The alley reeks of ozone and old solder, like the time I tried fixing that busted flux capacitor with spit and prayer. Didn’t work then, won’t now. My shoulder’s a live wire under the parka liner—every twitch sends a fresh zap down my arm, reminding me why I should’ve just let the cut fester. Sepsis is quick, they say. Cleaner than this slow bleed of bad decisions.

Gus dips in front of me, his casing scarred from that drone skirmish last month, pulsing a cautious yellow. Pattern repeat: two drones, east-west loop, thirty seconds. Tight window. His projected voice is a tinny buzz in my earpiece, the kind that makes you feel less alone but no less screwed.

“Yeah, well, your windows are always tight,” I mutter, pressing my back to the rusted bulkhead. The metal’s colder than a creditor’s smile, seeping through my layers like it’s got a grudge. Vision blurs for a beat—hunger, probably, or the acid’s ghost still chewing on my nerves. I blink it away, tasting copper on my tongue. Not blood. Not yet. “If I puke on your sensors again, it’s your fault for picking the scenic route.”

He flickers white—his version of an eye-roll—and darts ahead. I count the beats: twenty-eight, twenty-nine. The drones whine past overhead, their scan beams slicing the fog like lazy knives. Thirty-one. Window missed by a hair. Jancok. My heart does that stupid rabbit-thump, the one that says run, idiot, you’re not built for this. But running’s what got Arjuna’s lungs full of sewer sludge. Freezing in place? That’s what let Cassandra’s fever climb while I scavenged for pills that weren’t there.

No more freezing. I slingshot out, boots crunching on shattered plasteel—quiet as a scream in a vacuum. The outpost door’s a mangled slab, half-ajar from whatever rebel cruiser punched it in decades back. Inside, the safe squats like a fat enforcer, its panel glowing faint blue: Ascendancy lock, tier-three encryption. Rotating codes, bio-scans if you’re dumb enough to trip the outer layer. Tagger swore his rig could ghost it—EMP pulse to scramble the logs, then a brute-force tap on the backdoor protocol. “Always a backdoor, Lu,” he’d grinned, before the rad-storm took his eyes. Always.

I fish the interface from my belt: a jury-rigged brick of salvaged boards, wires like exposed veins, screen cracked from when Gus body-slammed a rat last week. It hums to life, cold against my palm, and I jam the probe into the port. Sparks kiss my fingers—static, or wishful thinking. The rig beeps: Initializing. Layers detected: 4. Estimated crack: 2:47.

Two minutes forty-seven. Feels like eternity in a coffin. Sweat beads despite the freeze, trickling down my neck like a traitor’s whisper. Shoulder screams as I hunch over it, purple thread pulling taut. Bruise-colored, yeah—like the marks on Arj’s skin when he wouldn’t stop shivering. “Hold still, bay,” I’d whispered, dabbing at the infection with what passed for clean cloth. He laughed then, weak as a glitch, said I was his moon-girl, pulling tides. Tides of what? Pus and promises I couldn’t keep?

Focus, Lu. Ghosts don’t pay rent. But they squat anyway, don’t they? Every flicker on the screen’s a replay: Arj’s rattle-breath, Cass’s hand going slack in mine. What if this haul’s just more ash? Antibiotics for the kids, sure—but one slip, and I’m the curse that takes them too. Better solo. Better if the galaxy chews me up quiet, spits out bones no one claims.

The rig chitters: Layer 1 breached. Escalating defenses. A low hum builds from the safe—alert mode. Gus spins back, red-flashing panic. Drones cycling early. Inbound, 45 seconds. Abort?

“Abort’s for people with options,” I hiss, fingers flying over the keys. The makeshift board’s sticky with old blood—mine or someone else’s, who tracks it?—and the code scrolls like angry insects. I punch in Tagger’s override sequence: a dirty little worm that mimics admin creds. Come on, you bloated tin can. I’ve got nothing but time and spite. Layer 2 cracks with a satisfying plink, but the hum spikes. Lights flicker in the corridor beyond, red strobes painting the walls like arterial spray.

Thirty seconds. My breath fogs the screen, blurring the readout. Hunger claws my gut—those skewers were half-gristle, the kind that sits like regret. Vision swims again, edges going soft. Not now. Can’t be weak now. No—that’s template talk, the crap they feed you in vids about plucky survivors. Weak? I’m a walking rad-leak, shoulder rotting under discount thread, chasing ghosts for creds that might buy one good meal. If I drop here, at least it’s not watching another kid’s eyes go dull. Small mercies.

Gus rams my knee—gentle nudge, his way of saying move your ass. I ignore him, slamming the final probe. Layer 3: firewall integrity 87%… 76%… The safe groans, servos whining like a hungover enforcer. Something clicks deep inside— jackpot or jack-squat? The panel hisses open a crack, spilling cool air laced with the tang of sealed meds. Vials gleam: broad-spectrum, the real stuff. Enough for a week, maybe two if I stretch it. Enough to keep the fever from claiming another Arj.

Ten seconds. Drones closing—whine’s a banshee now. I yank the rig free, stuff a fistful of vials into my pack. Gus is already mapping exfil: West chute, 20 meters. Crawlspace tight. Tight like the noose of guilt around my throat. I bolt, shoulder jarring with every step, pain blooming hot and familiar. Like the acid, but deeper. Like failure.

We hit the chute as the drones breach the door—beams lancing past my boot heels. Gus seals it with a micro-EMP, his casing sparking in protest. Darkness swallows us, the crawl a coffin of jagged edges scraping my parka. Vials clink like tiny accusations. You got ’em, Lu. But what next? Gus pulses soft green back there, a joke forming in flashes: Heroic junk rat: 1. Galaxy: still sucks.

I snort, tasting dust and victory-sweat. “Yeah, well, heroes don’t puke from painkillers.” A lie—I’ve dry-heaved worse. But it lands, deflects the what-ifs clawing up: What if the drones trace the breach? What if the kids hate the taste? What if I’m just dragging more bodies into my wake?

We spill out into the fog-shrouded ruins, drones looping futile overhead. Pack heavy on my good shoulder, I stagger toward the sewer grate. One haul down. Galaxy still fractured, Ascendancy still strangling. But tonight? Tonight, no one’s turning to ash on my watch. For now.

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