09-11-2355 | 20:02
The Outbelt — Forty-K Market.
—
The market is a neon bruise stitched onto the city's edge, open twenty-four hours because hunger doesn't own a clock. Old prefab stalls lean against newer carbon struts like drunks with better shoes. Steam vents and incense fight in the air. A food printer wheezes into life beside a woman selling fried dough from a pan that is older than both of them. Kids run with cheap LED halos and shoes that spark when they lie. Somebody is hawking aug patches out of a velvet tray next to a crate of honest oranges. The power grid buzzes like it owes money.
A figure emerges from the crush near the battery bar, his silhouette imposing yet fluid. Tycho Vesper moves through the tight corridors not by pushing, but by reading the small, necessary shifts in the crowd, his long legs crossing the greasy pavement with an economical stride. He wears a dark, canvas jacket, one strong shoulder slightly hunched from years spent over wire and code. His brown eyes, sharp and quick, track every detail: the nervous hands of the hawkers, the flicker of a faulty sign, the heavy jackets of two approaching figures in the distance. He seems less like a customer and more like a necessary element of the market's own buzzing chaos.
"Ty!" a vendor calls, voice warm over the racket. Mo, with the brass hand he fabricated out of grief and stubbornness. "You owe me a story."
"You owe me an oil filter," Tycho says, slipping him a cred chit with two fingers and a smile. "And a fresh set of lies about your warranty."
"The lies are free," Mo says, pocketing the chit. "The filter hurts."
A pair of Harbor Enforcement agents push through the crowd in heavy jackets cut to look like they are not uniforms. Badges low on belts. Sidearms singing factory. They walk like they own everybody else's path. People peel off because that is how you stay unbroken.
"Show me your stall license," one says to the dough woman, already bored. "And your med cert. And your aug permission if you're printing food."
"It's dough," she says. Her hands don't stop moving. "It's flour, oil, salt."
"Printer's over there," the other says, as if a printer in the same zip code is a felony.
Tycho watches from a fruit stand that is counterfeiting its own produce. He lets the first stupid question land and the second, because sometimes you give a dog a stick to chew. When the taller agent taps a baton against Mo's brass hand and smirks: "You got a permit for that upgrade, grandpa?" Tycho decides he is done watching.
He doesn't make a speech. He steps into their proximity like he owns the ground and flips a coin under his thumb. The coin isn't currency. It sings a soft, petty note and every Harbor comm sets to static. The agents frown and tap their earpieces; nothing taps back.
"Evening," Tycho says, pleasant as rain. "You boys lost? The waterfront's that way. The fascism convention's next week."
"Keep moving," the tall one says, reaching for the baton again.
Tycho smiles at the baton like it told a joke. "Here's a better idea."
He flips a second coin. It pings the baton and sticks. The baton hums, flickers, and shuts itself off like it remembered it left the stove on. The agent yanks; it stays glued to the metal edge of the stall. The crowd laughs, mean and relieved.
"Try your sidearm," Tycho says, still polite. "Maybe it's smarter."
The shorter agent goes for the holster out of reflex. Tycho tilts his head and the pistol slides itself into the magnetic field he just stitched along the stall's frame. It clacks into place like a dog finding its bed. The agent's hand closes on air. The crowd laughs again, louder.
"You're messing with Harbor business," the tall one says, color rising. "You want a charge?"
"I want dough," Tycho says, and takes a hot circle from the woman's paper towel. "And I want you to stop shaking down my neighbors on a license you don't even have authority to check at midnight. You want to write a citation? Write it. You want to put hands on anybody, you better hope your body cams are working and your comms come back before I start feeling creative."
"You think we don't have backup?" the shorter one asks, trying to recover swagger.
Tycho takes a bite. "I think your backup's listening to a wet whisper and wondering why his favorite playlist just became white noise. I think if you call in a sweep here, you'll trip six side hustles you weren't paid enough to notice and your supervisor will spend his morning pretending he didn't sign your overtime."
The baton finally de-glues with an embarrassed snick. The tall agent holsters it like it bit him. The short one tugs his jacket straight and flashes a glare he can't afford. "We'll be back."
"We'll be nicer," Tycho says. "I believe in you."
They go. Noise rushes back in like a tide. Mo exhales, the dough woman snorts, kids giggle because watching adults be useless is the good kind of education.
"You shouldn't poke them," Mo says, handing him the oil filter he didn't ask for. "Not every night."
"I'll schedule it," Tycho says, flipping him back the filter like a toy and then catching it again because it's heavy and actually useful. He tips the woman extra creds and burns his tongue on another piece of dough just to feel something human. "Tell your printer I said nice try."
He walks the line as the market remembers how to be itself. People nod. He nods back. Above the Outbelt, the city glows like money pretending to be safety. On his wrist slate, the paused frame from the bunker lives under everything else: Ryn in blue light, hands steady, a stranger breathing because he refused to let the night keep him. Tycho kills the screen and pockets the slate.
"Harbor's hope," he says to nobody, and lets the words be half prayer, half threat. He turns toward the shadows, moving with purpose.
09-11-2355 | 21:39
The Verge — Tycho's Bunker.
—
Tycho sits in the low, uneven glow of ten mismatched monitors, his boots resting on a rusty crate. He is all angles and intent, a dark braid escaping the back of a canvas hood that usually hides his face. The bunker is his habitat, a repurposed filtration substation, pipe ribs overhead, cable vines everywhere, solder tin like old pennies. This is the Verge, the city's chaotic edge, and Tycho is its ghost in the machine.
He scrubs a pirated HARBOR security feed back and forth with two precise fingers until the frame he wants hangs: Ryn Kestra, hovering in a noise of magnetic hum, jacket draped there by somebody taller in a city-issue scowl.
"Harbor's new plaything," Tycho mutters, tapping the silhouette in a second window: the tall one with the pulse pistol and the unfortunate habit of being brave. "Congratulations on finding my boy in the dark."
Footsteps clip the stairs like a metronome that pays taxes. Cassian steps off the last tread, crisp as a lab memo, clean coat, clean shoes, eyes that don't miss broken things even when he is pretending not to see them.
"You're still following him," Cassian says. It isn't a question.
Tycho tosses him a look and then the truth. "He's still running late-night drills alone. Tonight he picked up company. Harbor's new plaything has a nice left roll and better instincts than sense."
"I know the man," Cassian says, coming closer, sweeping the room with that clinical, hateful kindness of his. "Mercer. He is honorable. Gets people home."
"Honorable is a word you use when you don't want to say 'reckless,'" Tycho says. He scrubs the footage again: Ryn turning invisible bruises into breathing, Dax's jacket a dark flare in the fog. "You put a dog on a leash around a blade and call it protection. That is your new ethic?"
Cassian's gaze cuts to him. "Is that what we're doing? You turning this into another sermon about cages while you sit in one you made from scavenged routers?"
Tycho laughs, sharp. "Cute. I picked my walls. He didn't pick his. Harbor did that for him. Harbor and you."
"I put a child somewhere he'd be alive at dawn," Cassian says, soft and infuriating. "You call it a cage because you like the drama of the word."
"I call it a cage because it locks," Tycho snaps. "Because I know what he sounds like when he can't hear the air past the building."
Cassian doesn't rise. He never does. "He's not alone. He has friends. He has a team. He has a medic who fights God for him in hallways. He has a commander who says no to bad ideas. You should appreciate that, given your taste for them."
Tycho stands because sitting feels like losing. He is all angles and intent, his hands full of restless electricity he refuses to show. "You think I don't know who the fuck Dax Mercer is? I watched him eat a slab and keep walking. That doesn't mean I'm letting Harbor be the only voice he hears when the room starts to sing wrong."
Cassian's eyes flicker to the paused frame again: Ryn, the water, the jacket. "You talk like you're helping. You're circling. There's a difference."
"Then stop being charming and tell me to stop," Tycho says. "Use your director voice. That thing you wear when you stand in rooms with clean men and say strange words like stewardship."
Cassian exhales. It sounds tired and expensive. "I'm telling you to be careful. I'm telling you not to become the story you're trying to prevent."
Tycho snatches a pair of coin-sized disruptors off the bench. "Great talk. Loved the moral center. I'm going back out."
"Where," Cassian asks, not quite managing to make it a period.
Tycho doesn't turn. "Don't wait up." He starts sorting the scavenged filters he just picked up at the market.
—