The setting sun cast long shadows across the scrapyard as Lyra picked her way through the twisted metal and discarded technology. Her pack was heavy with salvage—three partially functional power cells, an old neural interface connector, and what appeared to be an intact water filtration component. A good haul by any standard.

  She shifted the weight on her shoulders, wincing as the strap dug into already calloused skin. The pain was worth it. The water component alone would trade for enough nutrient packs to st a week. Maybe even two, if she negotiated well.

  The path to Tel's workshop was etched in Lyra's memory, a winding route through the industrial graveyard of Sector 17. She could navigate it with her eyes closed, identifying each turn by the distinct piles of salvage that served as ndmarks. The massive drive core from an old transport vessel. The mountain of discarded neural interface components that occasionally sparked with residual energy. The colpsed cooling tower with "KESS" spray-painted across its side—Tel's addition to remind everyone that this was their territory.

  As she rounded the final corner, something felt wrong. The workshop door stood open, swinging slightly in the evening breeze. Tel never left it open—not with scavengers always looking for an easy score.

  Lyra dropped her pack and ran.

  The workshop interior was dim, lit only by the fading sunlight from the open door. Tools were scattered across the floor—another bad sign. Tel was meticulous with her equipment, each item having its assigned pce on the wall hooks or in the converted ammunition crates that served as storage.

  "Tel?" Lyra called, her voice echoing in the unusually quiet space.

  A weak groan came from behind the workbench.

  Lyra vaulted over a pile of dismantled circuit boards, her heart hammering against her ribs. Tel y on the floor, one hand still clutching her diagnostic scanner, her body curled into a tight ball.

  "I'm here," Lyra said, dropping to her knees beside her mentor. "What happened? Was it scavengers? The corporate patrols?"

  Tel shook her head slightly, her weathered face contorted in pain. "No attack," she managed to whisper. "Just my body... finally quitting on me."

  Lyra's hands moved automatically, checking for injuries, her fingers gentle despite their roughness. No blood, no broken bones she could detect. But Tel's skin burned with fever, and a thin sheen of sweat covered her forehead.

  "Let me get you to the cot," Lyra said, already positioning herself to lift the older woman.

  "Scanner first," Tel insisted, her voice stronger but rasping. "Need to... see the results."

  Lyra gnced at the diagnostic device still clutched in Tel's hand. The small screen glowed with data, complicated medical readouts that Tel had taught her to interpret in their long evenings together. Lyra took the scanner, her eyes rapidly processing the information.

  And then the world seemed to stop.

  "No," she whispered, the word escaping her lips before she could control it. "This can't be right."

  Tel's eyes, still sharp despite her condition, focused on Lyra's face. "Not a malfunction," she said. "I ran it three times before I colpsed."

  Lyra stared at the screen, willing the numbers to change. Radiation poisoning. Terminal stage. The scanner estimated cellur damage far beyond what the body could repair. Beyond what any medical intervention could fix—even if they had access to real medical care, which they didn't.

  "How long?" Lyra asked, her voice suddenly hollow.

  "Five months. Maybe six if I'm lucky." Tel attempted a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Enough time to make sure you're ready."

  Lyra set the scanner down with mechanical precision, then helped Tel to the cot in the corner of the workshop. Her movements were automatic, her mind unable to fully process what she'd just learned.

  "Water," Tel requested, and Lyra fetched their cleanest container, filling it from the precious filtered supply they kept for emergencies.

  As Tel drank, Lyra noticed things she'd been too busy to see these past months. How much thinner her mentor had become. The yellowish tinge to her once-dark skin. The tremor in her hands that Tel had expined away as the result of a power surge while repairing a temperamental generator.

  "You knew," Lyra said softly. "You've known for a while."

  Tel set the water container down. "Suspected. Confirmed it today." She gestured to a small stack of technical manuals on the workbench. "Was organizing your library. Wanted to make sure you had what you needed."

  Lyra's eyes burned as she looked at the carefully arranged booklets and data chips. Tel's personal collection of technical knowledge—scavenged, stolen, or traded for at great cost over decades. The older woman had been adding to it piece by piece as long as Lyra had known her, always saying it was their most valuable possession.

  "We need to get you help," Lyra insisted, knowing even as she said it that it was impossible. "Maybe we could trade with one of the medical smugglers from the Eastern Resource Region. The filtration component I found today—"

  "No." Tel's voice was firm despite her weakness. "Even if we could afford it, which we can't, it's too te. The damage is..." she paused, taking a bored breath, "it's too extensive. You know that."

  Lyra did know. The scanner was clear. Years of working with poorly shielded technology had taken its toll. Tel's insistence on handling the most dangerous salvage herself, always keeping Lyra away from the worst radiation sources, now made a terrible kind of sense.

  "This isn't fair," Lyra said, her voice cracking.

  "No," Tel agreed, reaching out to take Lyra's hand. Her grip was weaker than it should have been. "But it's how things are. On Terminus, only Architects get fair."

  Word spread through Sector 17 with the efficiency that came from a community where survival depended on shared information. By the next morning, visitors began arriving at the workshop, each bringing what little they could spare. A packet of pain suppressants from Old Miro, who ran the community still. A rare nutrient concentrate from the Wei family, who managed the closest thing Sector 17 had to a farm. A small sor battery from Rix, silent as always but his eyes showing the grief he couldn't express.

  Tel received them from her cot, which Lyra had moved to the center of the workshop. Despite her condition, she maintained the gravity and slight edge of impatience that had always defined her. No one stayed long—there was too much work to be done for extended social calls—but each visitor left having paid their respects to a woman who had repaired nearly every piece of working technology in the sector at some point.

  As the steady stream of visitors began to dwindle in the te afternoon, a different sort of meeting convened outside. Lyra noticed it while fetching more water—a gathering of the sector's elders and most respected figures, speaking in hushed tones, occasionally gncing toward the workshop.

  She didn't need to hear their conversation to understand its purpose. They were discussing what would happen to her after Tel was gone.

  That evening, after ensuring Tel was resting comfortably, Lyra pulled one of the technical manuals from the stack her mentor had prepared. It was an advanced guide to neural interface modifications—far beyond the simple repairs they typically handled. Modifications that were highly illegal without corporate authorization.

  She ran her fingers over the cover, worn smooth by years of handling. Inside, Tel had made careful notes in the margins, transting technical corporate jargon into practical instructions. Lyra had studied parts of it before, but many sections Tel had kept off-limits, saying she wasn't ready yet.

  A soft cough from the cot caught her attention.

  "You should be sleeping," Lyra said, setting the manual aside.

  "Plenty of time for that soon enough," Tel replied, her attempt at humor falling ft in the dimly lit room. She gestured toward the manual. "You'll need to know everything in there. Not just the basics we've covered."

  Lyra nodded, throat tight. "I'll learn it all."

  "You will," Tel agreed with surprising certainty. "You have a gift with technology that I've never seen before. Like you can speak to it in its own nguage." She shifted on the cot, wincing slightly. "That's why they'll want you."

  "They?"

  "The others. The community council." Tel gestured vaguely toward the door. "They're deciding your future out there. Choosing who gets my apprentice."

  Lyra stiffened. "I don't need anyone deciding my future for me."

  "They care about you," Tel said gently. "Everyone here has watched you grow up. They're family, in their way." A weak smile crossed her face. "And family looks after its own."

  "I can run the workshop myself," Lyra insisted. "I've learned enough."

  "You're more than capable with the technical work," Tel acknowledged. "But surviving in Sector 17 isn't just about skill. It's about connections. Protection." She coughed again, harder this time. "The world outside this workshop is cruel in ways I've sheltered you from."

  Lyra wanted to argue but couldn't find the words. Instead, she helped Tel drink more water, adjusted the thin bnket that covered her, and returned to the workbench.

  She picked up the neural interface manual again, determined to master everything inside it. Whatever happened next, she would face it armed with every piece of knowledge Tel could give her.

  Dawn brought a formal delegation to the workshop door. Five figures representing Sector 17's informal leadership—Old Miro, Wei Matriarch, Rix, Dex the Trader, and Saren who led the night watchmen. They stood awkwardly at the threshold, their usual confidence diminished by the context of their visit.

  Lyra met them with squared shoulders and cold eyes.

  "She's resting," she said before any of them could speak.

  Old Miro nodded, his white beard moving with the gesture. "We won't disturb her. We came to speak with you."

  "About who gets custody of me after?" Lyra didn't bother hiding the bitterness in her tone.

  The Wei Matriarch stepped forward, her face severe but not unkind. "About how we ensure your survival and the continuation of what Tel has built here. What you've both built."

  "This workshop is essential to all of us," Dex added, his trader's pragmatism evident in his voice. "And you're essential to the workshop."

  Lyra crossed her arms. "I don't need guardians. I can manage on my own."

  "No one survives Sector 17 alone," Saren said quietly, her hand resting casually on the makeshift shock baton at her hip. "Not even someone as skilled as you."

  "What we're proposing," Miro continued, "is community custody. You'd remain here, in the workshop, continuing Tel's work. We would provide protection, supplies, and support in exchange for your services."

  Lyra hesitated, surprised by the offer. She had expected to be cimed by one faction or another, not this united approach.

  "Why?" she asked bluntly.

  "Because Tel asked us to," the Wei Matriarch answered, equally direct. "And because it's the right solution. You belong here, doing what you do best. We need you, and you need us."

  From inside the workshop, Tel's voice called out, stronger than it had been the day before. "Let them in, Lyra. I want to hear this arrangement myself."

  The delegation filed in, respectfully gathering around Tel's cot. Lyra remained standing by the workbench, her hand resting protectively on the stack of technical manuals—her inheritance and future.

  As the community leaders outlined their proposal in detail, Lyra watched Tel's face. Despite the pain she must have been feeling, her mentor's eyes were alert, missing nothing, questioning specifics and demanding crifications. This was the Tel that Sector 17 respected—sharp, uncompromising, and always focused on practical solutions.

  And for the first time since finding Tel colpsed on the workshop floor, Lyra allowed herself to believe that she might have a future after her mentor was gone. Different, harder, but still a future.

  Later, after the delegation had left with tentative arrangements agreed upon, Tel gestured for Lyra to come closer.

  "I've survived this long by never trusting too much," she said quietly. "Even with this arrangement, keep your guard up. Trust your instincts about people." She gripped Lyra's hand with surprising strength. "And never let them know everything you can do with technology. Keep your most valuable skills hidden."

  Lyra nodded, committing the advice to memory alongside circuit diagrams and repair procedures.

  "There's something else," Tel continued, her voice dropping further. "In the false bottom of the blue storage crate. A data crystal with encrypted files. My personal library that's too dangerous to keep in the open."

  Lyra's eyes widened slightly. She'd never suspected the existence of a hidden compartment or secret files.

  "The password is 'Era's Hope'—two words. Commit it to memory and never write it down." Tel's eyes held Lyra's with fierce intensity. "Only access it when you're absolutely certain you're alone."

  "What's on it?" Lyra asked.

  "Information that could get you killed—or save you, depending on how you use it." Tel rexed slightly, her burst of energy clearly fading. "Including rumors about a massive project the corporations are developing. Something they've been testing in secret facilities."

  Lyra had heard the whispers—fragments of conversations cut short when she approached, worried gnces exchanged by the older residents of Sector 17. Something big was coming, something that made even hardened survivors nervous.

  "Promise me you'll be careful with it," Tel insisted.

  "I promise."

  "And promise me something else," Tel continued, her voice softer. "That when your time comes, you'll use everything I've taught you—everything in those manuals and on that crystal—to survive the Game. To beat it at its own rules."

  Lyra swallowed hard against the tightness in her throat. "I promise."

  Tel nodded, satisfied, and closed her eyes. "Good. Now let me rest, and you get back to studying. Five months isn't much time to transfer a lifetime of knowledge."

  Lyra returned to the workbench, picking up the neural interface manual with new determination. As Tel's breathing evened into sleep, she began to read, absorbing each word and diagram with perfect concentration.

  Outside, the sun climbed higher over Sector 17's industrial wastend. Life continued its harsh rhythm—scavengers returning with their finds, traders haggling over meager resources, community watchmen patrolling for threats both within and without.

  And in a small workshop with "KESS" painted on its outer wall, two women faced the inevitable separation that death would bring—one by passing on everything she knew, the other by committing to memory every fragment of that precious knowledge.