The garage turned into a blur of motion.
Sparks flew from the workbench as Sebastian ripped into the busted AI frame—torn servos, cracked joints, leaking coolant staining the floor.
He barely paused.
One hand stitching cables together, the other tapping commands into his wristband.
-Order Confirmed: Two Low-Grade Industrial Beds, Estimated Delivery: 12 Hours.
-Order Confirmed: Heavyweight Thermal Blankets x2.
He spat a stripped wire onto the ground, already moving on.
“No more sleeping on broken dreams and bent springs,” he muttered around a soldering pen.
He rebuilt the AI’s limbs, patched the cooling regulators, straightened the plating.
Then he cracked open the neural spine—and froze.
Inside, half the AI’s command bridge was gone—fried black, circuits snapped like dry branches. There was no way a replacement would be a simple part swap.
He grimaced and scanned the broken module.
Critical Component Missing: Tier-3 Neural Sync Core.
Warning: Item Not Available for Civilian Delivery within D-Sector.
A low, angry breath hissed out of him.
Figures.
He flicked through supplier options anyway, stubborn.
Nothing.
Not a single distributor willing to ship a Tier-3 core into D-Sector. Too dangerous. Too “unauthorized.” The system helpfully suggested:
“Pick up required. Clearance recommended. Travel to Sector C — Industrial Exchange Zone.”
Sebastian leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered.
He glanced across the garage where Lovey was sorting scrap into neat piles.
“Change of plans,” he said aloud. “Gotta take a little field trip.”
Lovey looked up, expression calm. “Destination?”
“C-Zone,” he said grimly, already standing. “Industrial Exchange.”
He yanked a heavy jacket off a hook, checked the battered revolver frame sitting half-finished on the bench, and sighed.
“Figures the one time I wanna stay put, the world drags me out.”
Before he left, though, he pulled something else from the drawer: a tiny tracker module—sleek, thin, almost invisible.
Without ceremony, he cracked open a hidden hatch on the AI’s rebuilt chestplate, slotted the tracker in, sealed it tight, and smoothed the welding down until it looked factory-clean.
“Insurance,” he muttered.
Satisfied, he kicked the AI frame lightly on the way out, grabbed his toolkit, and stalked toward the garage door.
C-Sector hit him the second he crossed the border.
Not with violence.
Not with gangs.
But with something way worse:
s.
Massive, neon-bloated signs screamed from every corner of every building, animated like they were alive. Holoboards hovered over the streets, flashing discount codes and augmented sales pitches into his eyeballs.
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Drones zipped past, each one blasting personalized jingles:
“SEBASTIAN! TRY HYDRAXA DRINKS—REFRESH YOUR GRIND!”
“LOOKING A LITTLE GRIMY, RELIC? TIME FOR A WARDROBE UPGRADE!”
“FEELING LONELY, SEBASTIAN? SUBSCRIBE TO LOVEBOX PREMIUM—FIRST MONTH FREE!”
He didn’t know how they knew his name.
Didn’t want to.
He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and kept his head down, weaving through waves of holographic pop-ups and synthetic scents pumped straight into the air: grilled meat, citrus cleaner, fake ocean breeze.
At one point, a vending bot physically blocked his path, holding out a free sample of something neon blue.
He batted it away without breaking stride.
They didn’t stop.
If anything, it got worse the closer he got to the market hubs.
Every screen, every speaker, every ad seemed to key in on him specifically—like the whole district smelled blood in the water and decided to tear chunks out of his wallet and brain at the same time.
‘God, this is hell,’ he thought, ducking under another projection that tried to dress him in virtual designer clothes.
By the time he reached the Industrial Exchange Zone, he was ten seconds away from punching the next drone that chirped his name.
Finally—finally—he found a patch of relative peace: a narrow alley carved between two old processing plants. No bright lights. No music. Just the faint hum of tired old machinery.
The signage here was simple. Rusted. Honest.
Parts, Salvage, Tech Repairs.
Sebastian pulled his jacket tighter, gave a quick glance over his shoulder, and ducked inside.
The shop was a box. Bare concrete walls. Smelled like ozone and cheap plastic.
A tired-looking vendor sat behind a plexiglass barrier, scrolling a cracked tablet. A few crates of spare parts sat scattered around, barely organized.
Perfect.
Sebastian stepped up to the counter and cleared his throat.
“Tier-3 Neural Sync Core,”
The vendor looked up, half-lidded and unimpressed.
“You got the credits?”
Sebastian slapped a data chip onto the counter.
“Enough.”
The vendor gave a lazy shrug, pulled a battered crate from under the desk, and popped it open.
Inside—nestled among ragged foam—was a sleek, dark-core module, humming faintly with dormant power.
Sebastian picked it up, rolled it once in his palm, and gave a rare, grim little smile.
Finally.
Something real.
Something useful.
He slid the chip across the counter without a word, tucked the core into his jacket, and walked out—back toward the screaming, pulsing hell of C-Sector.
And the moment he crossed back onto the main street—
“SEBASTIAN! TIRED OF MISSING OUT? TRY MEMORYBOOST-PLUS! UPGRADE YOUR BRAIN TODAY!”
He flipped off the nearest holoboard without breaking stride
Sebastian shoved his way back toward the D-Sector border, one hand tight on the neural core tucked inside his jacket, the other batting away pop-ups like angry wasps.
He was seconds away from bolting when something caught his eye.
A storefront jammed between two flashing fast-food holograms. Half-dead neon letters spelling out:
“NOVA-THREADS: Future Fabric Drop—Limited Stock!”
Underneath that, smaller text flashed:
“Only 1,000 rolls produced worldwide—First Come, First Served!”
He slowed without meaning to, eyes narrowing.
Displayed behind a grime-smeared window, under twenty different security fields, sat rolls of smooth, almost liquid-looking material. The nano-weave shimmered under the flickering lights—changing texture, density, color, all with barely a ripple.
Clothing tech.
But not like the cheap adaptive junk everyone else wore.
This was real nano-fabric. The kind you could bend, program, weaponize if you were smart enough.
Sebastian smiled—slow and sharp.
‘That’s mine.’
Without even thinking about it, he veered toward the entrance, merging into a small line of desperate buyers already queued up outside.
And that’s when the drones got worse.
The ads started screaming now.
“SEBASTIAN! DON’T MISS THIS OFFER—PERSONALIZED SHOE DEALS!”
“SEBASTIAN! LAST CHANCE FOR A NEURO-IMPLANT UPGRADE—TODAY ONLY!”
“SEBASTIAN! JOIN THE CORENET FAMILY! FRIENDS ARE WAITING!”
Holo-screens buzzed in closer, flashing seizure-bright lights directly into his vision.
Two sample bots hovered around his head, trying to spritz him with scent samples.
Another tried to forcibly scan his retina for a loyalty discount.
Sebastian clenched his fists, jaw grinding tight.
He stayed in line, shoulders tense, the rare material in the window calling to him like a siren while the city tried to strangle him with noise and false promises.
‘Just a few more minutes,’ he thought grimly, tuning out the world as best he could.
‘Then I get the roll. Then I get the hell out.’
The line inched forward.
The advertisements screamed louder
The line thinned.
The shop’s display case was nearly empty.
And just as Sebastian reached the counter, the vendor reached back for the last roll of nano-weave.
A hand shot past Sebastian’s shoulder.
“I’ll take that one,” said a voice—slick, too smooth, wrapped in that fake confidence Brim’s rich failures wore like perfume.
Sebastian turned his head slowly.
The guy was tall, dressed in knockoff corpwear and polished synth-glasses. Didn’t look dangerous. Didn’t need to.
He was grinning.
Like Sebastian wouldn’t do anything about it.
The vendor hesitated.
Sebastian didn’t.
He stepped forward, slow and quiet, and pulled the unfinished revolver prototype from under his jacket—black, blocky, heavy.
It clicked faintly as he pulled it back, slid it across the man’s forehead, and pressed it there—flat, cold, unblinking.
The other guy froze. Smile gone. Voice caught in his throat.
Sebastian looked up at him with nothing in his eyes.
No fury. No rage.
Just tired.
Bone-deep, hollow-eyed done with this shit exhaustion.
“Please,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “give me a reason to.”
The man backed off instantly—hands up, muttering apologies as he disappeared into the crowd.
The vendor didn’t say a word. Just handed Sebastian the roll with trembling hands.
He took it.
Didn’t look back
The walk back to D-Sector was quiet.
No ads.
No drones.
Just his boots on concrete and the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears.
When he finally stepped through the garage door, the lights flickered to life.
Lovey turned toward him immediately, her eye scanning in reflex—
Ping.
Sebastian flinched hard, instinctively taking half a step back.
He dropped both the Tier-3 neural sync core and the roll of nano-fabric onto the nearest table with a dull thunk.
Lovey blinked.
“You were scanned too many times.”
He didn’t answer. Just rubbed the back of his neck and muttered something under his breath.
She processed the data, and her eye glowed faintly as she analyzed him.
“Your mental capacity is approaching threshold,” she said softly. “You are at risk for cognitive fatigue collapse.”
Sebastian collapsed into the nearest chair like someone had hit his off switch.
“Yeah,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “No shit.”
He didn’t move again for a long time.
Just sat there, surrounded by brilliant tech, rare materials… and a silence that felt heavier than the weapon he still hadn’t finished building.
“I hate this fucking city” Sebastian muttered, leaning back in the chair, covering his eyes with the heel of his hand
The garage hummed quietly around him, the faint buzz of the lights the only sound
Lovey walked over, dragging a chair with her in mechanical precision. She placed it beside him and sat down stiffly like she was following instructions from a manual titled How to Comfort Humans For Dummies
“Would you like to talk about it” she asked, voice flat but tilted just slightly upward an attempt at sounding comforting
Sebastian didn’t even move. Just mumbled under his breath
“Not even a little”
“Very well then if you don’t mind I will sit here” Lovey said
Sebastian didn’t respond
He just sighed again a long slow exhale like air leaking from a broken valve and let the silence settle between them
Five full minutes passed
No talking
No moving
Just the steady mechanical hum of Lovey’s cooling fans and the distant creak of the garage settling
Finally, Sebastian spoke again, voice rough with exhaustion
“Why do advertisements exist”
“To push a product the maker wishes to sell” Lovey answered instantly no hesitation no feeling
Sebastian lowered his hand just enough to glare at her from beneath his fingers
“Fuck you”
Lovey blinked once
Didn’t seem offended
Just tilted her head slightly like she was logging the interaction for future use
