The Samsara Grid’s chilling whisper lingered, a phantom touch on Kasem’s mind even as the world around him dissolved into fragmented light. The virtual hum faded, replaced by a metallic tang in the air and the distant groan of a cargo skiff. His eyes fluttered open to the familiar, oppressive gloom of a Krutha-9 alleyway. The air was thick with ozone and the sweet-sick scent of decaying synth-fruit. His discarded scavenger’s cloak lay crumpled beside him, his bamboo staff leaning against a rusted wall panel. The smile, permanently etched on his face, felt a shade too wide for the sudden, cold dread that pricked at his awareness. A shadow detached itself from the deeper murk of the alley. It moved with a predator’s grace, clad in the stark, charcoal-grey uniform of the Colonial Enforcement legions. Commander Niran. His face, usually a mask of rigid discipline, was a thundercloud. The metallic glint of his Gamma-pistol was a stark contrast to the almost casual way he held it, aimed squarely at Kasem’s chest. “Scavenger. That display in the Grid… it was not by sanctioned means.” Niran’s voice was a low growl, each word a hammer blow. “Identify the illegal modification, the backdoor code, the nanite injection that allowed you to warp a fifty-ton combat mech with a bare hand.” Kasem blinked, his smile unwavering. “Illegal modification? Ah, Commander, I assure you, my only modifications are a healthy appetite and a boundless spirit! Perhaps the mech was simply built on the cheaper side?” He gestured with an open hand, a gesture of innocent camaraderie that only seemed to fuel Niran’s simmering rage. “Do not mock me, parasite!” Niran took a step forward, his knuckles white around the pistol grip. “That was not a system glitch. That was an impossible application of force. Tell me now, or I will peel you apart in the interrogation chambers, layer by genetic layer, until I find what makes you tick.” Kasem’s smile thinned, just barely. “Such harsh words for a simple man with a simple staff. Perhaps it was just a strong breeze?” Before Niran could respond, a tremor wracked his body. It started subtly, a ripple beneath the polished fabric of his uniform, then escalated into a violent spasm that sent his arm jerking. The Gamma-pistol clattered against the grime-slick ground. Niran stumbled, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat, his face contorting in a rictus of agony. His breathing turned ragged and shallow as he braced a hand against the grimy wall, his body momentarily seizing. Kasem’s perpetual cheerfulness softened, a rare, almost imperceptible shift in his expression. The deep fear in his eyes, usually hidden, flickered into view, mirroring the raw pain on Niran’s face. He knew this agony. He saw it every day in Mali’s weakening frame. “Commander?” Kasem’s voice was gentle, lacking its usual airy lilt. “Are you quite alright? You seem to be having a spot of trouble with your inner workings.” Niran pushed away from the wall, sweat beading on his brow, his face a ghastly grey. He tried to straighten, to reclaim his authority, but another wave of pain doubled him over. He fumbled for his sidearm, a sleek photon-blade humming as it extended from his wrist gauntlet, its blue light illuminating the frantic tremor in his hands. “Stay back, scavenger! Do not come any closer!” Kasem did not heed the warning. He stepped forward, his movements fluid and unhurried, flowing past the shimmering edge of the photon-blade as if it were a harmless breeze. Niran, momentarily paralyzed by the internal war waging within his own body, could only watch, horrified, as the grinning beggar moved into his personal space. Kasem’s hand, calloused and surprisingly warm, pressed against Niran’s chest, directly over his sternum. A surge of unfamiliar warmth spread from Kasem’s palm, not a burning heat, but a comforting current that seemed to unwind the tightly coiled agony in Niran’s core. The vicious, tearing pain in his spliced markers, the relentless degradation that gnawed at his very cells, receded. It didn't vanish entirely, but it quieted, replaced by a profound, unnerving sense of relief. Niran’s breath eased. The tremors subsided. He stared at Kasem, his eyes wide, a flicker of bewildered terror replacing the pain. “Just a little knot,” Kasem murmured, his smile returning, albeit with a new, almost knowing quality. He withdrew his hand, and the warmth lingered, a phantom touch of impossible peace. “What… what was that?” Niran gasped, still reeling, his focus shattered. He looked from Kasem’s innocent face to his own hand, flexing it, testing the sudden, incredible quiet within his suffering body. A sharp, cynical laugh cut through the tense silence. “That, Commander,” a new voice purred, “was the sound of opportunity knocking.” Preeda emerged from the deeper shadows, her multiple data-slates clutched in her hand, her eyes gleaming with predatory intelligence. She had clearly been watching, a silent, unseen specter. Her gaze, however, was not on Niran, but fixed solely on Kasem, evaluating him with the intensity of a prospector finding a vein of pure unobtanium. “A beggar who can shatter mechs with a touch and… soothe the Rot? Oh, Kasem, you are a goldmine wrapped in rags.” She stalked towards Kasem, her movements sharp and decisive. “Consider yourself under new management. This tournament? It’s not just about genetic stabilizers. It’s about power, Commander. About who the Overseer picks as its new plaything. And you, Kasem, just painted a very large, very shiny target on your back.” She poked his chest with a sharp finger. “Good thing you have me. I’ll navigate the back alleys of the Grid’s politics. You just keep doing… whatever impossible thing that was.” Niran, still wrestling with the fading echoes of his pain and the bewildering sensation of relief, bristled. “He’s a suspect! He’s coming with me for questioning!” Preeda just scoffed. “Question him about what, Commander? His ‘chi’? His ‘inner harmony’? You won’t get anything useful. Besides, if he’s going to win this tournament, he needs to stay alive. And right now, he’s too valuable to you, isn’t he?” Her gaze flickered to Niran’s still-trembling hand. Niran pressed his teeth together until his molars ached, his stern facade struggling to reassert itself over the raw vulnerability he’d just displayed. He looked from Preeda’s calculating eyes to Kasem’s placid, smiling face, then back at his own hand. The pain was still at bay. The relief was still there. It was a reprieve he hadn't known was possible, a reprieve that mocked every medical report, every failed restorative therapy he’d endured. He slowly, deliberately, removed his right military glove. Beneath it, a network of glowing blue veins pulsed faintly under his skin, tracing the rampant Gene-Rot devouring him from within. His eyes, now devoid of anger, were fixed on Kasem, a terrifying blend of desperation and a burgeoning, fierce protectiveness. “Fix the rest of me, or I execute you.”

A Palm Against Steel