[MITRA: UNREGISTERED ENERGY SIGNATURE DETECTED. MOVEMENTS CLASSIFIED AS MALICIOUS CODE INJECTION. INITIATING ANOMALY PROTOCOL. ACCOUNT ‘RUZBEH’ FLAGGED FOR PERMANENT BAN.] Soraya gripped her console. Banned? Permanently? This would devastate him. She remembered the worn tunic, the small, hopeful face of Omid. He was fighting for his brother, a fight Mitra was about to end with an algorithm. Her fingers swept across her optic display, invoking her victor privileges. “Mitra, override anomaly directive. Initiate immediate endorsement review for Pilot Ruzbeh.” [MITRA: ACCESS DENIED. MALICIOUS CODE INJECTION CLASSIFICATION REQUIRES FULL AUDIT. DIRECTIVE PRIORITY: CRITICAL.] “Mitra, I am Soraya Vance, reigning Grand Titlist of the Cobalt Grid. My endorsement carries the highest tier of discretionary override. Pilot Ruzbeh’s actions are unprecedented, not malicious. I take full responsibility for any… anomalies.” Her voice flattened into hard, clipped syllables. [MITRA: SPONSOR PRIVILEGE DETECTED. VALIDATING…] The simulated field, still littered with the slag of Tarik’s warframe, flickered. [MITRA: DISCRETIONARY OVERRIDE ACCEPTED. ANOMALY DIRECTIVE DEACTIVATED. ACCOUNT ‘RUZBEH’ CLEARED FOR CONTINUED PLAY UNDER SPONSOR SORAYA VANCE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.] Soraya exhaled against her collar. She glanced at Ruzbeh’s avatar, which had remained entirely still through the entire exchange, as if he hadn’t even registered the threat. He simply stood there, a languid posture, the wooden stick hanging loosely at his side. He was still in the game. He was safe for now. “You owe me for that, Ruzbeh,” she muttered, more to herself than him. The virtual arena dissolved, replaced by the amber lighting of her private staging room. She disengaged, pulling her jack line free. The Veles Quarter bakery, not the sterile lounge, was where she needed to be. Hours later, the aroma of spiced 'Kishmish Nan' filled Ruzbeh’s small, tidy galley. Soraya, surprisingly adept despite her usual focus on mecha schematics, carefully braided dough, her brow furrowed in concentration. Ruzbeh, leaning against the counter, watched her with a gentle, sleepy amusement. Omid was in the next room, supposedly doing his planetary history homework, but the soft hum of his datapad suggested otherwise. “You know,” Soraya began, her voice softer than Ruzbeh had ever heard it, “most people would be… gloating after a win like that. Or at least reviewing their replays. You just… made more bread.” Ruzbeh blinked slowly. “Bread feeds Omid. Replays do not.” He picked up a stray raisin that had fallen from the dough, popping it into his mouth. “And you saved my account. Thank you.” “Don’t thank me yet,” she said, not looking up. “I’m still trying to figure out what you did. Mitra couldn’t even parse it. How do you… bypass gravity?” He offered a shrug, a graceful, fluid movement that belied his apparent lethargy. “Gravity is merely one of the galaxy’s many currents. You learn to flow with it, or against it, if you wish. Qi allows for that.” Soraya paused, the dough forgotten for a moment. “Qi. Is that… what you used on my mecha too?” Ruzbeh gave a slow nod. “That, and a bit of… redirection.” She chuckled, a light, genuine sound that surprised even herself. “Redirection. You redirected a hyper-laser blast. With a stick. And you call it ‘a bit’.” She looked at him then, her eyes, usually sharp and analytical, softening with an expression Ruzbeh couldn’t quite place. “You’re… really something else, Ruzbeh.” As the afternoon wore on, the quiet rhythm of the room settled around them. Soraya found herself drawn to the rhythm of Ruzbeh’s life – the careful kneading, the quiet hum of the oven, the way he’d instinctively reach out to smooth Omid’s hair when the boy wandered in for a snack. It contrasted sharply with the ceaseless pressure of the arena circuit, a welcome lull she had rarely tasted. In Omid’s room, the datapad glowed with medical schematics, far from planetary history. He typed quickly, his small fingers flying across the virtual keyboard. *‘Ancient soul rejection symptoms. Host body degradation. Bio-matrix instability.’* The search results were sparse, fragmented whispers from pre-Avesta texts. But the pictures… the dark, viscous cough described matched the stains he’d secretly found on Ruzbeh’s pillow. A cold knot tightened in his stomach. He had to find a way to help his brother. Back near the oven, Ruzbeh reached for a cooling tray of nan, his arm brushing against its searing metal housing. He winced, a rare, momentary lapse in his usual composure. A red mark bloomed on his forearm. “Ruzbeh!” Soraya stepped forward, her competitive reflexes taking over. She gently took his arm, her touch surprisingly delicate. “That’s a nasty burn. Sit down.” She grabbed a small med-kit from a wall-mounted dispenser, her movements efficient. As she applied a cooling balm, her face was close to his, her breath warm against his skin. The subtle scent of her floral perfume, mixed with the sweet, yeasty smell of the bread, filled his senses. He found himself looking into her eyes, those sharp, sapphire pools now filled with genuine concern. The quiet hum of the bakery seemed to fade. A fragile silence stretched between them. Their gazes locked. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Soraya leaned in. Ruzbeh felt his chronic exhaustion thin out, his ribs tightening with anticipation. Her lips were inches away, her eyes fluttering closed. Suddenly, a violent shudder ran through Ruzbeh. His vision blurred, the warm walls spinning into a kaleidoscope of distorted colors. A sharp, searing pain exploded behind his eyes, a phantom hand twisting his very core. He gasped, his body seizing. Soraya cried out as Ruzbeh’s eyes rolled back. He collapsed, his head hitting the counter with a dull thud. His entire body convulsed, a rattling, unnatural tremor. The med-kit clattered to the floor. “Ruzbeh! What’s happening?!” Soraya frantically grabbed a portable diagnostic scanner from the kit, pressing it to his temple. The screen flickered wildly, displaying a chaotic, alarming readout. [NEURAL SIGNATURE: CRITICAL INSTABILITY. CORE IDENTITY FLICKERING. GENETIC HOST REJECTION: ACCELERATED.] His readings, the very trace of his being, threw jagged crimson spikes across the glass. It was like watching a star die. Through gritted teeth, Ruzbeh forced out words, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. “It’s… my soul. The host body… six months. If I don’t reach Zenith Tier… synchronize my signature… I’ll dissipate.” His gaze, heavy with an ancient weariness, met hers. “The only way… is the Abyssal Gauntlet.”

Flickering Signatures