Karsik lay motionless on the cot, his skin a deathly, translucent white, already turning to ice. A harsh chill bit Berya's throat, sharper than the Vrozhan draft. She pressed a hand to his neck, finding no warmth, only the chilling stillness of frozen flesh. Inside her mind, the assembly hub’s central pressure dial plunged into the deepest red, a stark needle vibrating against the zero mark. [CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE: HOST LIFE SIGNS DEGRADING. IMMEDIATE INTERVENTION REQUIRED.] [DIAGNOSIS: SEVERE THERMAL IMPAIRMENT. EXTERNAL CAUSE UNKNOWN. INTERNAL ORGAN FREEZE INITIATED.] [RECOMMENDATION: TIER 2 MEDICAL SYNTHESIS: CRYOTHERMIC STABILIZER. REQUIRED COMPONENTS: WILD FLAX FIBERS (PRE-SOVARI STRAIN), VANGUARD-CLASS MEDICAL BLUEPRINTS (TIER 2+).] Wild flax? In the Sovari Directorate, such a thing was practically myth. Every patch of earth was either concrete or toxic-waste ridden. As for Vanguard-class blueprints, those were strictly classified. This wasn't a requisition form; it was a death sentence. But Berya Tarsin had never accepted a death sentence. “No,” she whispered, her voice rough, “Not on my watch.” She looked at the twins, still sleeping soundly in their corner, oblivious to the encroaching chill in the cubicle. Karsik had saved her, pulled her from the freight car, given them a space, however meager. He was a stone wall she had leaned on, however grudgingly. She couldn’t let him vanish now. She stripped Karsik of his outer tunic, revealing the faint, mechanical scar on his chest, now glowing with a weak, icy blue light. It pulsed faintly, like a dying star. A thought struck her. The pressure gauge, his vitals. The machinery… it was tied to him. Her aggression, her upgrades—they were killing him. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, stealing her air. The cold dread solidified into a burning resolve. Her eyes scanned the cramped apartment. No wild flax here. No blueprints. The black market. It was the only place where the impossible sometimes surfaced. She pulled on her heaviest coat, muffling the sound as she secured the door with a fresh stun-wire trip. A quick glance at the twins, then at Karsik, his face pale and stark under the dim light. “Hold on, you stubborn ox,” she muttered, and slipped out into the freezing night. The Vrozhan black market was a labyrinth of corrugated iron stalls and steaming street vendors, tucked beneath the skeletal remains of an abandoned hydro-pumping station. Smog hung heavy, thick enough to chew, mixing with the acrid scent of burnt oil and illicit synth-spice. Berya navigated the throng, her senses alert, searching for any hint of what she needed. The stalls offered counterfeit ration chips, jury-rigged comms, and watered-down synth-ale, but no wild flax, no restorative schematics. She saw a stall peddling salvaged industrial parts, glowing coils and humming conduits. “You got anything… rare?” she asked the vendor, a man with a scarred face and missing teeth. “Anything from before the Purge? Like, plant matter? Unrefined?” He eyed her suspiciously. “Plant matter? You a Botanist? What kind of filth you trying to grow, citizen?” “Clinical,” Berya lied smoothly. “For an Enforcer project. High-priority.” The man’s demeanor shifted. “Command brass, huh? That explains the heavy coat. Heard tell of a ‘Botanist’s Hoard’ down in the Rusted Coil district. Deep alleys. Not for the faint of heart.” He nodded vaguely towards a darker, narrower passage between two colossal, defunct turbines. Berya thanked him with a curt nod and pressed on, her internal compass guiding her towards the promise of the Rusted Coil. The passage narrowed, the sounds of the market fading, replaced by the drip of unseen moisture and the scuttling of vermin. Three figures emerged from the shadows, blocking her path. They wore patched-up thermals and carried crude, heavy wrenches. The largest, a hulking brute with a facial tattoo of a blunted cog, grinned, revealing more missing teeth. “Well, well. Look what the patrol dragged in,” the ruffian sneered, his voice thick with menace. “Pretty little thing, all alone. What you got for us, sweetheart?” Berya’s hand slipped into her pocket, not for a weapon, but for access to her inner works. “Nothing you can afford,” she stated, her voice even, despite the tremor of fury that shot through her. The thug took a step closer, his wrench raised. “Oh, I think we can arrange a payment plan.” [WEAPON SYNTHESIS INITIATED: STEAM-GAUNTLET (OVERCHARGE PROTOCOL).] [COMPONENTS CONSUMED: 1X SCRAP METAL, 2X RECLAIMED CONDUCTIVE WIRE, 1X RATION CHIP.] With a smooth, practiced motion, Berya whipped her hand from her pocket. A crude, brutally efficient piston-glove, shimmering with heat, now encased her forearm. A hiss of superheated vapor escaped its vents. The thugs froze, their grins faltering. “Last chance,” Berya said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Move.” The leader, too slow to process, lunged. Berya met him with a sickening crack. The piston-cuff connected with his forearm, instantly crushing bone and flesh. A shriek of agony ripped through the alley as his arm twisted at an unnatural angle, the wrench clattering to the ground. He fell, writhing, clutching the ruined limb. The other two thugs scattered, their bravado evaporating into the smog. Berya stood over the whimpering brute, the vented sleeve still hissing, her eyes cold. “Next time, try a different line of work.” She continued her search, the cries of the injured man echoing behind her. Deeper into the Rusted Coil, she found a ramshackle stall tucked away, draped in tattered canvas. Inside, a wizened old woman with eyes like polished coal peered at her from behind a counter piled high with yellowed parchments and dried botanical samples. “Wild flax, they call it,” the old woman croaked, holding up a brittle, silver-leafed stem. “Been in my family since before the Directorate. Rare. What’s it worth to you?” Berya almost sagged with relief. “Everything. And technical schematics. Tier Two restoration drafts, if you have them.” The old woman’s eyes glinted. “Enforcer schematics… that’s a dangerous game, girl. But I got what you need. A full Tier Two fabrication array, for field chirurgeons. Stolen off a transport heading for the Northern Front, years ago.” Berya handed over a pouch heavy with the finest gold chips her smelter could produce from melted scrap. The old woman counted them, her fingers surprisingly nimble, a satisfied smirk on her face. Berya clutched the precious flax and the rolled parchments, turning to leave. As she exited the stall, a figure detached itself from the deeper shadows, stepping into the faint, grimy light. Yulic. Berya’s hand instinctively went to her pocket, ready to forge another deterrent. “What do you want, Morza’s dog?” she snarled, her exhaustion making her temper short. Yulic held up his hands, a placating gesture. He looked less like a sycophant and more like a weary shadow. “Easy, Tarsin. I’m not here to report you. I’m here… because Karsik sent me.” Berya stared. “Karsik? What are you talking about?” “Morza is playing a dangerous game. She’s been colluding with the Northern Separatists, selling Directorate secrets, trying to buy her way onto the High Council. Karsik suspected it. He sent me to gather intel. To be her ‘loyal dog’ until I had enough. My reports go to *his* unit, not hers. His mission was to gather definitive proof, but… he got too close.” Yulic’s gaze flickered to the items in her hand. “You’re trying to save him, aren’t you?” Berya’s guard, though not completely dropped, wavered. “He’s… in trouble. Freezing from the inside out.” “Frost-core poisoning,” Yulic confirmed, his voice low. “It’s what happens when you tamper with a military bio-interface without proper shielding. The unit he was after… it was designed to contain a rogue energy surge. It must have backfired.” He gestured to the flax. “You’ve got good instincts. That wild flax and those schematics… they’re exactly what he needs. Good luck, Berya Tarsin. He’s a good man. Don’t let him die.” With that, Yulic melted back into the shadows, leaving Berya to process the whirlwind of information. She rushed back to the apartment, Karsik’s limp frame foremost in her thoughts. The foundry hummed to life in her mind, eager for the new components. [TIER 2 MEDICAL SYNTHESIS BLUEPRINTS ACQUIRED. UPGRADING: MEDICAL SYNTHESIS MODULE. NEW PROTOCOL: CRYOTHERMIC STABILIZER.] [WILD FLAX FIBERS ACQUIRED. PROCESSING: BIO-CATALYST.] [INITIATING TIER 2 SYNTHESIS: CRYOTHERMIC STABILIZER. ESTIMATED TIME: 1.2 MINUTES.] Berya watched the dials spin, the needles twitch, her impatience a raw, burning thing. The mechanism whirred, glowing brighter, faster than ever before. A tiny vial of shimmering, opalescent liquid materialized in her hand. She tore back the curtain. Karsik was even colder now, his lips faintly blue. Gently, she lifted his head and poured the stabilizer into his mouth. She waited, holding her breath, watching. After a terrifying moment, a faint flush returned to his cheeks, the translucent pallor receding. The icy blue glow on his scar softened, then vanished. The central pressure gauge in her mind crept slowly, agonizingly, back into the green. Relief struck Berya, loosening the tension in her knees. She had done it. She had pulled him back from the brink. But as she watched the gauge settle, another, far larger dial on the foundry's main boiler panel, usually a placid green, suddenly flared. It pulsed, blood red, then a new, smaller dial materialized directly beneath it. Etched into its surface, in precise, unyielding script, was Karsik’s exact military ID number.

Black Market Blueprints