The sanctuary of the Dust-Walkers wasn't a building; it was a grave.
Pria led them through a maze of crushed concrete and twisted rebar, finally stopping at a massive, circular blast door embedded in the foundation of a fallen skyscraper. It looked like an old corporate bank vault, miraculously intact while the rest of the sector had crumpled around it.
"Inside," Pria commanded, her voice muffled by her cloth mask.
The air inside was heavy, hot, and tasted of sweat and dust. It was a single, cavernous room lit by jars of bioluminescent fungi scavenged from the Sump. Huddled in the corners, wrapped in grey rags, were the Dust-Walkers.
There were dozens of them. Elderly men with chrome so rusted it barely moved. Women nursing infants who were too weak to cry. And everywhere, the sound of coughing. It was a dry, hacking sound, different from the wet Gutter-Lung of the Basin, but just as deadly.
In the center of the room sat the heart of the camp: The Scrubber.
It was a monstrosity of pre-Deregulation tech—a massive, industrial air-filtration unit the size of a small truck. It sat silent and cold, a layer of grey dust coating its housing.
"It died two days ago," Pria said, pulling down her mask. Her face was smudged with kohl, her expression tight with worry. She gestured to the coughing children. "The passive vents aren't enough. If that machine doesn't start pushing clean O2 by morning, the weakest won't wake up."
Jax walked toward the machine. He didn't pull out a scanner. He didn't check the digital diagnostic panel (which was shattered anyway).
He took off his gloves.
He placed his bare hands on the cold metal casing of the turbine housing. He closed his eyes.
"What is he doing?" one of Pria's lieutenants whispered.
"Listening," Ryla said, her voice sharp. She stood guard near the entrance, her hand resting on her belt, glaring at anyone who looked at Jax too long.
Jax ignored them. He tapped the metal. Thump. He felt the reverberation travel through the chassis. He ran his fingers along the intake manifold, feeling for the hairline fractures in the seals. He leaned in, pressing his ear against the silent motor.
He could feel the machine's rhythm. It wasn't dead; it was choked.
"The intake is clear," Jax murmured, more to himself than the others. "The power coupling is live. But the rhythm is off. It's choked."
He slid under the chassis, his mismatched boots sticking out. "Ryla. Hydro-spanner. Three-millimeter torque."
"On it," Ryla said instantly. She reached into the slim utility pouch on her belt, the only gear she had left and pulled out a small, high-quality spanner she'd likely carded from a Rim-Rat technician some time ago. She slapped it into his hand without him even having to look. She knew his workflow. She knew exactly how he liked his tools arranged.
"Torque," Jax grunted, twisting a bolt. "It's the regulator valve. The diaphragm is shot. It's not regulating pressure; it's locking it out."
He slid out from under the machine, his face streaked with oil. He looked up at Pria.
"The pressure regulator is fused," Jax said. "I can bypass the safety protocols, but I need a replacement servo to act as a manual throttle. Something high-torque, precise. If I try to hotwire it without one, the turbine will spin too fast and explode."
"We don't have servos," Pria said, crossing her arms. "We scrap everything for filters."
Jax sighed, wiping his hands on his pants. He looked at Ryla. Specifically, he looked at the knee-joint of her high-end runner suit.
"Ryla," he said softly.
Ryla followed his gaze. She looked down at her knee. The external servo there assisted her sprinting, allowing her to make those impossible jumps in the tunnels.
"You want my leg?" she asked, her voice flat.
"It has a high-torque micro-motor," Jax explained, feeling guilty just asking. "It's compatible. I can rig it to the valve."
He paused, looking her in the eye. "You don't have to. We can find another way. I can try to scavenge a drone part from the surface, or—"
Ryla looked at Pria.
Pria was leaning against a pillar, watching them with a cool, detached expression. Her posture screamed, 'I knew she was useless.'
Ryla's jaw tightened. She didn't even look at Jax. She drew her vibro-knife, jammed it into the housing of her own suit, and ripped the servo out in a shower of sparks.
She winced as the suit's leg went limp, dead weight against her skin. She tossed the smoking servo to Jax.
"Fix it," she snapped, staring daggers at Pria. "Before I change my mind."
Jax caught the servo. "Thanks, Neon."
"Just work," she muttered.
Jax slid back under the machine. "Ryla, hold the light. I need to weld this in place."
Ryla moved to crouch beside him, angling the wrist-light. She was efficient, silent, anticipating his movements. When he reached for the flux-solder, she already had it ready. They were a machine; a partnership forged in the time they spent together.
But then, a shadow fell over them.
Pria stepped into the light. She didn't bring a tool. She brought a wet rag.
She knelt on the other side of Jax, invading the workspace. Ryla bristled, shifting the light aggressively, but Pria ignored her.
"You're bleeding," Pria whispered.
Jax paused. He hadn't noticed, but he had sliced his cheek on a jagged piece of casing. A thin line of blood was mixing with the grease on his skin.
Pria reached out. Her hand was surprisingly gentle. She wiped the blood away with the cool cloth, her fingers lingering on his skin. She wasn't looking at the machine. She was looking at him.
"You are so clumsy sometimes, you know that?" she murmured, a small, private smile touching her lips beneath the cloth mask. "Just like back in the day."
Jax blinked, his hands freezing on the solder. "Yeah. Guess I haven't changed much."
"You have," Pria said, leaning in closer, her shoulder brushing his. "You're better. Stronger."
Ryla cleared her throat, a loud, grating sound. "Light's drifting, Spark. Do you want to fix the fan or flirt with the Ghost?"
Jax jolted back to reality. He flushed, ducking his head back into the chassis. "Right. Welding."
Pria sat back on her heels, but she didn't leave. She stayed right there, inside his personal radius, watching him work with a possessive intensity. Ryla kept the light steady, but her grip on the flashlight was white knuckled.
For the next hour, the only sounds were the hiss of the solder and the tension in the air.
"Okay," Jax finally breathed, tightening the last screw on Ryla's sacrificed servo. "Moment of truth."
He crawled out. He stood up, wiping his hands. The Dust-Walkers gathered around, their eyes wide and hopeful in the gloom.
Jax reached for the manual override lever he had jury-rigged. He closed his eyes for a second, feeling the machine one last time. Don't fight the machine. Guide it.
He pulled the lever.
Ka-CHUNK.
The machine groaned. A low whine started deep in the core, rising in pitch. The floor vibrated.
Then, with a sound like a giant inhaling, the turbine caught.
WHIRRRRRRRRR.
Air blasted out of the vents—grey at first, spitting out dust, and then... clear. Cool, filtered air flooded the vault.
The coughing reduced.
A cheer went up from the Dust-Walkers, ragged but genuine. A mother wept, holding her baby up to the vent.
Jax sagged against the console, exhaustion hitting him like a hammer.
"You did it," Ryla said, a rare note of pure pride in her voice. She stepped toward him, maybe to high-five him, maybe to hug him.
But Pria was faster.
She slipped under Jax's arm, supporting his weight. "You need rest," she said softly. "You paid your debt, Jax. The air is clean."
She looked at Ryla over his shoulder. "We keep our bargains here. You have beds. And food."
Ryla stopped. She looked at her limp leg, the missing servo that was now saving a hundred lives. She looked at Pria holding Jax.
"Fine," Ryla said, turning away to hide the hurt in her eyes. "Just point me to the nutrient paste. I'm starving."
Later, after they had eaten and the camp had settled into a peaceful, humming sleep, Pria found Jax sitting by the scrubber, watching the readouts.
"The Banshees won't find you here," Pria said, sitting next to him. "The magnetic interference in this sector scrambles their sonar. It's a Dead Zone."
"They'll figure something out eventually," Jax said. "We can't stay forever. We have to get back to Sector 7. We have to get Silas."
Pria nodded slowly. She pulled a small, holographic map projector from her belt and set it on the floor. It displayed a wireframe of the city, but it showed tunnels and shafts that weren't on any official schematic.
"The main gates to Sector 7 are locked down," Pria said, her finger tracing a red line. "Vorg has doubled the guard. You'll never get in through the front door. Or the tunnels."
"Then we're stuck," Jax said.
"Not necessarily." Pria looked at him, her dark eyes glinting. "There's an old smuggler's lift. It runs through the structural supports of the Ghost Sector, straight up into the foundation of Vorg's fortress. It hasn't been used in years. It's suicide."
"Is it working?"
"I don't know" Pria smiled, that soft, private smile again. "It might."
"Why help us?" Jax asked. "You got your air. Why risk your neck getting us back into the fire?"
Pria looked at the map, then back at him. She reached out, adjusting the collar of his hoodie, her knuckles grazing his neck.
"Because Vorg's runoff poisoned this sector," she whispered fiercely. "Because he's contributed to the system that created us. And because... well, I need to make sure you're safe, after all this time, I don't want you vanishing on me again."
She stood up, her mask sliding back into place, turning her into the Ghost again.
"Get some sleep, Jax. Tomorrow, we climb."