The velvet couch, a defiant splash of luxury in the grime-choked storm drain, still felt like a cruel joke. Surna shifted, the fabric rubbing against her torn jumpsuit, a stark contrast to the throb of her unhealed ribs. Talin, bless his infuriatingly resilient spirit, had fallen asleep nestled into the cushions, Grit curled protectively at his feet, six bio-synthetic legs tucked neatly. The iguana-hound’s scales shimmered faintly in the dim glow of the salvaged utility light, a silent, watchful guardian. But warmth and comfort, Surna knew, were fleeting luxuries in the Rust Grids. Her ribs screamed with every breath. A hot-wired power grid wasn’t a med-bay. She needed actual supplies – dermal patches, analgesics, something to keep the deep ache from fracturing her focus. There was only one place to find such things without alerting the Conglomerate’s omnipresent eyes: the Bazaar of Echoes, a black market nested in the cavernous remains of an old transit hub, known for its illicit medical and tech vendors. It was also known for its knives, its scav-gangs, and its complete lack of empathy for injured gig-workers. [Bounty: Acquire Medical Supplies. Objective: Rob a Vendor at the Bazaar of Echoes. Drop: Gacha Spin!] “Rob a vendor,” Surna muttered, rubbing the tender spot under her sternum. “Because of course. ‘Illegal or destructive acts.’ You’re a real charmer, Protocol.” She nudged Grit with her boot. The creature’s head snapped up, reptilian eyes glinting. “Guard the kid. No one touches him, got it? Not even a dust-mite with ill intent.” Grit responded with a low, rumbling churr that vibrated through the drain's concrete floor, a sound that promised swift, six-legged retribution. Leaving Talin pinched deep in her gut, an ache that rivaled her cracked ribs. But the market maze was no place for a five-year-old, even one who saw imminent death as an elaborate game of tag. She pulled the hood of her scav-jacket higher, the synth-fabric grating against her neck, and slipped out into the labyrinthine alleys. The air immediately thickened with the acrid scent of burnt synth-fuel, stale nutrient paste, and something vaguely metallic – the omnipresent perfume of the Rust Grids. Neon signs, salvaged and flickering, painted the gloom in garish streaks of vermillion, sickly green, and neon blue. The bazaar itself was a sensory assault. Stalls fashioned from corrugated metal and scavenged scaffolding lined winding paths, each one a hive of illicit commerce. Street barkers hawked everything from jury-rigged comms to dubious 'nutrient supplements' and 'authentic corporate artifacts' – likely just polished scrap. Surna moved through the throng, a ghost among the living, her cynicism a shield against the desperation radiating from every face. Her objective was Kaelix’s Dispensary, a notoriously unethical but well-stocked purveyor of stolen pharmaceuticals, tucked away in the back alleys of the market’s lowest tier. The place was less a dispensary and more a fortified metal shack, its grimy window displaying a faded holographic caduceus. Surna scanned the perimeter, noting the single, bulky guard hunched by the reinforced door, idly flicking a blade between his fingers. Standard. She began planning her approach, mentally mapping escape routes, when a sudden surge in the crowd pushed her sideways. She stumbled, bumping hard into a broad shoulder, and instinctively lashed out, her hand connecting with solid synth-leather. “Watch it, scum,” a low voice growled, rough like grinding gears. Surna recoiled, recognizing the voice and broad shoulder before looking up. She locked onto slate-colored irises set in a hard, angular face. Tavos Ren. The corporate tracker, the phantom hunter. He stood before her, a dark silhouette against the flickering neon, an unwelcome specter from her not-so-distant past. His hand was already on the grip of a sidearm, his movements fluid, deadly. His eyes, though, were searching, analytical, as if he recognized something in her posture, something beyond the usual street-rat aggression. “Well, well,” Surna drawled, forcing a smirk despite the sudden clench in her gut. “Look what the corporate drone dragged in. Couldn’t track a misplaced data chip, so you’re slumming it with the common folk now?” Her sarcasm was a weapon, a deflection. She had to keep him talking, keep him distracted. Her mind raced, assessing angles, exits, potential improvised weapons. Tavos’s gaze sharpened, piercing. “You have a habit of leaving a trail, phantom. And a particularly expensive taste in furniture.” His eyes narrowed, then widened almost imperceptibly as a flicker of recognition crossed his face. “You… you’re the gig-worker. Krell, wasn’t it?” He shifted his weight, closing the distance between them by a fraction, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Tell me, Krell. Where did you learn to move like that? To fight like that? And where did you get the scratch for a custom-fabric couch in an abandoned drain?” “My interior decorator is a gacha roulette, darling,” Surna shot back, a bitter laugh escaping her. “And my fighting style? Pure desperation. It’s amazing what you can pick up when rent is due and the only currency is pain.” She saw the shift in his eyes, the almost imperceptible tensing of his muscles. He wasn't buying it. He was seeing beyond the act, pressing straight against the blank void in her memory. She couldn’t let him dig. Not here. Not now. Her gaze darted to a heavy support pillar, one of the crumbling structural remnants of the old transit hub, located just behind Tavos. It was already corroded, riddled with rust. A single, well-placed kinetic blast… “You know,” Tavos continued, his tone low, “I’ve been looking for someone who moves like you for a very long time. Someone who just… reappeared. Someone who walked away from a memory wipe with the Ghosts’ signature still burned into their muscle memory.” He took another step, his hand now fully on his weapon. “What are you, Krell? A puppet? A discarded weapon?” “Just a very annoyed mother,” Surna snarled, the sarcasm dissolving into pure, desperate anger. Before he could react, she spun, drawing her plasma pistol – a standard gig-worker issue, modified to overcharge – and fired a concentrated burst. The pillar exploded in a shower of concrete dust and shrieking metal, a cacophony that ripped through the market. The blast triggered a chain reaction, the ancient scaffolding above groaning, then tearing free. Tavos, caught off guard, looked up just as a deluge of twisted metal and shattered synth-glass rained down, obscuring him in a cloud of debris. [Property Damage! +100 Infamy Points!] “Sorry, not sorry!” Surna yelled over the din, already sprinting. She didn’t wait to see if he was crushed, didn’t glance back at the chaos she’d unleashed. The run against Kaelix’s shop dissolved into dust, replaced by the immediate need for escape. She plunged back into the swirling currents of the alleys, the panicked shouts of vendors and the distant wail of squad sirens her chaotic soundtrack. She didn't stop until she was back in the relative silence of the abandoned conduit, Grit raising its head in a silent question. Talin was still asleep, oblivious. Surna collapsed onto the velvet couch, her chest heaving, her ribs screaming anew. [Infamy Points: 150. Current Total: 150. Gacha Spin Available!] “Fine,” Surna gasped, tapping the ephemeral interface. “Just give me some damn med-gel this time. Or a napalm launcher. Whatever.” The roulette spun, a blur of shimmering icons and impossible tech. It slowed, and Surna braced herself, expecting another absurd piece of furniture or a pet rock. Instead, two items solidified on the interface. [Reward: Localized EMP Grenade – Single Use. Effective radius: 5 meters. Disables all non-shielded electronics for 30 seconds.] [Reward: Encrypted Lore Fragment (Alpha-001) – Requires decryption key. Origin: Krell Cybernetics.] Surna stared at the second item. Krell Cybernetics. Her name. Her memory-wiped name. Cold sweat pricked the nape of her neck, sharper than the under-level chill. The Infamy Protocol. Her name. Could it be… Her past self, the Ghost of Tarakhan, had programmed this malicious system? The thought was a venomous seed, taking root in her mind. She pulled the actual EMP grenade, a sleek, palm-sized sphere of black alloy, from the air beside her, its metal skin biting cold against her palm. Her past was not just trying to kill her; it was trying to make her into a monster. And it was starting to feel disturbingly personal. She had to find that decryption key. Before the Clean Slate, and before she became exactly what she’d tried to escape. Then, just as the fear truly began to settle, a new mission prompt appeared, cold and demanding, flashing against the inside of her vision. [Mission: Data Retrieval. Objective: Access the Vellator Archives for Decryption Key Alpha-001. Reward: Gacha Spin!] Access the corporate archives? That was suicide. That was an operation her past self, the terrorist, would have taken. And now, so would Surna Krell, the cornered mother. Because her past self, it seemed, had left her a very specific, very deadly breadcrumb trail, leading directly into the heart of the beast.

Menace in the Market