Workshop Initialization

The morning haze hung low over Arcton, tinged with the gray breath of factories and the tang of ozone. Donte walked alone, hands buried in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. The city stirred around him in sluggish waves—vendors setting up shop, patrol drones skimming the rooftops, steel carts humming over magnetic rails.

But he wasn't watching any of it.

His mind churned through memories of the awakening, of the workshop buried deep inside him—his mental world—and the cold voice that greeted him there.

Workshop integrity: 12%... Restoration recommended.

He didn't know what it meant, not really. But it had felt real in a way nothing else had. Like he'd touched something ancient and personal, something no one else had access to.

Not yet.

The familiar metal door loomed ahead—half-hidden in the shadows behind a row of service buildings. Wires spilled from the upper vents like tangled vines, and a weak pulse of blue light blinked from the keypad. Donte raised his hand and knocked twice.

A second passed. Then a click.

The door hissed open.

Marcus stood inside, wiping grease from his fingers with a threadbare towel. He gave Donte a once-over, then gestured inside without a word.

The workshop greeted him with warmth and noise. Tools buzzed faintly. Screens flickered with half-finished blueprints. Metal scraps and stripped rifle parts lay scattered across one table in a chaos that somehow felt intentional.

Marcus poured himself a steaming mug from a dented canister in the corner and raised an eyebrow. "You come for tea, or something else?"

Donte stepped fully inside and shut the door behind him. "I want to be your apprentice."

Marcus froze with the mug halfway to his lips. He blinked once, then grinned around the rim. "Didn't think you'd ask that early in the morning."

"I'm serious," Donte said. "I want to learn. Everything."

The old soldier took a sip, then set the cup down slowly. "Well then. Guess we're skipping the small talk."

They sat near the rear of the workshop, beside an old schematic board scrawled with faded notes and broken pencil lines. Marcus pulled up two stools and dropped into one with a groan.

"Alright," he began. "Let's start with what you think you know. Your Awakening. What'd it feel like?"

Donte hesitated. "Like falling. Into something mechanical. And alive."

Marcus nodded slowly. "Not everyone describes it the same. But the key thing is this: during that moment, your spirit and your class intertwine. That's the foundation of your Spirit Matrix."

He tapped a finger to his chest. "Think of it like a… system embedded in your soul. It grows with you. Learns from you. Adapts to your choices."

Donte leaned forward. "And the mental world?"

"Right," Marcus said. "Some call it their spirit realm, others their Matrix Core. Doesn't matter. It's a place inside you. A reflection of who you are—and who you're becoming. Most people can't access it without training. You saw yours?"

Donte nodded. "It was a workshop. Broken. Empty. Like it had been used, then abandoned."

"That tracks," Marcus said quietly. "They usually start small. Symbolic. As your class grows, your matrix expands with it. Stronger classes reshape it faster. Rare ones..." He paused, considering. "Rare ones build things no one else can."

Donte didn't respond. He remembered the pulsing violet light. The machinery suspended in shadow. The runes he could barely comprehend, floating like whispers behind his eyes.

Marcus pushed forward a scrap of blank paper and a piece of charcoal. "Close your eyes. Breathe. Try to feel that space again."

Donte took the charcoal and followed the instruction. He slowed his breathing. Let his thoughts go still. The room dimmed around him.

Then—

"Welcome, Operator. Directive pending."

The voice was back. Calm. Hollow. Watching.

Donte opened his eyes. The real world flooded back. Marcus was studying him carefully.

"Well?" the older man asked.

Donte didn't speak about the voice. Not yet. "It's still there. Waiting."

Marcus grunted. "Good. Means you've made the connection."

He stood and turned toward a cabinet near the wall, retrieving a worn box. "Now let's talk about something important."

Donte tensed slightly as Marcus opened the box and pulled out a brass token—the same kind issued by the Church of Ascension.

"Let me see yours," Marcus said.

Donte retrieved his from his coat and passed it over.

Marcus turned it in his fingers. Then paused.

The old man's brow furrowed. He tilted the token toward the light, scanning the etched name.

"Runic Tinker," he read aloud.

The silence between them stretched.

Marcus handed the token back, slower than before. "Never heard of that one."

"I haven't either," Donte said.

Marcus frowned. "That's not unusual with rare classes. But the word 'Runic'—that's the part that worries me."

"Why?" Donte asked.

"Because that language is old," Marcus said. "Older than the Script the Church teaches. And a hell of a lot more dangerous."

Donte stayed quiet.

Marcus looked him dead in the eye. "You need to be careful. Don't show off. Don't talk about your class unless you trust someone completely. And even then, be smart about what you say."

"Understood," Donte replied.

Marcus exhaled. "Alright. You've got more guts than most. And I see something in you. I'll teach you what I know. But you've got to earn it. Every lesson. Every tool. You ready for that?"

Donte's answer was immediate. "Yes."

A long moment passed. Then Marcus smiled—just barely.

"Good," he said. He reached beneath the bench and placed a dented, rust-colored toolbox in front of Donte. "First lesson: nothing's perfect. Everything's a prototype until it works."

Donte opened the box. It was half-empty, filled with tools that had clearly seen better days. But something about it felt right.

He ran his fingers along the wrench handles, the old brass fittings, the stained cloth wraps.

"Welcome to the grind," Marcus said.

And just like that, the apprenticeship began.