The missions became routine.
Fires. Collapses. Evacuations under impossible conditions.
Lucas was always assigned to the worst zones — the places others could not hold for long. The Aegis frame bore the scars of it. Burn marks. Stress fractures. Replaced joints.
So did Lucas.
The neural interface left constant headaches. His shoulders ached even when the frame was off. Sleep came in short, broken pieces.
He never complained.
He never asked to be reassigned.
Because every time he stayed, someone else got to leave.
During one operation, a junior responder hesitated at the edge of a collapsing bridge.
"I can't cross," she said, panic rising in her voice.
Lucas stepped in front of her.
"I can," he said simply.
He walked forward as the structure buckled, frame anchoring itself into the ground. He extended a hand.
"Go."
She ran past him.
The bridge collapsed seconds later.
Lucas hung there, frame screaming under the strain, cables snapping.
He pulled himself back up alone.
Afterward, the responder thanked him through tears.
Lucas nodded and walked away.
He didn't trust himself to speak.
The doctors warned him.
"Your nervous system isn't adapting fast enough," one said. "The feedback is causing damage."
Lucas met her gaze. "Then shorten my deployments."
She shook her head. "We can't. You're the only one who can do this."
Lucas looked down at his hands.
He had stayed behind again.
One night, Lucas removed the frame in his quarters and sat on the floor, back against the wall.
His legs — the real ones — were a memory now. Sometimes he felt them itch. Sometimes he felt them ache.
Sometimes he dreamed they were still there.
He pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the frame.
"I don't regret it," he whispered. "I just wish it didn't hurt this much."
The frame, unpowered, said nothing.
The breaking point came during a multi-layer collapse in a residential spire.
Too many people.
Not enough time.
Lucas positioned himself at the base, frame locked in full support mode.
"Evacuate now," he ordered. "I'll hold."
The structure screamed as it began to fail.
Lucas felt the feedback surge violently.
Pain lanced through his spine. His vision blurred.
The frame's systems warned of catastrophic overload.
Lucas ignored them.
People ran.
The weight increased.
His heartbeat roared in his ears.
Something inside him gave way.
Not the frame.
Him.
He woke in a hospital bed.
Again.
This time, the ceiling felt lower.
A doctor stood beside him, expression grim.
"You exceeded safe limits," she said. "Your nervous system is damaged."
Lucas swallowed. "Temporary?"
The doctor hesitated.
"No."
Lucas stared at the ceiling.
"How long until I can stand again?"
The doctor didn't answer.
Lucas closed his eyes.
Staying had a cost.
And he was running out of things left to pay with.