The reborn squad—Ethan, Tara, Nick, Lila, and Rebecca—threaded through the labyrinthine alleys beneath Cyber Eye, tasked with Mara’s urgent mission: find Otis and save the gravely injured Hank. They arrived at Otis’s clinic, but the entrance was eerily empty. The sign that once read "Old Bones Repair Shop" had vanished. Nearby, a narrow suspension bridge swayed precariously, yet a few residents crossed it with practiced ease, unfazed by the danger.

  Tara, impatient as ever, shoved her way to the front, her tone as antsy as a lit firecracker. “This damn place doesn’t even look lived-in! Otis couldn’t have gotten into trouble, could he? If that old geezer’s dead, what’s gonna happen to Hank?” She flung the door open, and the sight inside froze everyone in their tracks—tables overturned, pill bottles scattered across the floor, and that ancient scanner in the corner smoking, its screen flickering with garbled static like a dying beast. A length of rope lay discarded beside an iron chair, clearly just untied.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Nick crouched down, scanning the mess with his portable detector, analyzing coolly, “The signal’s all jammed up. Can’t even pick up a living soul.”

  Tara’s eyes widened as she kicked aside a fake medicine bottle labeled “Super Juice,” her voice rising several notches. “What’s the deal? Robbed? Kidnapped? Dead? I told you this dump isn’t safe! Otis is so old, there’s no way he could handle this!” She spun around, glaring at Ethan and Nick, hands on her hips. “Well? Say something! Is this old man done for or what?”

  Ethan frowned, crouching to inspect the rope and scattered parts closely. He spoke in a low, steady voice, “Hold on, Tara. Looking at this scene, it doesn’t seem like the Federation Company’s work. No laser burns, no signs of heavy weapons—just messy, not structurally wrecked.”

  Nick chimed in casually, “There’s gotta be one of those self-proclaimed ‘guards’ around, right? Someone like Roon? Guy’s got his ear to the ground, probably knows something.” He fiddled with the detector, his tone calm. “If something really happened, they wouldn’t be this quiet.”

  “Guards?” Tara’s eyes lit up, her urgency boiling over like a pot on high heat. “Then what are we waiting for? I’ll go find them!” Before Ethan could stop her, she grabbed her steel blade and bolted out the door, shouting, “You guys keep poking around here—I’m not waiting!” Her footsteps faded fast down the alley.

  Tara sprinted through the twisting suspension bridges and slanted shacks, reaching the market district. The stalls here were denser than elsewhere, piled with bizarre goods and food on makeshift stands of scrap metal.

  She veered into the outer guard post area and spotted a man dressed like a gaudy rooster—Roon. Burly and broad, he wore a red-yellow-green patchwork leather jacket that screamed for attention like a peacock flaunting its feathers. His chest pocket jingled with assorted metal bits with every step; his belt dangled with multicolored vials, looking like an over-decorated Christmas tree; even his hair was braided with colored wires and metal scraps, standing out starkly in the dim underground. He was squatting outside a quirky shop—a flipped-over shipping container with a grinning mechanical skull welded to the entrance. Roon and a bunch of guys were circled up, playing cards, chatting loudly, their laughter shaking the parts on the ground.

  “Hey, Flower Peacock!” Tara charged over, panting as she yelled, “You’re the guard here, right? Get up, there’s trouble!”

  Roon looked up, a homemade cigarette dangling from his lips, squinting at her. “Well, well, a new face? Where’d this little firecracker come from?” He grinned, flashing a mouth full of metal-capped teeth, and lazily tossed his cards down. “What’s the fuss? Take it slow, me and the boys are in the middle of a good time.” The guys around him glanced up too; a skinny one whistled, “This chick’s got some spark!”

  Tara’s temper flared like a rocket. “Good time, my ass! Otis—the old geezer from Old Bones Repair Shop—is in trouble! His clinic’s trashed, he’s gone, and you losers are sitting here playing cards?” She glared at Roon, and seeing his laid-back attitude, she slammed the table, scattering the cards everywhere. “Listen up, Otis might be dead! Aren’t you gonna go look?”

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  “What? Old Bones is in trouble?” Roon blinked, finally flicking his cigarette away and standing up, his voice booming. “For real?” The guys around him snapped to attention, tossing their cards aside and getting to their feet.

  The news of Otis’s disappearance hit the crowd like a bomb—rusty metal clanged from all directions, oil lamps flickered in the deep alleys, and shouts echoed under the dome: “What? Old Bones is gone?” “What’s going on?” “He was fine yesterday!” “That old coot still owes me half a pound of potatoes!” The crowd erupted, the rumor spreading like wildfire.

  Roon thumped his chest, brimming with bravado, the metal bits on his garish jacket clinking. “Alright, little firecracker, cool it! Down here, we handle our own!” He let out a sharp whistle. “Brothers, Old Bones is missing—everyone move!” The crowd roared in response, a swarm of people grabbing tools and lamps, splitting off in all directions, yelling “Otis! Old Bones!” through the alleys. A few kids dragged a busted cart piled with scavenged parts, shouting, “Save Grandpa Otis!” The news swept through the market—vendors dropped their wares, scavengers crawled out of junk piles, even a corner drunk with a stick joined in, muttering, “Can’t lose Old Bones…”

  Tara stood there, jaw dropped. “These guys… they’re actually tight-knit.” She felt a twinge of warmth, mixed with confusion, then took off after Roon toward the clinic, a mob of fired-up underground dwellers trailing behind. Roon ran like a moving rainbow, his metal trinkets clashing in a cheerful rhythm, drawing more folks into the chase along the way.

  Nick crouched in the corner, tinkering with his portable detector. The screen finally caught a faint signal. The comms crackled with broken static: “…Milo, you little brat…” before drowning in noise again.

  “Who’s Milo?” Ethan frowned, tapping the overturned table, his eyes scanning the rope and fake pill bottles.

  Lila shrugged, holding a charred circuit board, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. “Maybe the mastermind behind this mess.”

  Before she finished, a commotion erupted outside, the ground trembling faintly. Tara burst in with Roon and a flood of underground residents. Roon kicked the door open, bellowing, “Old Bones! Where you at?”—only to nearly trip over the scattered rope. A sturdy middle-aged woman pushed through, spotting the smoking scanner and cursing, “What’s this junk? Who did this?” A tall guy behind her waved a wrench, roaring, “Find the guy, and I’ll smash his head!” An old lady with a cane hobbled in, muttering, “Just find you, when’re you paying back those potatoes?” The clinic filled with people, their chatter like a sizzling oil pan.

  Tara pointed at the chaos. “Look at this mess!” She spun to Roon. “Didn’t you say no one down here would touch him? What’s this about?”

  Roon scratched his head, about to speak, when a strange tapping came from the corner—“thump, thump, thump”—like it was coming from inside the wall. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the sound.

  “What’s that?” Nick zeroed in on the source—a plain-looking wall.

  “There’s movement!” Ethan strode over, yanking aside a battered wooden panel that had been hidden by stacked parts, like a makeshift cover. The board clattered to the floor, revealing a narrow hidden door. Everyone turned as a shaky figure crawled out from the shadows.

  It was a wrinkled, white-haired old man, rubbing his back, exhaustion etched on his face, clutching a half-untied rope. His clothes were dusty and rumpled, clearly after a rough ordeal. He looked up at the packed room and froze. “You lot… what’s all this?”

  “Otis!” The crowd gasped in unison, someone even letting out a loud whistle.

  Tara’s jaw dropped. “You’re not dead?” She exhaled, relief mixing with irritation. “We thought you’d been kidnapped! What were you hiding for?”

  Otis gave a wry smile, slumping back into the creaky iron chair, catching his breath. “Hiding? I wish. That little punk Milo tied me up in the secret room all morning! I just got the rope off—my back’s about to give out.” He gestured at the mess. “Look at this—he turned my scanner into a busted horn and tossed in an interference gadget. Comms are toast. I was gonna grab some parts to fix this damn thing when you all showed up.”

  Roon guffawed, slapping Otis’s shoulder hard enough to nearly topple him, the metal on his jacket jingling. “You old fossil, can’t even handle a kid?”

  The middle-aged woman crossed her arms. “Milo’s at it again? Next time I see him, I’ll whack him with a spoon!” The tall guy waved his wrench. “Where’s he at? I’ll drag him back!” The old lady pushed forward. “Found you, good—when’re those potatoes coming?” The crowd burst into laughter, the tension melting into relief.

  Ethan stepped forward, voice firm. “You’re Otis? We’ve got an emergency—Hank needs treatment.”

  Otis waved a hand, steadying his breath. “I know, I know, but look at this mess… You’ve gotta help me deal with Milo first. I can’t handle that kid alone anymore.”