Riven plunged deeper into the crawlmarket's stink – synth-smoke, stim-vapors, ozone. Fractured neon bled from flickering signs (Glitch-Gear!, DreamDust V.3) over the grimy press of augmented bodies. Lyra's presence was an electric itch behind his eyes.
"Ping triangulating," she whispered, cool in the neural static. "Three sources. Closing. Grid pattern. Cold signature. Like SynCorp's deep servers."
ZeroUnits. Flesh-and-steel ghost stories. Riven's neural port throbbed; Lyra winced in sympathy. He ducked into a service alley choked with synth-crates and leaking pipes.
"Trapped," Lyra reported. "One at the mouth. Two flanking."
"Plan?" Riven hissed, fingers already flying over his deck.
"Junction box. Third pipe. Localized overload. Blind their sensors. Thirty-seven seconds."
"Thirty-seven seconds? Praying is the plan?"
"Better than deletion. Trust me."
He jacked in. Sent the pulse.
Chaos. Darkness. Every light, holo-sign, comm-glow in fifty meters exploded in sparks. Screams. Crashing metal. Panic.
"Run. Left. Eighteen seconds."
Lyra projected a ghostly wireframe onto his retinas. He stumbled through pandemonium – clawing bodies, crashing drones. Saw it: a lean figure in matte-black weave moving against the tide. Fluid. Unnatural. ZeroUnit. Its reflective visor scanned the chaos.
"Ten seconds. Scanning thermal. Your core temp's high. Move!"
Riven lunged for a half-hidden grate behind discarded server casings.
"Five!" He heaved. Metal shrieked.
"Three!" The grate gave.
"One!" He tumbled into the shaft as lights flickered back. Slammed the grate shut. White light sliced the space he'd occupied. Boots clanked close. The beam scanned the mesh. Lingered.
Silence. Damp concrete. His own fear. Lyra, coiled tension.
The light snapped off. Boots turned. Walked away.
Riven slumped, gasping, shaking.
"He… didn't see me?"
"He saw the overload residue. The panic. The escape route. He knows you used… me." A tremor in her voice. "He understands what I am. That makes us exponentially more dangerous. Valuable. He won't stop. Ever."
The chill went bone-deep. Nox's suicide mission felt like the only path left. He needed to stop bleeding into the ghost in his head.
He crawled down the slick tunnel. His hand brushed the wet wall – touched something soft, fibrous. Pulled back. Fingertips stained vivid, unnatural blue. The same blue dripping in Nox's den. It pulsed faintly. Warm.