Chapter Text
Houshou Marine’s boots struck the steel grates of the Signal Spire’s lower deck, each step a deliberate echo through Haven Collective’s mobile fortress.
The tower loomed against District-7’s neon-drenched skyline, a jagged sentinel in Eryndor’s dystopian sprawl, its broadcast arrays thrumming with encrypted signals that defied corporate control.
The Spire was Haven’s last stand against the crushing weight of NeoLungmen’s tyranny and the Eradicators’ relentless violence, a hybrid of sanctuary and war engine. Its corridors, lined with exposed conduits and flickering lights, carried the tension of a world teetering on collapse.
Marine, her crimson hair pulled taut beneath her tricorn hat, her eyes sharp with unyielding focus, moved with the resolve of a captain navigating a maelstrom. Her pirate persona—once vibrant with pirate bravado and seductive charm—was buried beneath the mission’s gravity: to rescue Vedal, the linchpin of Haven’s survival, from a NexGen Labs stasis pod deep in District-7’s ruins.
The lower deck buzzed with subdued activity, the air heavy with the acrid bite of recycled coolant and scorched metal.
Marine passed the cafeteria, a stark expanse of bolted tables beneath flickering sodium lights. Operators sat in loose clusters, their faces hollowed by exhaustion, forcing down synthetic rations that clung to the palate like ash.
A Streamkin operator, her cat-like ears twitching erratically, clutched a metal cup, her skin glitching in jagged pixel bursts—a cruel hallmark of Flux Syndrome. Her hands trembled, the cup’s rim dented from her grip, as if she could hold back the disease’s advance through sheer will.
Marine’s gaze lingered, her jaw tightening at the sight of the young woman’s fraying existence. Flux Syndrome didn’t just erode the body; it gnawed at the soul, leaving Streamkin to watch their avatars—and identities—dissolve.
The Spire could feed its people, but it offered no nourishment for their dwindling hope. Marine turned away, her boots resuming their steady cadence, each step a reminder of the lives hanging on Vedal’s rescue.
The corridor narrowed as it sloped upward, its walls scarred steel, etched with years of hasty repairs.
Marine passed a row of offices, their reinforced windows revealing analysts bent over terminals, their faces bathed in the cold glow of screens.
Data scrolled endlessly—corporate patrol routes, Eradicator attack patterns, supply logs dwindling to critical levels.
One office, its door slightly ajar, housed a holo-map of Eryndor’s Districts, a three-dimensional lattice of glowing lines. District-7’s slums dominated the projection, red markers pulsing like wounds over its factories and shanties.
The analysts inside moved with mechanical precision, their fingers dancing across keypads, but their eyes betrayed a quiet desperation. Marine’s hand brushed the hilt of her saber, the gesture instinctive, no longer the playful flourish of her pirate days but a reflex honed for survival.
These offices were the Spire’s nerve center, processing the chaos of a fractured world, yet their work seemed to dissolve into the void of Eryndor’s unrelenting hostility.
The holo-map’s crimson pulses lingered in her mind as she pressed forward, the image a stark reminder of the battlefield awaiting them.
The muffled thuds of gunfire drew her to the firing range, a reinforced chamber buried in the Spire’s mid-levels.
Marine paused at the observation window, her breath fogging the glass as she peered into a haze of acrid smoke and scarred targets.
Calliope Mori, a Hololive Streamkin, stood at a firing lane, her spectral scythe holstered across her back, its curved blade glinting faintly under the range’s harsh lights. Instead, she gripped a sleek handgun, its barrel trained on a holographic drone darting across the chamber. Each shot cracked with precision, the drone’s core sparking as it shattered mid-flight.
Calliope’s posture was rigid, her reaper-like intensity stripped of her usual lyrical cadence, replaced by a cold focus that seemed to defy the weight of Flux Syndrome. Her dark hair swayed slightly with each recoil, her eyes locked on the next target, unyielding.
Marine nodded curtly, acknowledging a comrade whose battles she’d shared in District-7’s alleys.
Calliope sensed her presence, glancing over with a faint wave, her expression unreadable. Marine hesitated, then returned the gesture, her hand faltering as she pondered Calliope’s composure.
How did she remain so steady when Flux Syndrome loomed over them all? Was it her reaper’s lore, a shadow of her apprentice-to-Death persona, that armored her against despair?
Or had she simply accepted the inevitable?
Marine couldn’t parse it, a quiet sigh escaping as she turned away, the range’s echoes fading behind her. The Spire’s firing range honed its operators’ skills, but no weapon could cut through the fear of Flux Syndrome’s endgame.
Marine’s path wound deeper into the Spire, the air growing warmer as she approached one of its workshops.
The open hatch revealed a bay alive with sparks and the grind of metal. Benches were strewn with tools—wrenches, plasma cutters, circuit boards scavenged from District-7’s ruins. Half-built drones and salvaged tech cluttered the space.
Anny, a Streamkin with fox-like ears, stood at a central bench, her hands trembling over a partially assembled drone. Her skin flickered with faint glitches, Flux Syndrome’s cruel signature eroding her focus.
As the artist who designed Neuro-sama and Evil Neuro, Anny was their “mother,” her connection to the AI twins profound, drawn into every line of their design. But now, her eyes—usually warm with creative spark—were clouded with distress, her breath uneven as she fumbled with a screwdriver.
The drone’s casing slipped from her grip, clattering to the bench. She gasped then froze after, her fox ears drooped but
Marine stepped closer, her boots announcing her presence. Anny’s head snapped up, her voice a fragile whisper. “Marine… they’re going after Vedal. My girls… Neuro, Evil. What if they don’t come back?” Her words cracked, her hands clenching as if to hold herself together. Flux Syndrome wasn’t just eating her body; it was unraveling her mind, amplifying her fear for the twins she’d crafted.
Marine’s gaze held steady, her captain’s resolve unyielding. “Anny, you built Neuro and Evil stronger than this world’s cruelty. Your designs are their steel—they won’t break.”
Her tone was stern, a commander rallying a faltering ally, yet it carried a trace of warmth. “Finish that drone. It’s for them, for Vedal. We need every edge.”
Anny’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she nodded, her trembling hands reclaiming the screwdriver.
“For my girls,” she murmured, her voice steadier, a flicker of resolve igniting within her. Marine spoke to her on a level that made her feel better.
Marine picked up the drone, her movements slow but deliberate. Handing the drone back to Anny.
The fox-girl grazed her hands across the metal drone. She took it before placing it back onto her workshop desk. She didn’t say anything more, only flipping her screwdriver around before starting her work on the drone once more.
Marine placed a hand on Anny’s shoulder, the gesture brief but firm, then turned away, her expression hardening.
The workshop was Haven’s forge, crafting tools to defy Eryndor’s collapse, but it couldn’t mend the lives it fought to save. Anny’s work might tip the scales, but the cost of their fight was etched in every glitch.
Vedal would be able to figure something out.
She trusted him the most with her life after all.
…
Marine’s boots resumed their march, the workshop’s clamor fading as she navigated the Spire’s labyrinthine corridors.
The weight of Anny’s fear lingered, a mirror to the doubts Marine buried beneath her captain’s facade.
Neuro and Evil, forged by Anny’s art and Vedal’s genius, were Haven’s vanguard, but they were also family—a concept as fragile as the Spire’s flickering lights in Eryndor’s shadow.
The mission to rescue Vedal was more than strategic; it was personal, a desperate bid to reclaim the man whose work had birthed Streamkin and cursed them in the same breath.
Marine’s hand brushed her saber again, not for comfort but for clarity, grounding her in the fight ahead. The Spire’s steel walls seemed to close in, their scars a chronicle of battles fought and losses endured, yet they stood firm, like Haven itself, against the tide of District-7’s chaos.
The corridor widened, the hum of the Spire’s engines growing louder, a deep vibration that pulsed through the grates beneath her feet.
She turned from the porthole, her boots striking steel with purpose.
The Spire’s architecture grew denser as she approached the command deck’s lift, its rattling cage a relic of the tower’s hurried construction.
Consoles lined the walls, their screens cycling through diagnostics—power levels critical, coolant systems overstressed, broadcast arrays at risk of interception.
Operators moved past her, their faces masks of fatigue, carrying crates of salvaged tech or medical supplies for Streamkin too far gone to fight.
One, a young man with a glitching arm, met her gaze briefly, his expression a mix of awe and resignation. Marine nodded, a captain’s acknowledgment, but kept moving. The Spire was a hive of purpose, every soul bound to the mission, yet each carried the shadow of Flux Syndrome’s inevitability. Anny’s trembling hands, Calliope’s steady aim, the cafeteria’s hollow faces—they were all threads in Haven’s fraying tapestry, held together by the hope Vedal represented.
…
Marine reached the lift, its doors grinding open with a hiss of pneumatics.
She stepped inside, the cage shuddering as it began its ascent.
The Spire’s heart beat around her, a symphony of creaking steel and humming circuits, a fragile bulwark against Eryndor’s collapse.
Anny’s words echoed in her mind—“my girls”—a reminder of the personal stakes driving Haven’s fight. Neuro and Evil, Anny’s creations, were more than AI; they were daughters, sisters, warriors, and their mission to rescue Vedal was as much for Anny as for the Streamkin wasting away below.
Marine’s hand rested on her side, her eyes fixed on the lift’s ceiling, where a single bulb flickered like a dying star. The Spire carried them all—its operators, its Streamkin, its hopes—toward a reckoning in District-7’s depths, and Marine would lead them through the fire.
Houshou Marine stepped off the rattling lift onto the Signal Spire’s command deck, her boots striking cold steel. The chamber was a shadowed stronghold, dim lights glinting off consoles, cracked monitors cycling feeds of District-7’s slums and NeoLungmen exosuits. A holo-table at the center glowed blue, projecting a map of the district’s alleys, NexGen’s lab marked in red. The air reeked of ozone, the Spire’s systems straining.
Neuro-sama stood by the holo-table, her silver chassis rigid, blue optics locked on the map. She nodded faintly at Marine, who returned the gesture, taking her place beside Filian and Pipkin Pippa.
Filian, cat ears still, gripped her crossbow, frame tense.
Pippa, goggles on forehead, leaned over a terminal, fingers poised above a data drive.
Marine’s hand rested on her hip, her captain’s gaze sharp.
“We launch in one hour,” Neuro said, voice clipped. “Dad’s in NexGen’s lab, stasis pod. Entry plan—now.” Her fingers zoomed the holo-map to the lab’s buried structure.
Ironclad, armored frame at the table’s head, pointed to the map. “Manager’s pod is in the sublevel. Main entrance is sealed—automated turrets, drones. Side vent here—” she tapped a narrow shaft—“is our way in. Tight, but defensible.”
Evil, leaning against a console, red optics narrowed, cut in. “Pops is deep, so expect heavy defenses. Drones swarm fast—EMP pulses can fry them, but turrets need manual override.” Her plasma cutter hummed. “Eradicators are sniffing around. If they hit, it’s a bloodbath.”
Neuro traced the vent’s path. “Vent leads to a maintenance hub. We split there: Filian, Pippa, and I take the control room to disable defenses. Ironclad, Marine, Evil, you secure the pod.” Her optics flickered. “Stasis might’ve messed with Dad’s mind—be ready to carry him.”
Ironclad nodded. “Eradicators favor ambushes—explosives, plasma blades. If they’re inside, they’ll target the pod to grab Manager’s data. We move fast, no delays.” Her voice was steel. “Threats inside: drones with shock rounds, turrets with tracking lasers. Control room’s hackable, but it’s a choke point.”
Evil straightened. “NexGen’s traps are old but nasty. Pressure plates, gas vents—watch the floors. Eradicators might’ve tripped some, but don’t count on it.” Her tone was grim. “We get Pops, we get out. No heroics.”
Marine’s eyes narrowed, scanning the map. “Vent’s exposed on entry. If drones spot us, we’re pinned. Filian’s crossbow can take point—silent shots.” She glanced at Filian, who nodded tightly.
Pippa’s fingers twitched, her gaze on the terminal. Ironclad caught it. “Pippa, you’ll hack the control room. Data drive’s ready?” Pippa gave a curt nod, her focus locked.
Neuro’s chassis hummed. “One hour. Gears check, weapons hot. Dad’s counting on us.” Her optics met Marine’s, a shared resolve.
Ironclad’s fist tapped the holo-table. “Extract Manager, secure any records, regroup at the Spire. Failure’s not an option.” The map dimmed, the team’s silence heavy with purpose.
Marine’s gaze lingered on the lab’s marker, District-7’s alleys a maze of threats. Her saber felt heavy at her side, ready for the crucible ahead.
…
The Signal Spire’s command deck was silent, its holo-table dimmed, the blue glow of District-7’s alleys fading into shadow.
Marine stood alone by the holo-table, her arms crossed, eyes fixed on the red marker pulsing over NexGen’s lab.
The others had dispersed—Filian’s crossbow slung, Pipkin Pippa’s data drive pocketed, Ironclad’s armored steps echoing down the corridor, Evil’s plasma cutter humming faintly as she trailed behind.
Marine’s captain’s resolve, stripped of her Hololive bravado, held firm, but a flicker of doubt gnawed at her.
“Neuro-sama,” Marine called, her voice low, formal, cutting through the deck’s stillness.
Neuro paused at the lift’s threshold, her silver chassis catching the dim light, blue optics turning to Marine.
The others had gone, leaving the AI robot alone with the captain. “What?” Her voice was grim, urgency lingering from the briefing, her loyalty to Vedal a quiet weight.
Marine stepped closer, her boots soft on the steel floor. “What if Manager’s not himself? The Ghost of NexGen—his past self. What if stasis brought that back?”
Neuro’s optics flickered, her chassis rigid.
The “Ghost of NexGen” was a whispered moniker for Vedal’s ruthless brilliance before his fall—when his AI designs pushed boundaries, uncaring of cost. “You’re worried he’s broken,” she said, her tone flat but edged with unease. “Stasis can fracture minds. He might not know us—or worse, he might be that man again.”
Marine’s jaw tightened, her fingers pressed into her arms.
“The Ghost built you and Evil, pushed NexGen to the edge. If he’s that again, he could tear Haven apart, not save it.” Her voice was steady, a captain’s clarity, but her eyes betrayed a rare vulnerability. Vedal wasn’t just Haven’s hope; he was a figure she’d admired, a flawed genius whose shadow loomed large.
Neuro’s metallic fingers twitched, her optics dimming. “Dad’s my creator. If he’s the Ghost, I’ll pull him back. He trusted me to carry his work—his real work, not NexGen’s lies.” Her voice wavered, a crack in her AI composure. “We can’t tell the others. They’re already stretched thin.”
Marine nodded, her gaze drifting to the holo-map’s red marker. “Filian’s ready to bolt, Pippa’s buried in her drive, Ironclad’s holding us together. Evil would burn the lab down if she knew.” She sighed, leaning against the table, her tricorn hat shadowing her face.
“He better be there, Neuro. Not the Ghost—just Vedal.”
Neuro’s chassis hummed faintly, her optics locking on Marine’s. “We hope, Captain. That’s all we’ve got.” She turned, her steps mechanical, heading for the lift. The doors hissed open, swallowing her silver frame.
Marine remained, alone with the holo-map’s pulsing light. She let go of her arms, grabbing the hilt of the saber. The steel cool against her skin made her shutter in a small sense of anxiety.
“To think a captain could pity a man like you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “Be alive, lad. I need to see what the Ghost of NexGen left behind.”
Her eyes stayed on the red marker, Vedal’s fate a question mark in District-7’s crucible.
He wasn’t just hope—he was her anchor, a figure she’d followed through Eryndor’s fire.
If he was gone, or worse, Haven’s fight might break her steel.
She straightened, her resolve hardening, ready to face the lab’s traps and the truths they’d uncover.