The van sputtered to a stop outside Foster’s apartment complex. The Wall’s shadow loomed, its jagged silhouette cutting into the bruised purple sky. Foster killed the engine, grabbing his keys—and hauled himself out.

  "Well Hedy, that didn’t go the way I hoped.”

  No. It didn't. Still you managed to keep your enhancement power a secret for now. According to our last minute research on the conspiracy forums there are a multitude of powers that can reveal details about an object or its history - though most of those supers get contracted by inner city corps for research positions. Transformative abilities with upgrade aspects are much rarer - some of those Supers just disappear.

  “Yeah, but they pegged my power classification way higher than I expected. The guaranteed money will be nice but the PRU might call me every time they can’t crack a case now - and that happens a lot - because they suck.”

  You did save a life.

  “I’m... glad.” Foster sighed, the memory of the event still fresh in his mind, “but I also got a first-person view of absolute horror. It felt like I was there, watching as that…” He shook his head, “Watching that, being powerless to change any of it, it was… stressful.”

  You’re much more compassionate than you were. Hedy's voice softened slightly, concern evident, So from now on - double Observe any un-enhanced object with caution, it’s more than just a text box at that point. Sorry, I can perceive the results of your first observations through your primary senses- but whatever happened the second time - it’s happening at a far deeper level - all I got from it was static.

  “Just know it was not pleasant,” Foster frowned, a shiver running down his spine at the memory.

  A pause filled the silence before Hedy inquired, So what will you do now. You could still enhance something today?

  Foster considered his options. “Well… I won’t have any baseline, cause I’ve blown through my observes, strange how the powers seem to pull from slightly different wells of energy, so it’s not just one mana pool… but… I do have an idea for something I’m already pretty familiar with, it should be easy enough to see the difference.”

  When he made his way back in his efficiency apartment, Foster eyed his ancient computer. It was a relic, barely functional, a stark reminder of his limited resources from only days ago.

  He focused, a faint heat blooming in his hands. ENHANCE he muttered.

  The computer hummed, the sound shifting from a labored groan to a steady whir. A soft glow traced its edges, the plastic casing smoothing, the vents widening. The screen flickered, the display sharpening - growing larger.

  When the glow faded, Foster stepped back. It wasn’t a cutting-edge Spire terminal, but it looked solid. Maybe a few years out of date instead of decades - like it had been just a moment ago, the kind of rig a mid-zone tech head might run.

  “Not bad!” Foster flexed his fingers, a faint tingle fading. “O.k. moment of truth…” He tapped the power button.

  A sharp crack split the air. The monitor flared, white light searing his eyes, then strobed red and blue in jagged pulses. The tower whined, a high-pitched screech like metal grinding metal, and sparks spat from the vents.

  Shit!” he yelled, yanking the power plug from the walls. “Damn it! This is why outer zoners can’t have nice things. Fucking Aether.” He dropped his head into his hands then flopped back onto his bed sighing.

  The day had been a mess—anger at Kane, that knife’s grim replay. A slightly faster computer that still couldn't connect to the rest of the world any faster through his glitchy dial-up wouldn’t have changed much - but it still sucked. Even so he’d learned something, not every enhancement was going to work out. Learning through failure still counted.

  Cybernetics appear fully operational even this close to the wall, numerous villains are known for their augmentations and they have to have formidable processing capabilities, obviously there has to be another way to shield equipment from interference besides expensive Aether-Shielding. I’m certain we’ll learn how in time.

  “Me too… in the meantime I’ll take what’s left of the rig down to gizmos and see what I can trade it for.” He pulled his phone out and stared at Sofia’s number.

  Rough day… Miss you. He typed feeling like a clingy loser the very instant after the message was sent.

  A few moments later his phone dinged.

  Sorry I’m not able to come over tonight! I miss you too! Taking care of some stuff and I’m looking forward to our third date!

  “Exclamation marks…” Foster grinned.

  ***

  Foster trudged toward Gizmo’s Gear, one of the few somewhat reliable tech shops he knew, tucked inside the mall’s grim sprawl. His arms were straining under the bulk of his enhanced-but-fried computer tower. Each step dragged a little as the weight pulled at his tired frame.

  “Maybe I should have boosted my strength.” He muttered.

  I think you chose optimally. The longer the host survives the longer we survive.

  "Maybe," Foster grunted then pressed his back against the mall doors and shoved them open.

  Inside, the air hit him—cooler and laced with the faint tang of cheap pretzels and mystery meat kiosks

  Thankfully Gizmo’s was still there, as was the pawn shop, but the noodle shop was already out of business. They’d probably be open again in a week under ‘new management.’

  As he pushed his way inside the bell overhead jangled sharply.

  The front of Gizmo’s was an even more chaotic mess of blinking LEDs and a fresh, hand-scrawled sign: “We Buy Junk—If It’s Good!” Foster’s boots scuffed the worn tile as he hefted the tower onto the counter with a solid thud. He straightened, rolling his shoulders back with a wince, and scanned the cluttered shop—shelves stuffed with scavenged circuits, flickering holo-displays, and half-built drones.

  A tech glanced up from a gutted drone behind the counter, his name tag reading “Riz, Senior Gearhead.” Mid-thirties, wiry, with a patchy goatee framing a thin mouth, his grease-streaked forearms poked out of a faded black tee. His eyes, magnified by thick AR specs that whirred faintly as they adjusted, flicked from Foster to the tower. Foster caught the glint of a mutant quirk—Riz’s fingers were too long, nails faintly metallic, tapping the counter with a soft clink.

  “Where’s Gizmo?” Foster asked, his brow furrowing as he leaned one hand on the counter, his voice carrying a tired edge.

  Riz snorted, his lips twitching into a smirk as he set the drone aside. “Giz is recovering. Server farm setup off-grid behind six levels of unlicensed aether-shielding. One failed, then the next, then a cascade failure—” He pressed his hands close together near his chest, then flung them outward, fingers splaying wide, his specs glinting as he mimed an explosion. “Boom! I’m running the shop ‘til the docs finish with him. Probably won’t just have the one metal arm when they’re done.” His voice rasped, rough like he’d smoked through too many late shifts, and he tapped the tower with a metallic nail. “So, what’s this, then?”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Foster shifted his weight, his lips pressing into a thin line, he was hoping to deal with someone he knew. He rubbed the back of his neck with the hand that wasn’t pressed against the counter. “Old rig I tried upgrading. Almost had a bit of a boom moment myself.” He nodded at the scorch marks and the faint ozone whiff curling off it. “It didn’t play nice so close to the Wall after. Figured you might salvage something.”

  Riz arched a brow, his smirk fading into a curious squint as he slid the tower closer, his long fingers brushing its casing. “Upgraded, huh? More like relocated it. Looks too slick for P-District. No judgement.” He snickered and hauled it behind the counter to a workbench ringed by a mini-aether-shield generator—a squat, humming cylinder pumping out a faint blue haze that hung in the air in a sphere few feet across. Foster’s eyes narrowed, tracking Riz as the tech cracked the case open with a screwdriver, revealing a tangle of circuit boards glinting under the shop’s dim lights.

  “Damn,” Riz muttered, his specs whirring louder as they scanned the guts. He plugged it into a diagnostic rig, a chunky monitor flickering to life with scrolling data. His fingers froze mid-tap on the keyboard, his jaw slackening slightly. “What the hell?” He jabbed at the keys with one hand, the other fishing out a small scanner that he tapped against the circuits, his magnified eyes darting over the readouts.

  Foster’s posture stiffened, a flicker of surprise tightening his features before he masked it, his arms crossing casually over his chest. Riz’s expression fell, his mouth twisting into a grimace as he snapped the tower shut and flipped off the shield. He shoved it back onto the counter, his movements sharp. “Where’d you get this? No—don’t tell me. Shell’s mid-tier, but those internals? That's A-zone tech. I can’t buy this off the books—too much heat if someone comes looking. You wanna sell it, sure register it with your gene-ID.” He leaned back, crossing his arms, his metallic nails glinting as he stared Foster down, clearly expecting him to grab the tower and go.

  Foster’s face froze for a split second, his dark eyes widening faintly before he schooled his expression, his lips curling into a faint, thoughtful frown. A-zone tech? Shit. He hadn’t expected it to clock in at that high-end.

  I suggest we take that back home, put it somewhere safe, or destroy it, Hedy’s voice slid into his skull, calm but concerned.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s useless without shielding gear, and the cheapest shield rigs run a hundred grand…’ Foster’s fingers twitched, his gaze flicking to the mini-shield humming on Riz’s workbench.

  This shop doesn’t look like everything in it together costs a hundred grand, and they have a shield, Hedy countered.

  Foster’s frown deepened, his head tilting slightly as a spark of curiosity flared in his chest. 'That’s true. It doesn’t add up.' He cleared his throat, leaning forward on the counter again, his voice steady but edged with intent. “So, Riz, could you tell me—”

  “Information’s more expensive than tech,” Riz cut in, snorting as he waved a hand dismissively, his specs glinting as he pointed glanced at the door.

  Foster’s lips quirked into a dry grin, undeterred. “Then give me a price when I ask. Since I’ve got a rig I can’t trade for cash, maybe I can trade it for answers. I’ve been wondering a few things—why do cybernetics work out here near the Wall? That’s tech, right? And how much does an aether-shield really cost? Everything I’ve seen advertised is a hundred K minimum, but I see them around, and that certainly doesn’t look like hundred-K gear.” He nodded at the mini-shield, his brows lifting expectantly.

  Riz’s face shifted, his smirk fading as his eyes narrowed, a pondering look settling in. He scratched his goatee with those too-long fingers, then jerked his head toward the tower. “Bring that.” He lifted the counter’s divider, his movements brisk, and locked the shop door with a click, slapping a “CLOSED” sign against the glass. “Come in the back,” he rasped, waving Foster through.

  Foster hesitated, his grip tightening on the tower as he hefted it again, his shoulders tensing under the weight. He followed, his boots scuffing the floor, his gaze darting around the cramped back room—mostly just shelves of salvaged parts. Riz leaned against a workbench, his wiry frame relaxed but his eyes sharp.

  “First off,” Riz started, his voice dropping low, conspiratorial, “the PRU and corps lock down a lot about- well everything... but aether especially. What everybody knows but nobody says? An aether-shield just pushes the aether away—makes it someone else’s problem. A-zone’s one giant ass aether shield. B-zone’s close enough to mostly stay cleared out too, but way out here?” He shrugged, his lips twisting wryly. “We’re barely better than the wilds beyond the wall. Now say you set up a personal shield in your apartment because you're tired of static on your tv. You’d clear your TV glitches, sure. Less static, less artifacting. But your neighbors? Now their screens are all crap, ‘cause you shoved the aether their way. The PRU doesn’t want a thousand little shields out here in the border zones—it’d be too chaotic - and the ripples that might get stirred up could wreck the little tech that still works out here. Even thick traces will fry when the levels are too high. That’s why anybody that does want to run their own large scale shields out here has to take it off-grid. Further from the wall gates and out into the barren stretches like Gizmo did.”

  Foster nodded slowly, his brow furrowing as he shifted the tower’s weight in his arms, his stance widening to steady himself. ‘That makes sense,’ he thought, his lips pursing as he absorbed it. 'This is too damn heavy though.' He placed the tower on the floor.

  “Plus,” Riz went on, his metallic nails tapping the bench, “personal shields out here are almost pointless. Shield your gear, fine—but the comm lines? Cable’s still trash, data feeds still crawl. Not much call for it. But for those who do need it—like say cyber-docs—legit shielding’s corpo-licensed. You’re not paying for hardware; you’re paying for the license. Supers’ve reverse-engineered knockoffs, though—ninety percent cheaper, but not a hundred percent reliable. When it fails?” He smirked, a dark glint in his magnified eyes. “You get Gizmo’d. That’s how he lost his first arm too.”

  “Cybernetics?” Riz shrugged again, his shoulders lifting lazily. “Simpler than you’d think. The human body resists aether—so does silver. Mix some into your chrome, keep circuits internal—no fancy external interfaces—and it works up to the Wall. You could wrap a computer in silver too but what’s the point, the moment you plug in any kind of peripheral - boom. It’s a cyber-specific solution - their only data interfaces are neural. Add some platinum, it’ll even work outside the wall. Cyberneticist union trade secret, but it’s not really a secret anymore. There’s talk of other metals—stuff that repulses aether passively—but if they exist, they’re locked in a corpo lab. I’ve never seen ‘em. Just rumors of theoreticals.”

  Foster’s head tilted, his expression softening into a faint, intrigued grin as he adjusted his grip on the tower, his fingers flexing against its smooth casing. ‘Silver, platinum,’ he echoed silently, filing it away.

  Foster’s grin widened slightly, a spark of satisfaction flickering in his tired eyes as he shifted his weight. Some things were starting to make a little more sense.

  “I'm an honest broker. This info’s worth half of what’s in that tower,” Riz said, nodding at it. “Want a knockoff shield? Got one. Can’t guarantee how long it’ll run, but black market’d peg it at ten K. Even trade for the other half.”

  “You've got yourself a deal.”

  Riz nodded, then struggled to haul out a battered metal cylinder from a shelf heaving the dented scratched piece of tech up onto the counter.

  Foster’s brows shot up and he stepped forward to take it. He wrapped his arms around the cylinder, his stance widening as he braced himself, but the weight hit harder than expected. His knees buckled slightly, his face twisting into a grimace as he staggered back a step, the metal cold against his chest. “What the hell is this made of?” he muttered through gritted teeth, his breath hitching as he shuffled toward the door, arms trembling faintly under the load.

  Riz smirked, leaning against the workbench with his arms crossed, his metallic nails glinting as he watched Foster struggle. “If I knew that I wouldn't be out in the P-district. Nice doing business with you kid.” he rasped, a dry chuckle escaping him as he escorted him out. Foster shoved the door open with his shoulder as soon as Riz unlocked it, the bell jangling again.

  Outside the mall, Foster’s boots dragged against the pavement as he lugged the cylinder toward his van, his shoulders hunching further with each step. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his jaw clenched tight, and his dark eyes narrowed with stubborn determination. He reached the van, his arms shaking as he heaved the thing into the back with a heavy thunk, his chest heaving as he leaned against the tailgate, catching his breath.

  His lips twitched into a faint, triumphant smirk despite the ache settling into his muscles, his fingers flexing as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Seriously what the hell is that made of.”

  You could always Observe it tomorrow and find out.

  Foster snorted, his smirk widening into a tired grin as he slammed the van’s door shut, his posture slumping slightly with relief. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough but laced with a flicker of excitement, “maybe I will.” He climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands resting on the wheel for a moment, his expression settling as the engine sputtered to life. Maybe he hadn't gotten a badass super-computer, but he did get something pretty cool.