The rain in District 13 didn’t just fall; it hissed. It was a chemical soup, a grey, acidic drizzle that chewed through the worn leather of Jack Mercer’s trench coat and left a bitter, metallic tang on his tongue. It ran down the rusted, corrugated iron walls of the industrial slums, carrying the grease of a million neglected machines into the black, toxic waters of the canal below.

Jack leaned against a stack of discarded shipping crates, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Every intake of air felt like a hot blade sliding between his ribs—a physical reminder of the heavy kinetic rounds that had shattered his chest armor three nights ago. His left wrist, tightly bound in synthetic medical tape, throbbed with a dull, nauseating rhythm. But the worst of it was his right hand. The fractured bones in his palm, still unset and swollen, ground together like broken glass at the slightest movement.

At his neck, the DIY Neural Collar hummed. It was a crude, heavy band of brass and copper, built by Slick Sammy from scavenged corporate drone parts. Though the Alchemist had recharged its battery to full inside the hydroponic vault of the Blue Lotus Greenhouse, the physical connections were loose, compromised by the damp, corrosive air of the Neon Gutters. The electrodes at the base of his skull sparked erratically, sending sharp, stinging currents directly into his brain stem.

*"He's going to sell us out, cop,"* Brick Malone’s voice rumbled from the depths of his subconscious, a coarse, gravelly vibration that rattled Jack’s teeth. *"Look at him. The fat pig is shaking. Let me take the wheel. I'll turn our knuckles to slate and cave his skull in before he can raise that wrench."*

*Shut up,* Jack thought, his teeth grinding as his left hand closed around the cool, tarnished silver of Sarah’s locket. He squeezed the metal, letting the sharp edges bite into his raw, scarred palm. The physical pain was a grounding wire, a brief spark of reality that forced Malone's murderous persona back behind the cracking mental partition. *I am Jack Mercer. I am a detective. I am not a monster.*

He pushed himself away from the crates, his boots splashing through a puddle of iridescent oil. Ahead of him lay the towering, jagged silhouette of the Scrap-Yard Scavengers’ headquarters—a massive, high-walled graveyard of forgotten technology. Mountains of rusted steel, shattered hover-car chassis, and the hollow shells of decommissioned Aegis logistics drones rose like monuments to corporate decay under the flickering blue light of a towering holographic advertisement overhead.

Jack approached the heavy, reinforced iron gates. He didn't have his father's service revolver; the old six-shot weapon was still wedged tight inside the drainage grate of the sewers, its barrel bent and useless. He was unarmed, physically broken, and running on borrowed time. But he had a promise to keep to the Alchemist, and to do that, he needed his collar reinforced.

He knocked on the gate—three heavy, rhythmic strikes with his good hand.

A small, sliding viewport clicked open. A pair of small, hyperactive eyes peered out from behind a pair of oversized, grease-smeared digital visor glasses.

"Who's there?" a voice squeaked, high-pitched and nervous. "We're closed. Scrape off, gutter-rat. Gabe don't buy scrap after midnight."

"Tell Gabe I'm not here to sell," Jack rasped, his voice sounding like dry gravel. He leaned closer to the viewport, letting the flickering blue neon light illuminate the raw, jagged scar on the back of his neck. "Tell him Marcus Miller sent me. And tell him I know about the Model 8s."

The viewport slammed shut with a sharp metallic clatter. For a long, tense minute, the only sound was the relentless hissing of the acid rain. Then, with a heavy groan of ungreased hinges, the massive iron gate swung open, revealing the dark, cavernous interior of the junkyard.

Jack slipped inside, his eyes immediately scanning the shadows. The air inside smelled of wet rust, ozone, and hot solder. Standing in the center of the yard was Greasy Gabe. The junkyard owner was a massive, bald man with a face permanently stained with engine oil, wearing a dirty, threadbare tank top that did little to hide his immense girth. In his massive, scarred hands, he held a heavy-duty pneumatic impact wrench like a club.

Behind him, hovering in the dim light, was Scrap. The eleven-year-old drone pilot was sitting on a stack of old tires, a pair of oversized headphones hanging around his neck, his fingers moving rapidly over the controls of a custom-built, silent quadcopter drone that hovered near the ceiling.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming here, Mercer," Gabe growled, his voice a low rumble that rivaled the thunder outside. He didn't lower the wrench. "The NCPD has your face plastered on every holo-screen from here to the Gilded Sector. 'The Memory Butcher.' They're offering a fifty-thousand credit bounty for your head. Why shouldn't I just split your skull and collect the check?"

Jack didn't flinch. He stood his ground, his left hand remaining in his duster pocket, his thumb brushing the cool silver of Sarah's locket. He used his Detective's Logic, his eyes darting to the far corner of the workshop where three military-grade Aegis surveillance drones lay beneath a heavy tarpaulin.

"Because you're a businessman, Gabe," Jack said, his voice cold and analytical. "And those are Aegis Model 8 tactical drones. The serial numbers are freshly filed, but the grinding wheel left the copper bright. If the NCPD SWAT team breaches these gates looking for me, they won't just find a disgraced detective. They'll find ten years' worth of grand larceny against a corporate monopoly. You'll spend the rest of your life in an Aegis brain-wipe clinic. Or what's left of it."

Gabe’s face flushed a deep, angry red. He took a step forward, the pneumatic wrench hissing as he tensed his massive forearms. "You threatening me in my own yard, cop?"

"I'm offering a trade," Jack replied, his voice steady despite the sudden, painful spasm that rippled through his neck. "Moose told me you were the best fixer in the district. I need heavy-duty hardware to upgrade this collar. High-Density Copper Wiring. Neural Stabilizer Batteries. You give me the parts, and I keep my mouth shut about your little scrapping business. And when I raid the Aegis Waste Disposal Site, I'll bring back a crate of corporate processors. The un-wiped kind."

*"Kill him,"* Malone’s voice hissed, a cold, oily whisper that made Jack’s left eye twitch. *"He's going to raise the wrench. Let me turn our skin to stone. We'll paint the floor with his grease."*

Jack tensed his muscles, attempting to call on Malone's concrete-hardening power to intimidate the giant. He felt the grey, stone-like texture begin to creep up his neck. But the sudden power draw was too much for the loose wiring of his collar. A blinding jolt of electrical static exploded at the base of his skull. His eyes flashed with a brilliant, unstable blue light—the Blue Sclera Flash—and his right hand spasmed violently. The fractured bones in his palm ground together, sending a wave of excruciating pain down his arm.

Jack gasped, dropping to one knee, his left hand clutching his chest as he fought to keep from vomiting. The concrete texture vanished from his skin, leaving him pale and shivering in the dirt.

Gabe let out a harsh, mocking laugh, raising the wrench. "Look at you. You're a broken clock, Mercer. One good kick and your gears will spill all over the floor. You can't even hold your own power together."

"Leave him alone, Gabe."

The voice was sharp, energetic, and carried a distinct, no-nonsense authority.

Teresa 'Gears' Vance stepped out from beneath the disassembled chassis of a heavy cargo hover-truck. She was a young woman, her cheeks smudged with black grease, her dark hair tied back in a messy bun. She wore oil-slicked overalls filled with a dozen different custom wrenches, and a modified solder-gun hung from her tool belt like a duelist's pistol.

She walked over to Jack, her sharp eyes immediately locking onto his neck. She reached out, her fingers brushing the raw, blistered skin around the electrodes of his collar.

"That's a Sammy special," Gears murmured, her technical jargon flowing rapidly. "But the wiring is cheap tin. It's melting under the current. The electromagnetic pulse is fluctuating wildly because the battery pack is too small to handle the feedback from a Tier 1 mutant soul. If you try to use your power again with this rig, Jack, your brain cells will cook like wet scrap."

She looked up at Gabe, her expression unyielding. "He's Moose's friend, Gabe. And he's right. If the NCPD comes here, we're all going to the wipe-clinics. We help him, we get the corporate processors, and we keep Moose's gym safe. Now go lock the perimeter gates."

Gabe grumbled, spitting a glob of dark tobacco onto the dirt floor, but he lowered the wrench. "You've got one hour, Gears. If the scout drones spot him here, I'm throwing him to the hounds myself."

He turned and walked toward the gate, his heavy boots echoing through the cavernous yard.

Gears turned back to Jack, offering him a grease-stained hand. He took it, letting her help him pull his battered body off the floor. She led him to a metal workbench covered in copper shavings and disassembled circuit boards.

"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a rusted iron stool.

Jack sat, his muscles trembling with fatigue. He watched as Gears reached beneath the workbench, pulling out a heavy spool of High-Density Copper Wiring. The metal was a deep, brilliant orange, thick and heavily insulated with a high-grade polymer.

"Aerospace grade," Gears said, a faint, proud smile touching her lips. "Bypassed from the Sector 12 transit lines. It can handle ten times the current of Sammy's cheap wire without heating up. And these..."

She reached into a lead-shielded drawer, pulling out two heavy, rectangular lithium cells. They were dark grey, marked with the distinctive silver seal of the Aegis Logistics Division.

"Neural Stabilizer Batteries," Jack murmured, his detective mind recognizing the corporate markings.

"The best," Gears agreed, sliding her modified solder-gun from her belt. "They're designed to power the automated security turrets on the Gilded Sector border. They'll give your collar a stable, continuous electromagnetic pulse that will keep Malone's voice locked down even during a high-radiation environment. But installing them is going to hurt, Jack. I have to solder the new wiring directly to the electrode ports on your neck."

Jack reached into his duster pocket, pulling out Sarah's silver locket. He popped the latch with a practiced flick of his thumb, staring down at her faded, water-damaged photograph. The edges of her secretive smile were beginning to dissolve from the dampness of the sewers, but her eyes still held that quiet, protective warmth.

"Do it," Jack said, his voice dropping to a cold, resolute whisper. He squeezed the locket, focusing his mind on her face, using her memory as his final anchor.

Gears nodded, her expression turning serious. "Scrap, get the drone up. Watch the perimeter wall. If the Concrete Crushers or the police show up, I want to know before they hit the gravel."

"On it, Gears," the eleven-year-old boy replied. He pulled his headphones over his ears, his fingers flicking the joysticks of his controller. The custom quadcopter drone rose silently into the air, its thermal camera lenses glowing a faint, pale green as it drifted out through a high window into the rainy night.

Gears stepped behind Jack. He felt the cold touch of her fingers on his neck, followed by the sharp, burning heat of the solder-gun.

*"She's going to burn us!"* Malone’s voice roared, a sudden, violent spike of panic that cracked through the chemical static. *"She's an Aegis spy! Break her hands, Jack! Break her—"*

Jack squeezed the locket harder, his teeth grinding as the heat of the solder-gun seared his flesh. The smell of burning skin and hot copper filled his nostrils. He didn't scream. He forced his mind to remain in the cold, dark interrogation room of his subconscious, slamming the heavy steel door on Malone's voice, locking the enforcer behind a wall of pure, unyielding resolve.

"Hold still," Gears muttered, her hands incredibly steady as she ran the high-density copper wire from the electrode ports to the new battery casing. "The connection is solid. Now, installing the batteries. This is going to jolt you."

She slid the heavy lithium cells into the brass casing.

An intense, high-frequency hum exploded in Jack’s ears. It wasn't a painful shock, but a massive wave of electromagnetic static that vibrated directly into his jawbone and behind his retinas. His vision flickered with blue and white light, his muscles tensing as the stable, powerful pulse flooded his brain stem.

Slowly, the static cleared.

The constant, painful migraine that had plagued him for days suddenly receded, replaced by a deep, cool silence. Malone's gravelly voice was gone, buried so deep beneath the stable electromagnetic wall that Jack couldn't even hear his whispers. His hand tremor stopped completely, his fingers remaining perfectly still as they held the silver locket.

Jack let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in weeks.

"The connection is solid," Gears said, stepping back and wiping her forehead with her sleeve. She looked at his neck with a satisfied nod. "The collar is running at one hundred percent capacity. The high-density wiring will keep the current stable, and those batteries will last you through the high-radiation zones of the waste site. You're ready, Jack."

Jack closed the locket with a soft click, slipping it back into his pocket. "Thank you, Gears. Tell Moose I owe him one."

"Just bring back those processors," she replied, her energetic grin returning. "And don't get yourself wiped. New Chicago is short on honest cops."

Before Jack could stand, a sharp, static-filled crackle erupted from Scrap's radio.

"Gears! Jack!" Scrap’s voice squeaked, high-pitched with sudden, terrified panic. "We've got trouble! The thermal feed... someone's on the wall!"

Jack’s detective instincts snapped back to life. He rose from the stool, his movements smooth and pain-free as the upgraded collar stabilized his body. He strode over to Scrap's terminal, his eyes locking onto the small holographic screen.

The thermal feed from the silent drone showed a bright yellow figure crouching on the top of the concrete perimeter wall, looking down into the yard. The figure was thin, carrying a glowing green communicator in his hand.

"A scout," Jack rasped, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the distinctive gang markings on the figure's jacket through the static. "The Concrete Crushers. They tracked me from the canal."

Through the dirty glass of the workshop window, Jack looked up at the perimeter wall. The rain was still falling, but in the flickering blue light of the neon sign, he could clearly see the low-level lookout. The scout raised his communicator to his mouth, his thumb pressing the transmission button to sound the alarm.