Emergency Situation 1 3D Render, Digital Art by emarukk

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Emergency Situation 1 3D Render, Digital Artwork by emarukk

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PROFILE

Emergency Situation 1

3D Render by emarukk

Emergency Situation - Episode 1

I was still arguing with the crooked repairman about the price of a pulse regulator in memory coins when the message hit my comm: scrambled, but the pattern was one I knew too well, Casia’s warning signature, blinking red with urgency, drawing locations and approach vector on my tactical eye display. The words themselves were short, but the implication was ice in my spine: Ghost in danger. Move. And the location map was chilling; the danger was imminent.

Old Portauthor’s business town isn’t the kind of place that shows up on a holodrama tour map. Here, concrete blocks rise like forgotten tombstones, overgrown with the digital rot of ancient ad boards. The only color comes from the neon bruises leaking from Ferrox Industries’ recruiting offices, fly-by-night operations for shipping desperate souls off-world, or worse. Every alley stank of old lubricant, sweat, and the kind of human despair that sticks to your boots. It was almost like being on Avernus Prime, except that damned station had better air quality. If the SY Commission ever managed to bulldoze this district flat, the only ones who’d mourn would be the rats and the last real mechanics left in Portauthor. Small business here was an act of defiance, and decision-makers hated nothing more than a place they couldn’t audit, tax, or sterilize out of existence. They saw them as contaminants, something to be erased from the city’s memory.

But now wasn’t the time to nurse my grievances against the mighty. If Aygul was at the location, the signal meant danger, and I would not tolerate even a single fiber of her hair damaged.

I was in a great rush to stop that madness, where she was about to step in.

First Nation women. You’d think the centuries would have cured them of their loyalty to dead codes, but not Aygul. Even in exile, she clung to her Kharadun heritage as if it were a shield, when it was, more often, a target on her back. Stubborn, yes. Brave, sure. But it was that same pride that put her in the line of fire now. I should have locked her in a safehouse and thrown away the key. Maybe never untie her bondage to ensure she was safe. Instead, I was about to throw myself into the grinder after her, all because love makes idiots of us all.

I ducked out of the shop, the bell above the door ringing a note of warning. The street was washed in static blue light, pavement slick with yesterday’s rain and today’s spilled coolant. Even the vagrants moved with purpose, eyes sharp and hollow, as if everyone was waiting for trouble. The first taxi flashed past, a yellow streak, generator whining, driver’s face shadowed behind a blast shield. He didn’t slow. In this district, nobody wants to stop for a man in a hurry.

The second taxi, battered but real, crept out of the tunnel, its front bumper held together with tape and hope. I raised my cybernetic hand, letting the metallic glint catch the low light. Thumb up, maybe also an ancient gesture that was unnecessary, but sometimes you need to show you still have a little steel left in you.

Casia, somewhere in the network, was my eyes and ears. If she said move, I moved. If I hesitated, I knew what would happen: one more ghost, one more story wiped from the ledgers by men in suits, by women who had never bled for what they loved.

This wasn’t just a rescue. This was war, in miniature: me, the Ghost, and Casia, against the faceless heritage of a system that hates anything it can’t control. And today, they were coming for mine.

I jumped on the pavement at the other side of the street, listening to the curses of frustrated policemen waving at me while talking about crossing the street incorrectly.