turning the gun!"

A heavy kinetic autocannon beneath the ship’s nose began to spin, its high-frequency hum vibrating through the stone beneath Hana’s knees.

"Get down!" Tessa grabbed Hana’s shoulder, pulling her backward into the deep shadow of the basalt column just as a volley of heavy kinetic slugs tore through the ridge, shattering the shale into a thousand razor-sharp splinters.

"We need a different way," Hana panted, her ears ringing from the concussive blasts. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to listen to the rhythmic drone of the patrol ship's engines. The sound was a low, discordant rattle that resonated within her chest. It was a standard Silt-model gravity thruster—the exact type Silas had taught her to reverse-engineer in his hidden workshop. She knew its structural weaknesses. She knew the exact copper wiring conduit that regulated the gravity stabilization field, located just behind the primary thruster seals.

"Tessa," Hana said, her voice shaking but resolute. "I can disable the ship. But I need you to draw their fire. Keep that searchlight focused on the ridge."

Tessa looked at the teenage girl, her cynical eyes narrowing. She saw the soot-stained cheeks, the trembling hands, and the unyielding focus in Hana’s amber eyes. "You've got thirty seconds before they flank us, kid. If you aren't back by then, I'm flying the Kestrel out of here with or without you."

"I'll be there," Hana said.

Using the low-gravity environment to her advantage, Hana pushed off the basalt wall, gliding silently into the dark ventilation pipes that ran along the refinery’s exterior. The air inside the pipes was thick with toxic sulfur and grease, but she kept her respirator sealed, her boots sliding along the rusted iron curves. Her Structural Weight Awareness—a passive understanding she had developed under Silas’s strict training—guided her through the dark, telling her exactly which pipes could support her weight and which were too corroded to touch.

She reached a high exhaust vent directly above the hovering patrol ship. Through the metal grating, she could see the ship’s engine bay just ten feet below. The thruster seals were glowing with a dull, orange heat, venting a steady stream of pressurized gravity-stabilizing fluid.

Hana carefully unscrewed the vent grate, letting it float silently in the low-G air. She activated her High-Frequency Welding Torch, the compact tool igniting with a brilliant, quiet blue plasma flame that sizzled against the sulfur-heavy air. She lowered herself onto the ship’s upper hull, her boots sticking to the magnetic plating with a soft metallic click.

*This is it,* she thought, her fingers tensing on the torch’s trigger. *For Silas. For Marcus.*

She pressed the plasma jet directly against the primary thruster casing. The high-frequency flame sliced through the reinforced steel casing like hot wire through fat. Within seconds, she exposed the delicate copper wiring conduit that regulated the gravity stabilization field. With a swift, precise stroke, she melted the thruster seals.

Instantly, a jet of super-heated, green-tinged gravity coolant sprayed from the ruptured seal, hissing violently as it hit the cold cavern air. Hana screamed as a stray splash of the acidic fluid caught her bare hands, burning through her thin leather gloves and searing her skin. The pain was immediate and blinding, but she held her ground, forcing herself to finish the cut before pulling back into the safety of the exhaust vent.

Below her, the patrol ship’s engines let out a high-pitched, screeching whine. The sudden loss of gravity balance was catastrophic. Without the stabilization field, the ship’s thrusters began to fire in random, violent directions. The vessel drifted violently sideways, its heavy steel wings clipping the cavern wall with a deafening metallic screech. The enforcers below scattered in panic as the out-of-control ship spun, its tail rotor shattering against the basalt cliffs before it crashed heavily into the scrap-metal yard, burying the enforcer vanguard beneath a mountain of twisted iron and burning fuel.

"Tessa! Now!" Hana shouted into her comm, clutching her blistered hands to her chest.

Tessa did not hesitate. She charged down the ridge, her kinetic rifle firing in rapid, disciplined bursts, neutralizing the remaining, disoriented enforcers before they could recover from the crash. She kicked open the hangar’s reinforced blast doors, her rifle raised as she scanned the smoky interior.

"Hana! Get in here!" Tessa called out.

Hana dropped from the exhaust vent, her boots landing heavily on the concrete floor. She stumbled into the hangar, her hands shaking with pain as she extinguished her welding torch.

Inside the hangar, a group of fifteen dirty, heavily armed mechanics—the Rust-Welders—emerged from behind piles of scrap steel plating. At their head stood Sienna, the ambitious leader of the outlaws. She was twenty-four, with short, spiky blonde hair, wearing heavy steel-plated leather gear and protective goggles. A confident, wild grin played on her lips as she looked at the burning wreckage of the patrol ship outside, then at Hana’s smoking welding torch.

"Nice shot, kid," Sienna said, her voice rough and pragmatic. She stepped forward, her boots clanking against the steel floor. "You just saved us a lot of ammunition. Who the hell are you?"

Hana stepped forward, her voice tight with pain as she reached into her duster pocket. She pulled out the physical data drive Silas had given Marcus before his sacrifice—the drive containing Silas’s Legacy Blueprints.

"We’re with Silas Cole," Hana said, holding the drive out with her blistered fingers. "He’s dead. But he sent us to find the Rust-Welders. We need carbon-fiber plating to repair our defenses. And we need to help Marcus stand again."

Sienna’s grin vanished at the mention of Silas’s name. She took the drive, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the uncorrupted file directories on her wrist-terminal. A flicker of genuine respect—and cold ambition—passed through her eyes as she recognized the complete schematics for the heavy, kinetic-absorbing steel combat frame.

"Silas’s legacy," Sienna murmured, her voice dropping to a low, calculating tone. She looked back at Hana, then at Tessa, her expression hardening into a cold, transactional stare. "The blueprints are real. And we’ve got the carbon-fiber scrap you need. But the Rust-Welders don't do charity, especially not for refugees from the Silt."

"Marcus Vance is the 'Iron Ghost'," Tessa snapped, stepping forward, her hand resting on her rifle. "He’s the one who pulled down the Silt’s gravity anchor. He’s the only one who can lead this rebellion."

Sienna let out a sharp, mocking laugh, her protective goggles reflecting the dying fire of the patrol ship. "A legend is only as good as his strength, pilot. If this Marcus Vance of yours is as strong as you say, he should have no problem proving it to us."

Sienna pointed toward the back of the hangar, where a massive, circular pit arena was lit by flickering orange floodlights. Inside the pit sat two towering, rusted iron machines—crude, heavy scrap-loaders equipped with massive hydraulic borer drills.

"We’ll help you," Sienna said, her voice cold and demanding. "But first, Marcus Vance must prove his revolutionary strength. He has to defeat my champion, Dax, in a high-stakes scrap-loader trial. If he wins, the carbon-fiber is yours. If he fails... we keep the blueprints, and you can rot in the flats."