Chapter 8: Safety First

The replay ignited a storm of chatter. Players pored over every second of the footage, tearing apart the fight frame by frame. Soon, a theory crystallized: Blade Warrior had to be an elite pilot from USE or NUF—maybe even a classified operative. Without that system-locked ID, people would've bet money it was two different players.

Overnight, Blade Warrior rocketed to the top of every forum's trending list. Speculation ran wild, and bounties started cropping up. It wasn't just the military taking notice—corporate factions ran their own mech units, tightly regulated but fiercely guarded. A pilot like this could shift the balance. Sure, top-tier mechs were pricey, but the real treasure was someone who could handle them. The more advanced the rig, the more it demanded—both physically and mentally.

Sharp-eyed fans spotted something eerie: despite pulling off brutal maneuvers, Blade Warrior showed zero signs of strain. Word was, his performance had pinged the radar of a few high-ranking Generals.

Yet the guy was a phantom. No one knew a thing about him. He'd always been a lone wolf—logging off after scraps, no small talk, no crew. Now that fame had hit, it dawned on everyone: they were obsessed with a total enigma.

His profile? Ironclad. Not even the game devs could sneak a peek—player data was locked down by the mainframe, a deal struck between USE and NUF. Cracking it open required a national security override, and that was a tangle of red tape no one wanted to touch.

While the internet lost its mind over Blade Warrior, Finn was bolting to the hospital, pulse hammering. Am I toast? he thought. Did that meteor cook my brain, or am I just running on fumes?

The docs, still chuckling about their "meteor-strike survivor," fast-tracked him. Two frantic hours later, Finn stumbled out with a fat stack of test results. He squinted at the sky, half-dreaming. The diagnosis? Normal. Same as the check-up at Mark's place. No freaky mutations, no superhero glow—just a regular guy. But Finn knew something was different.

Still, it was a win. His dream felt within reach.

He grinned up at the clouds. "Hey, big guy upstairs! You nailed me with a space rock, but I'm letting it slide. Hook me up, yeah? Amen!"

A couple nearby flinched. The girl grabbed her boyfriend's arm. "Where'd that nutcase come from? Shouldn't he be in a padded room?"

"Relax, hon. Guy's been through hell. Cut him some slack."

"True. Kinda cute, though—shame he's unhinged."

Finn didn't give a damn. He was riding a high. Even the jabs sounded like praise.

Life's sweet, man. Real sweet.

Mark had vanished all weekend—probably shacked up with some fling. Finn stayed off Cosmic War. To him, it was training, not a game. Losses didn't faze him; he was chasing the long haul.

The buzz faded, and he fell back into rhythm. He rang his parents, then cranked the gravity rig to 4x. The goal burned brighter every day: become a legit mech pilot.

Monday rolled around, and school was electric. Cosmic War chatter was inescapable—even the non-gamers couldn't dodge it.

A hand slapped his shoulder. Finn's elbow snapped back on reflex, smacking Mark square in the chest.

Mark reeled, gasping. "Dude, you trying to off me? That stung!"

Finn hauled him up, wincing. He'd pulled back just in time. Mark wasn't some twig—he kept fit for the ladies. "Gotta look sharp," he'd boast. "If the cash runs dry, I'll just charm my way through life."

"Quit whining. You catch Cosmic War yesterday? Some lunatic nailed a perfect Thomas Spin Kill in a BS001. You could take notes."

Finn smirked. Mark had no clue. He'd watched Finn play plenty, but never pieced it together. To him, Finn was solid—sure—but that mystery ace? Different league.

"Yeah, I could do it," Finn said, playing it cool.

Mark laughed. "Sure, hotshot. Don't sweat it—you'll get there. Probably some NUF wunderkind or one of the North Star Seven slumming it."

The North Star Seven were NUF's poster kids—cream of the crop, some with pedigrees that screamed privilege. Evantians had genetics on lock; talent bred true. Humans had their flukes, but Evantians churned out stars at a higher rate.

Finn craved the real thing. Off the field, he was laid-back, but in a mech? Pure adrenaline. Mark called it "hormones gone haywire." Finn didn't bother correcting him.

They ambled toward class, but a ripple cut through the crowd. A stretched Mercedes mag-lev—top-of-the-line KLR5, rad-shielded—glided up to the gates. That kind of swagger didn't belong to just anyone.