Preliminary Diagnostics Recommended

Donte sat at the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes distant and unfocused.

Days had passed since the alley. Since the blood, the pain, the shift. Since he'd woken up in a body not entirely his own. The memories had not faded. If anything, they tangled tighter with each hour—threads from two lives twisted together, overlapping, fraying at the seams.

He rubbed his temples, exhaling slowly.

His room was a box barely holding itself together. One creaky cot, one lopsided dresser. Wallpaper peeled like old skin, curling off the walls in strips to reveal cracked plaster beneath. The smell was always the same—damp, stale, and tinged with metal. Rust and mildew. Time.

Familiar. But not.

He closed his eyes and started sorting again—like he had every morning since the change.

The orphan boy had grown up in this place. In Arcton. Beaten. Starved. Ignored. A ghost in a house filled with other ghosts. Thin blankets in winter. Bruises that never healed. Empty stares from adults who were supposed to care.

Those memories were his.

And also not.

The other set was harder to pin down. Elusive but vivid. Machinery. Circuits. The graceful curve of polished metal. Tools in his hands, movements practiced and perfect. And the glow—soft, pulsing purple. Runes, etched into surfaces that hummed with power.

Runes.

The word struck something deep in his core. His breath caught, just for a second.

No one in this city talked about runes. Not in the streets. Not in the orphan's memories. And yet… Donte knew them. Not just their shape or their look—he knew their purpose. Their language. Their weight.

He didn't know why.

But he knew they were important.

And he knew he couldn't say a word.

Not yet.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts clean in half.

"You in there, Donte?" Vespera's voice—light, edged with just enough impatience to still be playful.

He stood, ran a hand through his hair, and opened the door.

Vespera stood there in the hallway, arms crossed, teal braids hanging loose over her shoulder. Her golden eyes narrowed slightly as they scanned him.

"You look like hell," she said flatly.

"Didn't sleep much," Donte replied.

She sighed, shook her head. "You never do. Thinking too hard won't make the food taste better. Come on—before someone steals what passes for breakfast."

The hallway felt colder than usual as they walked.

Faded murals on the walls. Windows too dirty to let in light. Pipes that groaned with every gust of wind. Arcton's voice seeped in through the cracks—the hiss of steam, the clang of hammer against steel, the low rumble of distant generators.

Outside, ships passed overhead. Silent shadows gliding above broken cobblestone streets. The sky was always gray here. Never rain. Just smoke.

In the cafeteria, Donte moved on autopilot. The line was long, the food predictably grim: a bowl of thin, lukewarm gruel and a brick of bread that might've once been fresh. He didn't complain. No one did. Complaints didn't change anything here.

He joined Vespera at a corner table, back to the wall. From there, he scanned the room.

The other orphans filled the space with noise—talk, shouts, clatter. But none of it felt alive. Survival was the only thing that moved here. Smiles were rare. Trust was currency, spent only in emergencies.

A group passed close to their table.

Older boys. Familiar shapes. Familiar sneers.

Kaelen.

Donte recognized him immediately—the one who'd led the beating. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, the swagger of someone too used to winning.

Kaelen paused.

"Look who's still breathing," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Guess we didn't hit him hard enough."

Laughter followed.

Donte didn't flinch.

He met Kaelen's gaze and held it. Calm. Steady.

Not angry.

Not afraid.

Something else.

Kaelen's smirk twitched, faltered just slightly. Then he turned and walked on, his crew following close behind.

Vespera leaned in. Her voice was low. "You really shouldn't stare him down like that."

"I didn't provoke him," Donte said. He stirred his gruel without looking up. "But I'm not hiding anymore either."

She didn't reply right away. Just nodded, slow, then turned her attention to her own food.

Later that day, Donte stepped out into the streets.

The city breathed with mechanical lungs. Arcton was alive in a way flesh couldn't be—iron ribs and steam veins, its pulse a constant churn of labor and noise.

Factories rose in the distance, looming like titans. Smoke curled into the sky from chimneys taller than the tallest towers. Workers swarmed through alleyways and open markets, shouting, trading, arguing over parts, credits, and survival.

Donte walked slowly, letting it all settle into him.

The city mirrored the orphanage.

Strong above. Rotten below.

He turned a corner and found himself in a small plaza. A crowd had gathered near the square's edge. Young gunslingers—barely older than him—demonstrated their skills for coins and praise.

Sharp cracks rang through the air as they fired. Targets spun. Cans clattered off railings. Cheers rose, brief and sharp.

Donte watched.

It stirred something.

Not envy. Not awe.

Interest.

He didn't care much for flair. But the discipline? The precision? That caught his eye.

He felt the pull. Not just to the rifles—but to what they could become. How they could be improved. How he could shape one into something more.

Someone else was watching too.

Marcus stood across the square, leaning casually against the side of a workshop. His metal arm caught the morning light, gleaming.

He met Donte's gaze, nodded once.

Donte hesitated, then crossed the plaza.

"You're watching them pretty hard," Marcus said, not turning.

"Trying to understand," Donte replied.

"That's a good start." Marcus shifted his weight. "Better than most."

Donte looked out toward the shooters. "They're good."

"They're showy," Marcus corrected. "But yeah, not bad. You thinking of joining them?"

"Maybe." Donte paused. "I'm better with my hands. At making things."

Marcus glanced sideways. "That so?"

Donte nodded.

A slow grin tugged at the corner of the older man's mouth.

"Well, that changes things."

He gestured toward the rifles. "Anyone can learn to shoot. Most people stop there. But the best ones—they know what's under the metal. They build, tweak, reshape. They understand."

Donte didn't say anything. But the idea sat in his mind like a weight finding its balance.

"Tools," Marcus said, tapping his mechanical fingers against the wall. "That's all weapons are. Extensions. Reflections. You make something, you understand it. You own it."

He turned back toward Donte. "And something tells me you're not just some street kid with a lucky Awakening coming."

Donte tensed slightly.

Marcus smirked. "Relax. I'm not prying. Just saying—whatever you are, don't waste it trying to fit in."

He gave Donte a light pat on the shoulder, then walked off without another word.

The sun dipped low as Donte made his way back to the orphanage.

The sky darkened. Streetlights hummed to life. Everything buzzed in soft tones—machines whispering to each other above the hum of people below.

As he passed by Vespera's door, he saw her inside. Sitting by the window. Braids unbound. Eyes distant.

He didn't knock.

Didn't interrupt.

Back in his room, he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing lines in the air above him. Imagining pieces. Fittings. Shapes. Machines.

Not just fragments of memory anymore.

Ideas.

Plans.

Purpose.

Two lives battled inside him still. But he wasn't trying to choose between them anymore. He could feel it now—there was no need to. Both had brought him here.

The pain. The knowledge. The need to build.

He would shape them all into something new.

"Some assembly required," he muttered, lips curving into a tired smile.

Outside, the city exhaled in steel and fire.

Inside, Donte began to rebuild.