Foster woke to the hum of his apartment’s AC unit rattling, the cold air barely cut through the sticky heat creeping in from the outer zones. He rolled off his mattress and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Last night’s chaos—his crazy ascension and Sofia’s confession—still buzzed in his skull like a half-remembered dream. But today? A date loomed at seven, and he needed to not look like a reject. Time to upgrade some things… using one of the greatest super powers of all. Money.

  He shuffled to the closet, yanking on yesterday’s jeans and a faded tee, the fabric soft from too many washes. He grabbed his keys, his phone and his black card and opened up a mental dialogue.

  ‘Hedy…’

  Yes.

  ‘It seems like I have a girlfriend.’

  I know. I was there.

  ‘You’ve been rather quiet about it.’

  The girl in question has been stalking you for over a year, she actively sabotaged your prior relationship, and she has a group of quasi-criminal-vigilantes that call themselves the Justice Syndicate - pardon this vulgar human phrasing - scared shitless of her. So she’s obviously perfect for you.

  ‘Don’t be a dick… I haven’t dated anyone in… how long?’

  Not counting the failed relationship of the host - which failed after you were in the driver's seat … One hundred and seventy three years. Your last relationship ended when she left you a goodbye note right before she uplifted herself to a higher form of consciousness… the kind that has no physical form. You did not take it well and the next few decades were … unpleasant.

  ‘Not remembering shit sucks, but that sounds like memories I can live without. What do you even do for a first date? My memories as Foster aren’t helping either. I don’t think things with Katey progressed beyond a few tame make out sessions in his bedroom and some movie dates.’

  Yes, both of you were social losers.

  ‘Well I didn’t upgrade my charisma and I still got a date. That has to count for something.”

  It counts for less when the other party is quite likely mentally ill.

  “Do you think I qualify as sane?”

  Hedy was silent.

  “That’s what I thought. I need to get ready… actually I need to do a lot of things. I don’t even have anything to wear!’

  Shouldn’t you be experimenting with your new powers? This is a world filled with super-powered entities after all. I would have thought that would be your priority.

  ‘A week ago I’m pretty sure that’s all I’d have been able to think about… but today - I’m not gonna lie… I’m way more interested in my date tonight than an F ranked power to magically make things marginally better. I will play with it some but this date’s deadline is coming right up. I need to get a move on!’

  What about testing your observation power? That shouldn’t take long.

  ‘I can only use it a couple of times a day. I’m sure I’ll work it in.’

  How about - observing Sofia - tonight?

  ‘I don’t know what it can do - but I think that even trying that would be a terrible invasion of her privacy.’

  As opposed to using it on someone else?

  ‘If I don’t know them… I don’t really give a shit about their privacy. So yeah.’

  The parking lot outside his efficiency was mostly empty and Foster made his way to his new-old ride. Not many people out here could afford a vehicle. He rolled down the window of the Van, letting the breeze slap his face as he steered toward the mall.

  ‘No GPS - at least not any out here. Thankfully I’ve walked this route enough.’

  The drive was a familiar gauntlet—potholes deep enough to lose a tire, vendors hawking tech that didn’t work, and skewers of unknown origin. Kids darting between broken down cars chasing a patched soccer ball. Aetheric interference crackled through the radio, the static drowning out a news bulletin about some Spire politician’s latest scandal. Foster tuned it out, mind drifting to Sofia. Nyx Sofia Rodriguez. He still couldn’t square the bubbly girl from the drive-thru with her being an actual shape-shifting super. But he’d see her tonight—and he’d be damned if he showed up in a grease-stained polyester uniform.

  The mall squatted at the very edge of the P-District, a relic of pre-wall days in a world where online online shopping wasn’t really able to keep it’s hold at the outer zones. Here the mall hadn’t quite died out yet. He drove past a neon sign that flickered—“Starlight Plaza”—half the letters dark, the other half buzzing like angry wasps. Malls still thrived in the outer zones because the internet didn’t. Aetheric storms shredded wireless signals, and hardline connections were a luxury for most. Foster parked the van in a sea of similarly dented rigs, its faded white paint blending into the chaos, and climbed out, boots crunching on old asphalt that was almost gravel now.

  Inside, the mall was a riot of noise and color—vendors shouting over each other, hawking everything from bootleg holo-discs from the inner city to strips of roasted beast meat that was probably rat-on-a-stick. The air smelled of sweat, burnt sugar, and ozone, the latter a faint tang from leaking aether-shields overhead that struggled to keep the tech running. Crowds surged through the concourse—wall-hoppers in patched jumpsuits, college kids from Starlight in knockoff designer gear, grizzled scavengers clutching salvaged odds and ends. Foster wove through them, eyes scanning the storefronts. His first stop: Gizmo’s Gear, a cramped little store wedged between a noodle joint and a pawn shop, its sign promising “Aether-Proof Tech—Guaranteed or Your Money Back - the last part crossed out and - No Refunds - was written right below.”

  The shopkeeper, a wiry balding guy, with a cybernetic arm that whirred as moved—leaned over a counter cluttered with gutted phones and flickering screens. “Whatcha need, kid?” His voice was a nasal rasp, metal fingers tapping a rhythm on a cracked holo-pad as if he could tap it back to life.

  “A phone,” Foster said, pulling his current brick from his pocket—a clunky relic. “Something that can handle the interference out here. Tired of dropped calls.”

  Gizmo snorted, snatching the phone and turning it over. “This thing’s a fossil, but that’s not bad out here. Older stuff still works most of the time. I got just the thing, though.” He ducked under the counter, rummaging through a crate, and emerged with a sleek, matte-black device—angular, with a reinforced casing and a faint glow pulsing along its edges. “PRU knockoff. Mil-spec, aether-shielded, runs on a beast core supposedly so no need to charge for a good while. Signal’s solid up to three klicks outside the wall, maybe more if the storms ain’t bad. Still no reliable data out here though. Audio calls and texting only, you can take pics till the memory is full though.”

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  Foster took it, the weight solid in his hand, thumb brushing the screen as it flared to life—crisp, no lag. In colors - unlike his current model. It even had a camera. “How much?”

  “Two thousand creds,” Gizmo said. “Firm. Otherwise stick with what you got.”

  “And what will you give me for my old phone?”

  Gizmo shrugged. “I’ll give you a hundred and probably flip it for two.”

  “I’ll take it for a thousand.”

  Gizmo laughed. “You’re dreamin’, kid. This ain’t a charity. Nineteen hundred and that’s me bein’ nice.”

  “Sixteen hundred,” Foster countered. “You’ll still turn a profit.”

  “Fine - Sixteen with your old phone,” Gizmo grumbled pointing at the card reader and shoving the sleek device across the counter as soon as the transaction cleared.

  Foster synced it to his old SIM, slid it into his pocket and moved on.

  Next stop: Thrift Haven, a sprawling maze of racks and bins two levels up, its sign a faded mural of smiling mannequins. The escalator groaned under his weight, metal steps juddering as he ascended. Inside, the air was thick with mothballs and old leather, shelves overflowing with cast-offs from decades past—flannel shirts, patched denim, a rack of garish disco vests no one sane would wear. Foster prowled the aisles, fingers trailing over fabrics, hunting something that didn’t scream “minimum wage despair.”

  First stop: the shirt rack, a jungle of flannel, disco relics, and stained tees. Foster sifted through, rejecting a Hawaiian print (too loud) and a plaid lumberjack number (too rustic). Then he spotted it—a black button-up, slim-cut, hanging slightly askew. The cotton was soft but sturdy, worn-in without being wrecked, and the sleeves had a subtle detail: thin silver piping along the cuffs, glinting like circuitry. He held it up, checking the fit against his lanky frame—perfect, snug through the shoulders, loose enough at the waist to move. The collar was crisp, no fraying, and a faint scent of old cedar clung to it, hinting at a previous owner who’d cared. This’ll do, he thought, draping it over his arm.

  Next, pants. His jeans were fine for the outer zones—patched, faded, functional—but a first date demanded more. He bypassed a rack of bell-bottoms (no chance) and neon colored bike shorts (hard pass), zeroing in on a pair of charcoal cargo trousers near the back. The fabric was a heavy cotton blend, dyed a deep, smoky gray that bordered on black, with a slight sheen under the light. Fitted through the thighs but relaxed at the calves, with two deep side pockets perfect for stashing things.

  He checked the waist—32, spot-on—and tried the zipper: smooth, no snags.

  Footwear was trickier. His sneakers—beat-up gray runners—were a non-starter. The shoe section was a mess: mismatched sandals, glittery heels, a lone cowboy boot. Then, buried under a pile of loafers, he found them: black leather boots, ankle-high, with a slight heel and rounded toes. The leather was scuffed but intact, a matte finish. The laces were functional, and the soles—thick rubber, barely worn—promised grip on a bar floor sticky with spilled drinks. ‘Excellent.’

  He slipped one on—size 11, a perfect fit over his socks. The boots creaked as he flexed his foot, the leather molding to him perfectly.

  He was done and headed to the register with his finds when he saw it: an umber colored leather aviator-style trench coat, hanging lopsided on a rack. Weathered but intact, with a shearling collar and brass buckles that gleamed faintly under the buzzing lights. He pulled it off the hanger, the leather creaking as he slipped it on. It fit—long enough to brush his calves, broad across the shoulders, the weight settling like armor. He caught his reflection in a cracked mirror: scarred arms hidden, jaw set, eyes sharp. ‘This is awesome.’

  You look ridiculous, Hedy’s voice purred in his head, velvet laced with amusement. Like a wannabe sky-pirate.

  ‘No, I look awesome,’ Foster shot back, grinning as he adjusted the collar. ‘This is date-worthy.’

  If your date’s into thrift-store cosplay, sure.

  ‘It’s got character!’ He turned to the cashier—a bored teen with purple hair and a chain running from her ear to her nose ring— he held up the coat. “How much?”

  “Thirty creds,” she said, popping gum without looking up from her magazine.

  “Sure,” Foster replied smiling and piling up the rest of his finds, and just like that the coat was his.

  Back in the van, he tossed the coat across the passenger seat, the leather creaking against the cracked vinyl. The new phone buzzed in his pocket—signal strong, a text from Sofia popping up: “See you there…” He smirked, firing up the engine. The mall faded in the rearview and he headed home.

  Back inside his apartment Foster held the jacket up, examining it. “Hmm. You know… this is not a bad choice for power testing… I wonder what enhancement would do? I’d really hate to ruin it though.”

  You should develop a baseline first. Can you observe an item?

  “You’re right let’s try… OBSERVE.”

  A cool wave rushed through him as a semi-translucent text box flickered into existence, hovering over the coat like a holo-projection, its edges shimmering with faint purple static. Words scrolled across it..

  OBSERVED: Red Umber Leather Aviator Trench Coat

  Designation: “The Skybreaker” (unofficial moniker, assigned by second owner - full historical records requires higher level Observation)

  Material Composition: Top-grain cowhide leather, dyed red umber; shearling collar (synthetic blend); brass buckles (65% copper, 34% zinc, trace aetheric residue); cotton lining.

  “Let's see what happens…” He laid the coat flat on his mattress—and focused, the thought ENHANCE. A faint heat rushed across his skin, not burning but warm, and a shimmer rippled across the leather, subtle at first, like heat haze off asphalt. Then as if reality hiccuped—the coat shimmered, its edges blurring. Foster’s breath caught

  The shimmer intensified, a faint violet glow threading through the leather like veins of light. The coat seemed to inhale, its form flexing and reshaping, shedding years of wear in seconds. Scuffs faded, the burn mark dissolved, and the fabric tightened, as if an invisible craftsman were stitching it anew. When the glow subsided, Foster stared at the transformed Skybreaker—still recognizably his coat, but elevated, pristine, a version that had lived a gentler, prouder life.

  He lifted it, the weight slightly heavier, the leather creaking with a fresh, supple richness. The red umber hue deepened—a warm, burnished brown with undertones of crimson, like aged wine caught in sunlight. The top-grain cowhide gleamed, its surface smooth and unmarred, every stitch tight and precise, as if Elias Marwood himself had poured extra hours into this one. The shearling collar thickened, now a lush, creamy tan—real wool, not synthetic, soft as a cloud and faintly scented with lanolin. It framed the coat’s neckline like a crown, adding a rugged elegance.

  The brass buckles shone brighter, their copper-zinc alloy polished to a mirror finish, free of tarnish or scratches, each one catching the apartment’s dim light in sharp, golden glints. The cotton lining—once frayed and stained—rebirthed as a sleek, midnight-blue satin, cool to the touch and whispering against his fingers as he ran them along it. No bloodstains, no wear, just a flawless inner skin that hugged the coat’s structure. The fit adjusted subtly—still long enough to brush his calves, but now tailored to his frame, the shoulders broader, the waist cinched just enough to hint at definition without losing its aviator swagger.

  Foster slipped it on, the leather settling over his scarred arms like a second skin, hiding the burns beneath its weight. The sleeves hit perfectly at his wrists, no riding up, and the buckles clinked faintly as he moved, a satisfying jingle that echoed with purpose. He turned to the cracked mirror he had propped against the wall, and —he looked good. The coat didn’t just fit; it commanded, turning his lanky frame into something sharper, more deliberate.

  Hedy’s voice purred in his skull, velvet-edged with a teasing lilt. Well —it’s less ridiculous now. Or maybe more?

  Foster smirked as he adjusted the collar. This is peak cool. Admit it.

  It’s… tolerable, she conceded. Cleaner, at least.

  He ran his hands down the front, feeling the leather’s buttery smoothness. “This is date-ready. Let's see what’s different… OBSERVE.”

  Once again a semi-translucent text box flared into existence.

  Designation: “The Skybreaker v2”

  Material Composition: Premium-grade cowhide leather, dyed deep red umber; organic shearling collar (100% wool, sourced from Delta-19’s agro-zones); brass buckles (80% copper, 15% zinc, 5% Rinium - micro-aetheric conductivity enhanced); satin lining (midnight-blue, synthetic-organic hybrid).

  The Skybreaker (mirrored from Reality Delta-19 Variant): Condition upgraded from 87% to 99% integrity. Material quality boosted—top-grain leather refined to near-premium grade, shearling upgraded to organic wool, lining swapped for satin.

  Next enhancement possible in 24 hours.

  Foster’s head buzzed faintly, using all of his powers one after the other took a chunk out of his mental reserves. He flexed his shoulders, the coat moving with him, fluid and unhindered. This wasn’t just a thrift find anymore; it was his.

  “This power is fucking awesome.”

  It shows promise, though it does need more testing…

  “Sure, tomorrow. I’m tapped out now anyway.” He felt vaguely unwell, nervousness making itself felt in his stomach as a vague twisting sensation as he grabbed his keys and the new phone. “It’s time for my date!”