The enforcer had dismissed the immediate summons with a clipped order to report to Arch-Splicer Vang’s observation deck within the hour. Wanchen, ignoring the lingering stares and hushed murmurs, simply nodded. His path, however, diverged sharply from the pristine, glowing corridors of the main academy. He navigated down a series of grimy service shafts, the air growing heavy with the metallic tang of ozone and spent hydro-coolant. The neon glow of the upper levels faded, replaced by the flickering, sickly yellow of aging filament lamps. This was the underbelly of Aegis, a forgotten network of maintenance tunnels and illicit workshops. He found her sanctuary tucked between two shuddering coolant pipes—Bay 7-Gamma, identified by a crudely stenciled ‘LQ Mechworks’ sign. The space was a controlled chaos of disassembled mech parts, holographic schematics dancing above workbenches, and the rhythmic hiss of an arc welder. Luo Qingyi, her sable hair tied back with a grease-stained strip of synth-fabric, was hunched over a diagnostics console, her brow furrowed in concentration. The soft glow of the screen illuminated the faint smudges under her eyes, deep violet against her pale skin. As Wanchen stepped inside, a stray metallic clang startled her. Her hands, resting on the worn datapad, twitched violently, a tremor that seemed to ripple through her entire frame. She snatched them back, tucking them beneath her elbows, but not before Wanchen’s trained senses registered the uncontrolled spasm. Neural fatigue. Far worse than he’d ever seen her display. A familiar pang, a mirroring of their shared, silent burdens, tightened in his chest. “Wanchen,” she said, her voice a little too bright, a little too quick. She straightened, turning to face him, the trembling now carefully hidden. “The glitch anomaly himself. Come to gloat about humiliating Joric Kal?” A faint smile touched her lips, but her eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, held a guarded weariness. He offered a small, sincere smile in return. “No gloating. My suit, however, sustained… unexpected wear.” He gestured vaguely at his VR apparel, knowing it was a flimsy excuse to see her. “A miscalibration in the kinetic feedback dampeners, perhaps.” Qingyi’s gaze softened, a flash of genuine concern replacing the practiced indifference. She knew his tells. “Let’s see it, then.” She motioned him towards a vacant inspection bay. As he shucked his outer jacket, revealing the intricately woven sensor-suit, she approached, her movements precise despite the underlying tension in her posture. Her fingers, fine and calloused, moved with practiced ease over the suit’s micro-fiber weave, checking the feed lines, the haptic relays. He felt the light brush of her thumb against his forearm, a fleeting warmth that sparked through the cold, crystalline edges of his own hidden affliction. “You should be careful,” she murmured, her voice lower now, almost a whisper. “Joric’s father has deep pockets and even deeper grudges. He won’t let this go.” She leaned in, her scent – a mix of synth-oil, ozone, and something uniquely her own, like distant rain – filling his senses. “What you did… it was magnificent, Wanchen. No one has ever shattered a Dominator with an unarmed deflection. It’s impossible, by every known law of mech physics.” She pulled back, her eyes searching his, a question lingering in their depths. He met her gaze, a silent apology for the secrets he kept, for the impending end he could not share. Before he could formulate a response, a harsh, grating screech ripped through the bay. The heavy-duty blast doors, usually sealed with magnetic locks, shrieked as they were forced open, showering sparks across the concrete floor. Three hulking figures, clad in patched-up, illegally modified work-rigs, stomped in. Their faces were obscured by polarized visors, but the crude cutting torches clutched in their gauntleted hands bespoke their intent. A fourth, slighter figure, his face hidden by a low-brimmed cap, lingered by the entrance, his comm-link glowing faintly. The badge on his worn jacket, barely visible, depicted a stylized serpent coiled around a wrench—the notorious 'Scrap-Adders', a crew infamous for industrial sabotage and intimidation. “LQ Mechworks, eh?” one of the enforcers snarled, his voice distorted through a built-in vocoder. “Heard you’ve got some… delicate equipment here. And a mouthy mechanic.” He gestured broadly, and his companions began to systematically smash Qingyi’s diagnostics consoles, the holographic displays flickering and dying with sickening finality. Sparks flew as they took sledgehammers to a meticulously organized wall of rare circuit boards. Qingyi cried out, a raw, desperate sound, lunging forward. “Stop! My work! You’ll ruin everything!” Wanchen moved, a blur of motion. He intercepted her, gently pushing her behind him. “Stay back,” he commanded, his voice calm, but with an underlying current of steel. The intruders paused, momentarily surprised by his intervention. “Oh, a hero, are we?” The leader sneered, raising his cutting torch. “Think you can stop us, boy? This isn’t the Star Network. This is real.” Suddenly, with a groan that vibrated through the deck plates, a massive steel girder, dislodged by their reckless destruction, buckled and dropped directly toward Qingyi’s primary generator feed. Its descent was rapid, a whistling crescendo of crushing metal. Wanchen didn’t hesitate. He thrust both palms upward, circulating raw Qi straight from his meridian core. A searing heat erupted from his palms. He met the falling beam with a rooted stance and a sudden release of internal force. The steel shrieked, groaning under the impossible pressure. A sickening, sharp *crack* reverberated through Wanchen’s own chest, a crystalline fracture deep within, but he held firm. With a final, agonizing surge of power, the beam snapped clean in two, the severed ends falling harmlessly to either side of the conduit, sending a shower of sparks skittering across the floor. The air crackled with residual energy. The intruders froze, their torches lowering. They stared at the impossibly severed beam, then at Wanchen, their bravado evaporating like mist. This wasn’t a mech-suit trick. This was something unaugmented, terrifyingly physical. The slight figure by the door visibly flinched. He barked something into his comm-link, his voice strained. “Forget it! Retreat! Now!” The wreckers didn’t need to be told twice. They scrambled out, leaving behind a trail of shattered equipment and a gaping hole in the blast doors. Wanchen stood, trembling subtly, his hands still stinging from the immense force, the sharp, internal pain a cold reminder of his accelerating decline. Qingyi rushed to him, her eyes wide with shock and a sudden, sharp fear. “Wanchen, what… what was that? Are you hurt?” She reached out, but he subtly recoiled, not wanting her to feel the tremor in his hands, or the icy tendrils of his internal wound. Before he could reassure her, a shrill chime cut through the suddenly silent workshop. Qingyi’s last remaining console, a small, battered terminal she used for emergency comms, flickered to life. An anonymous, encrypted message scrolled across the screen, stark white against the dark backdrop: 'Vang knows what you are cultivating.'

Tremors in the Neon