Metallic groan… distant scrape… footfall on grated steel…
Kara moved like she belonged here, weaving between shadows and the occasional flicker of a sparking conduit. Her form was fluid, precise, almost reckless, but she made it work. I watched from above, calculating every step, every slight hesitation. Calculated risk or blind defiance? Only time would tell.
Sudden clang… a misstep? No a trap.
Rogue Syndicate operatives emerged from the side corridors, eyes bright with malice, weapons poised. Kara froze, a fraction too long. Good. Long enough for me to intervene. A swipe of the metal railing, a kick to a support beam debris shifted, scattering the attackers.
"Huh," I muttered, voice low, sarcastic. "Almost interesting."
Her eyes met mine briefly, surprise flashing before she continued. Not gratitude, just recognition. Tools aren't people. People aren't tools. And sometimes, you have to fix the tools before the job continues.
Snap… hiss… echoing clang…
She slipped past the danger, cutting a rope on a precarious catwalk with practiced ease. A rope that, if left intact, would have turned her path into a guillotine. I cataloged every motion, every adjustment, storing the knowledge like a ledger useful now, devastating later.
"Tools break. Sometimes you fix them," I reminded myself, not her. She didn't need the reassurance. Only I did.
Metal thud… distant shout…
I traced the shadows, noting every patrol pattern, every blind spot, every flickering light. The Veins beneath us thrummed, alive and restless, feeding information into my senses. One misstep and Kara could die. One misstep and the rebellion could stall. Or accelerate. Calculated chaos was my specialty.
Soft shuffle… creak… low murmur…
She passed, unscathed, and I allowed a faint smirk. "Not useless yet. Good," I muttered, letting the words linger like smoke in a corridor. Her skill made her an asset, but assets are replaceable. Especially when the alternative is amusing.
The corridor fell quiet again, shadows stretching like they were laughing at the absurdity of survival. I pressed my hand to the railing, feeling the pulse beneath. The Veins were alive, impatient, and so was I.
And as Kara disappeared into the next sector, I couldn't help but think: "Survive today, or tomorrow's lesson will be far less polite. And far less optional. And yes that's sarcasm, in case anyone forgot."