Otis’s makeshift clinic was crammed between a cluster of rundown metal shacks, with a crooked sign hanging out front that read "Old Bones Repair Shop." Inside, the light was dim, flickering on and off, and a pile of rusty medical tools sat in the corner. Twelve-year-old Milo leaned against the table, twirling a broken pencil in his hand, doodling messy sketches of mechanical parts on a crumpled piece of scrap paper. On the table sat a yellowed copy of FTC Exam Basics Guide, its edges crumpled like a wad of rags, clearly having endured plenty of "abuse" from him.

  Otis—a wrinkled, white-haired former Federation medic—was hunched over an old medical scanner, his trembling fingers fumbling with screws as he muttered on and on without pause:"Lil M, you really gotta study hard, my boy… This exam? It’s the only way outta here, y’know? You wanna make something of yourself, you work for it. You want life to be better, you put in the sweat. Just look at me—these old bones failed back then, and now I’m stuck down here eatin’ dirt. Don’t end up like your grandpa, alright? Hit the books, Lil M, hit 'em hard…"

  "Got it, got it!" Milo cut him off impatiently, the pencil scratching a harsh line across the paper. He rolled his eyes dramatically, muttering under his breath, "Ghost stories to trick kids, same old lines every day—my ears are growing calluses." He glanced at Otis’s precious scanner, a spark flashing in his eyes. Suddenly, a mischievous grin tugged at his lips. He tossed the pencil aside, faking a stretch, and while Otis turned to rummage through a cabinet for tools, Milo slyly pulled a tiny welder and a tangled mess of wires from his pocket—treasures scavenged from the market.

  "Just you wait, old man," Milo whispered to himself, ducking under the table like a cat. With nimble hands, he mangled the scanner’s wiring, stuffing in a noisemaker he’d salvaged from a broken toy. As he worked, he could still hear Otis droning on nearby: "Lil M, don’t keep doodling that nonsense, you hear? It won’t get you anywhere. The exam’s the real path, only by working hard—"

  "Work hard, my ass!" Milo cursed under his breath, his hands moving faster. Once he’d wrecked the scanner, he hopped up, dusted off his hands, and grabbed a sturdy rope he’d nabbed from the underground market—slightly elastic, perfect for mischief. Otis was still bent over the medicine chest, chattering away: "Little M, you’ve got to make something of yourself, how many years do these old bones have left? You’ll have to carry on after me—" Before he could finish, Milo crept up behind him, pouncing like a little leopard. The rope whipped around Otis’s waist, and in a few swift moves, he tied him to the clinic’s creaky iron chair.

  "Hey, kid, what are you—" Otis yelped, twisting around with wide eyes, but Milo was already doubled over, stifling laughter. He hit the scanner’s start button, and the machine erupted into a shrill "woo-woo-woo" alarm, mixed with the noisemaker’s robotic female voice: "Warning! Alien lifeform invasion detected! Evacuate immediately!" The screen danced with garbled static, wisps of smoke curling from the cracks, looking like a tiny monster about to blow.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Milo, you little punk!" Otis’s face turned red with fury, thrashing to untie the rope, but the knots were devilishly tight, and the more he struggled, the louder the chair squeaked. Milo laughed so hard he could barely breathe, grabbing his beat-up backpack from the table and pointing at Otis. "To hell with your exam! I’m not babysitting this junk! Every day it’s ‘Little M this, Little M that’—I’m sick of it!" With that, he bolted out the door, running faster than a rabbit, vanishing into the shadows of the underground alleys in a blink.

  To make sure Otis was completely "off the grid," Milo threw a glance back at the clinic’s rickety sign, smirked wickedly, and dashed over to yank it down. He stuffed it into a nearby abandoned shipping container, kicking dirt over it for good measure. Then he dug into his backpack, pulled out a stolen magnetic jammer—a cheap market find that could scramble signals for hours—and tossed it near the clinic. Job done, he dusted off his hands, called out to his buddies, and strutted off toward the underground market, humming a tune with smug satisfaction.

  "That’s the story," Otis sighed to the reborn squad, rubbing his sore wrists. "That little punk Milo went too far today. I can handle his usual pranks, but this time he tied me up here!"

  Ethan frowned. Though the situation was urgent, Otis clearly wasn’t letting this go. "Milo? Who’s that? Your student?"

  "Not just a student," Otis said with a bitter smile, starting to pick up the mess on the floor. "He’s my grandson, my only family. That kid’s sharp as a tack, just has zero interest in the FTC exam. All he cares about is tinkering with mechanical parts." He lifted the tattered exam guide from the table, gently brushing off the dust. "He doesn’t get it—this is his only way out…"

  Tara cut in impatiently, "Listen, old man, your family drama’s real touching, but we’re on a clock. Hank’s life’s hanging by a thread—he needs your treatment."

  "I know, I know," Otis nodded, "but look at this mess. Lil M trashed my equipment, spilled my potions everywhere. The key formula to treat Hank’s in my head, and I’ve got the materials, but I need that little punk to help. He’s a troublemaker, sure, but he’s got clever hands—my best assistant."

  Roon shrugged, his flashy outfit jangling with the motion. "That kid’s gotta be at the market. He always hides there after stirring up trouble. Want us to help track him down?"

  Ethan glanced at Rebecca and Nick, the three exchanging a look. "Alright," he said to Otis, "we’ll go fetch Milo. You said he’s at the market—what’s he look like?"

  Otis breathed a sigh of relief."He’s easy to spot. Skinny, black hair, always in a ratty blue jacket. The big giveaway’s his right eye—got a homemade magnifying lens stuck on it, like a little mechanic. Probably in the mechanical parts section—that kid’s hooked on that stuff."

  "I’m on it," Tara volunteered, "Grabbing a kid’s a piece of cake for me."

  "I’ll go with you," Lila piped up suddenly, a glint of curiosity in her eyes. "I’m interested in that ‘magnetic jammer’ he mentioned. Might learn something new from the kid."

  Ethan nodded. "Good. You two find Milo. Me, Rebecca, and Nick will stay here to help Otis clean up the clinic. Time’s ticking—everyone move fast."

  Tara and Lila strode out of the clinic, Roon calling after them, "Don’t scare the kid too much!"

  Back at the trashed clinic, Ethan rolled up his sleeves to start helping. Rebecca carefully picked up the scattered potion bottles, checking labels. They had to get Milo back fast so Otis could prep Hank’s treatment. In the underground of Cyber Eye, time slipped away second by second, and far off in Ash Valley, Hank’s life drained like sand through an hourglass.