“Aethelburg’s Executive Gala circuit?” Rivet, a connoisseur of rust and efficiency, tilted her head in a gesture that conveyed skepticism more than curiosity. “The most resource-intensive spectacle outside of a quarterly shareholder review.” On the polished chrome surface, these gatherings appeared to be refined assemblies of corporate magnates, exchanging pleasantries and discussing recent market fluctuations. Yet, beneath the veneer of designer suits and proprietary champagne, data packets of ambition and ruthless calculations clashed like rogue algorithms in an uncontrolled network. If the Aethelburg Institute of Applied Corporate Strategies (AIACS) was considered the metropolis’s third most influential entity, then the Executive Gala circuit was undeniably the second. Its influence, Rivet noted, was primarily in its capacity for generating high-frequency gossip and low-yield corporate espionage. “Eventually, you’ll have to interface with it, too.” As a provisional member of the Blackwood Corp. hierarchy, it was an inevitability Sterling Blackwood had reluctantly accepted. The mere thought of subjecting Rivet to that particular cesspool of performative politeness left a metaphorical residue in his mental processing unit. To be perfectly candid, he hadn’t been enthusiastic about engaging Ms. Chartwell’s services either. His initial intent had been to onboard a different corporate protocol specialist, but due to an unforeseen merger clause, he had been compelled to settle for her instead. Still, there was no denying Ms. Chartwell’s formidable expertise in navigating such treacherous social landscapes. She would, at the very least, provide Rivet with a firsthand, unvarnished look at the absurdities of high-stakes corporate society. “...If you insist,” Rivet grunted, a practical assessment of unavoidable operational necessity in her tone. The early morning haze of Aethelburg, perpetually thick with the exhaust of countless automated systems, provided a muted backdrop for the departure. The Blackwood Corp. sigil – a stylized Gryphon mech, sleek and predatory – fluttered from a high mast, barely discernible in the smog-laden light. The wind, as if programmed for maximum dramatic effect, whispered a low-frequency hum through the structural girders of the tower. Amidst the pre-dawn preparations, Rivet waged a losing battle against her internal chronometer, her head threatening to slump forward onto the nearest sturdy, oil-stained surface. “Still powering down, are we?” Sterling, encased in his custom-fabricated combat chassis, a marvel of reinforced ceramite and integrated hydraulics, effortlessly scooped her up. The cold, unyielding plates of his armor made Rivet shiver, a rare instance of discomfort for her usually resilient frame. “Uuuegh,” she vocalized, a guttural sound expressing her displeasure with the sub-optimal ergonomic experience. Behind them, the Blackwood Rangers, arrayed for departure, skillfully suppressed their amusement, their comms chattering with muted, well-rehearsed protocols. Still operating at partial capacity, Rivet rubbed the sleep from her optics with the back of a grimy hand. Before she could further distribute the accumulated soot and grease across her face, Sterling, his own gauntleted hand surprisingly gentle, intercepted her digits. He then patted her back with a rhythm calibrated to induce further rest, an unexpected output from his formidable processing unit. But Rivet, ever contrary to unsolicited advice, whined in protest, an almost human sound. Once her feet touched the ground, grounding her in her preferred operational stance, she gestured to Gasket, her personal assistant, who materialized beside her with the precision of a well-oiled servo. Gasket presented a small, neatly bundled kit, wrapped in a practical, impermeable polymer cloth. Inside, individually packaged ‘Torque Bites’ were stacked – precision-engineered energy biscuits, formulated for sustained operational output. Sterling’s black, ocular sensors widened fractionally in what could only be described as surprise. Among the uniformly packaged units, a few were noticeably thicker. They bore crude, yet distinctly recognizable, schematics of the Blackwood Gryphon mech, scrawled with the unpretentious hand of a pre-teen engineer. Naturally, his gauntleted hand gravitated towards one of these. The familiar, irregularly shaped biscuits were unmistakable, a testament to Rivet’s singular approach to culinary aesthetics. “...When did you fabricate these?” His digits, normally firm and decisive in their interaction with the world, now hesitated over the package with an almost reverent carefulness, as if handling a rare, delicate circuit board. But Rivet, barely maintaining her minimum operating voltage, failed to register the nuance. “Last cycle. Covertly.” She had feigned an early shutdown, only to reroute to the auxiliary kitchen unit to bake the Torque Bites. She vaguely recalled Gasket’s complaint that Sterling had consumed all the previous batch without distributing them among his Rangers. A clear instance of inefficient resource allocation. “Nevertheless, I am your designated dependent.” If her guardian was going to operate in the frigid, high-altitude air currents of the Derelict Zones, this minimal provision was the least she could do. “Share them with the other Rangers, but I ensured extra capacity for your units. The ones with the Gryphon mech schematics are yours—I included two additional Torque Bites in each.” Rivet’s yawn was so expansive it threatened to dislocate her jaw. Her heavy eyelids drooped, struggling against gravity and the persistent pull of her sleep cycle. “Ensure all systems remain operational.” Sterling’s dark, optical sensors flickered with an intensity that defied the casual nature of the moment. “...And retrieve some particularly robust salvage…” Her sleepy voice trailed off, her processing unit clearly entering a low-power state. But Sterling’s expression was anything but casual. What possible component or processed nutrient could possess a superior operational profile to the Torque Bites currently warming his hand? He was certain—absolutely certain—that no such thing existed within the known Aethelburg data streams. And if it did, he would personally ensure its immediate decommissioning from the corporate registry. With utmost care, he resealed the polymer package. Then, with a firm but gentle touch, he placed his large, gauntleted hand atop Rivet’s head, a rare moment of overt, non-verbal affection from the formidable executive. “While I am engaged in external operations, you are the Acting Sector Lead of Blackwood Corp. Annex.” Before everyone present—Rangers, assistants, and various support personnel—Sterling officially entrusted the temporary operational authority of Blackwood Corp. Annex to his drowsy, eleven-year-old ward, who was currently listing precariously in Gasket’s arms. Gasket and Geary, another personal assistant, exchanged startled glances, their internal protocols briefly scrambling. Both executed a swift, precise bow of acknowledgement. Rivet shifted lazily, her boredom with corporate ceremony palpable even in her semi-conscious state. “Ensure optimal sleep cycles, maintain nutrient intake.” “And...try not to obsess over data throughput metrics too much.” “Are you intentionally rerouting my instructions, Rivet?” Rivet, now slipping into a deeper sleep state, turned her head away with a sleepy murmur, her internal systems prioritizing rest over debate. It was time for the operational party to depart. Yet, Sterling’s heavily armored feet refused to initiate movement. The warmth of the Torque Bites still lingered in his hand, a tangible data point. It felt as if they had melted into him, anchoring him in place with an unexpectedly potent emotional payload. The thought of leaving her, even for a calculated retrieval operation, caused a rare tightening in his chest plating. Sterling turned to Deacon, his Senior Operations Manager, who stood beside Gasket. Deacon, his long, crimson-streaked hair gleaming faintly in the early dawn, had been momentarily caught off guard by the unexpectedly affectionate exchange between the corporate head and his ward. He quickly recalibrated his posture, snapping to attention. Clutch, another Senior Operations Manager, was accompanying the salvage party, leaving Deacon as the primary on-site security for the Annex. “I will secure the young lady with my life cycle, sir.” Deacon gripped the hilt of his calibrated energy blade, his expression a solemn vow of unwavering loyalty and protection. His parting words, though delivered with the quiet efficiency of a secure comms channel, landed near Rivet’s ear. Half-asleep, she smacked her lips a few times, then allowed a slow, drowsy smile of satisfaction to spread across her face, a clear indication of a successful data transmission. Sterling finally initiated his first step away, though the integrated gyros in his boots registered a weight far exceeding their calibrated capacity. By the time Rivet’s internal systems fully powered back online, the sun was already a blinding orb in Aethelburg’s perpetually hazy sky. “At least you achieved full operational status just in time,” Gasket remarked, efficiently brushing out Rivet’s perpetually unkempt hair. She added that they had been preparing to initiate a manual wake-up protocol. “Where do you estimate Sterling and the Rangers are by now?” Rivet inquired, her voice still a bit gravelly, like a poorly lubricated servo. “They should have reached the mountain pass sector leading into the Derelict Zones,” Deacon, who had taken up his protective vigil near the entrance to her quarters, answered instead. “Feral constructs mostly inhabit the northern sectors of the Expanse. It’s a vast and treacherous landscape, teeming with all manner of self-replicating and repurposed automated entities. That’s why Blackwood Corp. has the informal designation ‘Nexus of the Derelict.’” The northern sectors of the Derelict Zones were the very core of the construct ecosystem – a sprawling, self-repairing nightmare of forgotten industrial might. And at the apex of its food chain of salvaging and deconstruction stood Sterling Blackwood, The Apex Salvager, and his elite Blackwood Rangers. “When do you project their return?” Rivet asked, heading towards the dining hall, Deacon maintaining his precise, two-pace distance behind her. “Hmm… It might require an extended operational cycle this year.” For the past three cycles, the retrieval operations had been conducted by the Blackwood Rangers alone, without Sterling’s personal oversight. The three Senior Operations Managers in the unit had performed admirably in containing the construct population, but it wasn’t equivalent to having The Apex Salvager leading the mission. A master technician’s touch, or in this case, a master salvager’s specialized tools, were unmatched in their ability to impose order upon the mechanical chaos. “Besides, during the last autonomous assembly surge, the constructs were unusually—” Deacon abruptly cut himself off mid-sentence. He had been about to use a rather crude technical colloquialism, the kind he usually tossed around with his fellow Rangers during late-cycle debriefings. Rivet slowly lowered her gaze, her black eyes, usually scanning for discarded components, now sparkling with a nascent, mischievous curiosity. “...Uh, well, I mean… efficient! Yes, operational efficiency!” Deacon stammered, hastily explaining that the construct population had increased due to their overwhelming *operational efficiency* in self-replication. Rivet, a connoisseur of human absurdity, smiled mischievously at his flustered response. “Efficiency is a wonderful thing.” “Yes! Yes, efficiency is absolutely wonderful!” Deacon let out a relieved sigh, inwardly praising his rapid conversational rerouting protocols. There was no way he could allow such a young lady’s ears to be tainted by vulgar technical jargon. If he did, his lord’s energy blade would surely find its way to his chassis’s core processor. Just then, Rivet tugged at his sleeve, her expression one of innocent inquiry. “But what does ‘pin-bending’ mean?” Deacon’s tanned, weather-beaten face went a deathly pale in an instant, his internal alarm systems screeching. Shortly after a somewhat awkward lunch, Rivet’s tutors began to arrive, one after another, like precisely scheduled component deliveries. The first to arrive was Professor Cogsworth, who would be residing at the Annex. He carried only two worn-out travel satchels and twelve thick, impressively ancient data-pads. As per the conversation he had with Sterling the previous cycle, he settled into a guest room on the fourth-tier residential floor. “Was it not inefficient to transport all that?” Rivet, who had shadowed him with the quiet intensity of a dedicated security drone, inquired as she followed him to his quarters. “Upper-tier corporate residences usually have robust data infrastructure, so it presents no logistical challenge.” “Have you operated in the Northern sectors before?” “I am originally from the Northern sector regions.” Rivet’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and Professor Cogsworth chuckled, a low, rumbling sound like a well-maintained generator. Despite her distinct resemblance to Sterling, the child possessed an unmistakable charm of her own. Her dark eyes, deeper than a starless night cycle in the deep-space mining colonies, were brimming with an almost unsettling intelligence. Professor Cogsworth held out one of his data-pads to her. “Our instructional protocols commence now.” Startled, Rivet accepted it and examined the cover: *Aethelburg Corporate Genesis: A Re-evaluation*. Just the sight of it screamed ‘prolonged downtime’—it looked like it would serve better as a sleep aid and a makeshift pillow than a source of actionable intelligence. “I understand you possess the ability to interpret advanced data streams,” Professor Cogsworth continued, observing her with an unnervingly perceptive gaze. “For now, process this independently.” If she encountered any protocol errors or required clarification, she was free to seek him out at any time. His teaching style was decidedly unconventional—he offered no structured lectures, no spoon-fed knowledge packets. Instead, it was a brutal, independent approach where she was expected to take initiative if she desired to acquire new data. It was, Rivet concluded, an uncompromising data architect’s method, designed to discard any system that proved too inefficient for self-sustained learning.

A Provisional Promotion and Pin-Bending Predicaments