The silence in the pipe was worse than the screaming.
Jax was pressed into a crack in the tunnel wall, his legs numb from the freezing sludge. His chest heaved, a desperate, ragged rhythm that he couldn't stop. Hhhh-uck. Hhhh-uck.
FILTER INTEGRITY: 0%
The amber light on his wrist had turned a solid, unforgiving red. The air intaking through his mask wasn't scrubbed anymore; it was raw, sulfuric poison. It felt like inhaling broken glass.
"Quiet," Ryla hissed, tears streaming down her dirty face.
She pressed her body against his, shoving a heavy, rot-resistant tarp they had scavenged from the muck over his head. She clamped her hands over the exhaust port of his mask, physically sealing the sound in.
Jax panicked. His vision grayed. His lungs screamed for oxygen, but Ryla held firm.
Slush.
A shadow glided past the opening of their crevice.
It was tall, sleek, and darker than the dark. A Banshee. It didn't walk; it flowed, its boots making zero sound on the metal. Its helmet was a featureless black oval, twitching slightly as the sensory fins on the side hunted for a pulse.
It paused. Right in front of them.
Jax's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Ryla squeezed her eyes shut, pressing harder on his mask. Jax started to black out, the edges of his vision dissolving into static. Don't cough. Don't cough. Don't—
The Banshee tilted its head. Then, a rat skittered across a pipe ten meters down the tunnel.
HISS.
The Banshee vanished, launching itself toward the noise with terrifying speed.
Ryla ripped the tarp away.
Jax collapsed forward, retching violently into the sludge. He tore the mask off his face—it was useless now anyway—and gasped in the thick, toxic air of the tunnel. It tasted of sulfur and death, but it was air.
"We have to move," Ryla whispered, pulling him up. "You need a filter. You're turning blue."
"Market," Jax wheezed, his voice a raw scrape. "The Spiral... crowd cover."
The "Spiral Market" of Sector 7-B was a chaotic, vertical bazaar built into a massive ventilation intake. It was loud, dirty, and crowded—the perfect place to disappear.
Jax pulled his hood low, hiding his face. He moved like a drunk, leaning heavily on Ryla. The noise of the market was a physical assault—shouting merchants, sizzling fry-vats of cricket-crunch, and the constant thrum of heavy bass from a nearby vice-den.
But for once, the noise was good. It hid his coughing.
"There," Ryla pointed to a stall hanging precariously over the edge of the walkway. "Tech-Salvage."
Jax stumbled toward the counter. The merchant, a greying man with a robotic lower jaw, looked him up and down with disinterest.
"We're closing, Meat-Bag," the merchant grunted.
"Filters," Jax rasped, slamming his wrist-deck onto the metal counter. The screen flashed red: 42 kW. "Standard Aero-V2 cartridges. Two of them. Now."
The merchant eyed the credits. It was barely enough, but money was money. He reached under the counter. "You look like you crawled out of a corpse, kid."
"Just... give me... the filters."
The merchant pulled out a blister pack of two charcoal cartridges. He held them just out of reach.
"Forty-two is the price for one," the merchant sneered, seeing Jax's desperation. "Inflation. Top-Side taxes."
Jax's vision blurred. He didn't have time to haggle. He reached for his Spark-Gap, his fingers twitching.
Suddenly, the music in the market cut out.
Every holographic billboard, every wrist-deck, and every Slab in the bazaar flickered and turned a violent, blood-red.
A massive hologram projected into the center of the spiral. It wasn't the Overseer. It was Vorg.
The Warlord's steel trap-jaw gnashed as he spoke, his voice booming through the market speakers.
"ATTENTION, BASIN TRASH. BOUNTY ALERT."
Two massive, rotating 3D images appeared next to Vorg's head.
One was Ryla, her neon hair unmistakable. The other was Jax.
"CRIMES: THEFT. SABOTAGE."
Jax froze. Their identity was now known to the whole Basin and even though crime wasn't really anything new there since it is what their whole city was built on anyway, but when a bounty is placed your head, then the whole Basin will be a wanting a piece of that bounty money.
"REWARD: 10,000 CHARGE. ALIVE OR DEAD. PREFERABLY DEAD."
The silence that fell over the market was deafening. Every head turned. Every pair of eyes looked at the holograms, then at the boy in the grey hoodie standing at the tech counter.
The merchant looked at the screen. Then he looked at Jax. His eyes went wide.
He didn't hand over the filters. His hand dropped below the counter, reaching for a shotgun.
"Hey!" the merchant shouted. "It's th—"
Jax didn't think. He lunged.
He vaulted the counter, grabbing the blister pack of filters from the merchant's hand. The merchant tried to bring the shotgun up, but Ryla slammed her elbow into the man's robotic jaw, sending him crashing into a pile of scrap servos.
"Run!" Ryla screamed.
She grabbed Jax's hand and they bolted.
"They're here!" someone shouted. "Get them! 10,000 Charge!"
The market erupted. It wasn't just gangs anymore. It was everyone. Starving mothers, crippled beggars, tunnel-kids—everyone saw a ticket out of The Basin running past them.
Jax jammed the new filters into his mask as he ran, inhaling deeply. The clean air hit his brain like a drug. His vision sharpened.
"Left!" Ryla yelled, shoving a confused glow-farmer into a pursuer.
They sprinted down a narrow alleyway, boots skidding on the slick metal. Jax used his Spark-Gap to fuse a gate shut behind them, buying them seconds.
They didn't stop running until the lights of the market were a faint glow behind them. They collapsed in a "Ghost Sector"—an abandoned section of the Basin where a structural collapse had crushed three city blocks years ago. It was dark, silent, and unstable.
Jax slid down a wall, his chest heaving. He checked the Gene-Core strapped to Ryla. It was still humming.
They were alive. But they were the most wanted people in the city.
Ryla slumped opposite him, wiping grime and sweat from her forehead. She looked at the distant, red glow of the bounty holograms still lighting up the smog.
She looked at Jax. Her expression wasn't scared anymore. It was hard.
"So," she breathed, adjusting her suit. "We have no home. No Silas. And half the city wants to trade us off."
She looked him dead in the eye.
"You got a plan, Spark? Or are we just running until we die?"