[ClearShadowOverRiver]: Forget who it's for. Just give me your take—how feasible is this suppressor?
Baisha paused, her fingers hovering over the optic-link's glow. [Zhang FaCai]: Depends on the mech's grade.
[Trying to block mental sync is like building a dam from the high ground—you need to be levels above to pull it off right.]
In combat, an A-grade pilot could jam a B-grade's sync, a B-grade could choke a C-grade's. Same logic applied to mechs.
Shadow went quiet, then typed: [ClearShadowOverRiver]: So my suppressor's useless against anyone stronger than me?
[Zhang FaCai]: Hard to say.]
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: …
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: Got it.]
His words felt heavy, like a sigh through text. Baisha frowned. [Zhang FaCai]: Why a suppressor at all?
After a lag, Shadow's reply crawled in. [ClearShadowOverRiver]: No harm telling you. Ever heard of 'hypersense'?
Her fingers flicked a quick "No."
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: It's when mental aptitude goes wild—pure power, but a beast to tame. Can wreck the pilot, even the mech. Higher the grade, worse the chaos. I'm trying to use the suppressor to rein in hypersense, keep it manageable.]
Baisha rolled onto her side, the dorm's mattress creaking. [Zhang FaCai]: So hypersense is aptitude on a rampage, and you want a suppressor to juice the pilot's power without them losing it?
[Zhang FaCai]: Full berserk, zero damage—that's greedy, don't you think?
[Zhang FaCai]: Best fix is skipping hypersense entirely. Nobody'd touch it unless they're cornered, right?
Shadow shot back fast. [ClearShadowOverRiver]: Like I said, high-grade hypersense is untamable. What if someone's aptitude is so strong they hit it the second they sync with a mech?
Pilots' aptitude usually ran steady, a calm stream—until a mech's circuits sparked it alive. No one fought with a monk's zen.
[Zhang FaCai]: Then they don't pilot.]
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: …
[Zhang FaCai]: Kidding.]
[Zhang FaCai]: If their aptitude's that wild, the mech's probably overloading from resonance—mind and machine vibrating out of sync.]
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: Resonance?
[Zhang FaCai]: Simple. Picture aptitude like water in a pipe. Too much in a tight space, it clogs, shakes everything loose. Excess energy rattles the mech's parts, fries it. Only fix is a custom rig, built to match their exact flow. Perfect fit, no resonance.]
In the Federation, top pilots—ultra-A to S-grade—got bespoke mechs. Rich A-graders could pay for custom jobs, but the military didn't foot those bills. Ultra-A talents scored army-funded rigs; S-grades had designers lining up, choice their only headache.
[Zhang FaCai]: Find a sharp designer. They'll sort it.]
Shadow went dark, long enough Baisha nearly dozed, optic-link warm in her hands. Then he pinged, words rushed. [ClearShadowOverRiver]: You're right—forgot resonance entirely.]
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: When he's back, I'll test it with him. Might need your brain again.]
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: Ever thought of hitting Capital Star?
Baisha froze, her gut twisting. Her link's backend flagged a probe—someone sniffing her signal.
[Zhang FaCai]: Trying to pin my address?
[Zhang FaCai]: Nice try. My signal's bounced through layers—you'd chase ghosts.]
She yawned, smug. Without tricks, she'd never have cracked the mech forum's gates.
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: No ulterior motives. I want to hire you as our family's private designer. Gotta vet you first.]
[ClearShadowOverRiver]: I won't block your academy or military path. With our pull, I can't promise a golden road, but you'd have whatever you need for mech work. Fair trade, yeah?
Baisha's jaw tightened. There it was—the rift she'd sensed since spilling her roots. To Shadow, she wasn't an equal anymore, just a talent to buy. His casual overreach, his assumption she'd jump, reeked of a noble's blind perch.
Friendship over.
Capital Star
A black-haired teen sat ringed by holo-screens, glasses glinting in their cold light. His sharp brows and narrow eyes cut a blade's edge, but his profile—delicate, almost too fine—softened under the glow, his pale skin like frost under stars. His pen spun idly, tweaking the suppressor's blueprint, though his focus wavered.
He wanted to check Zhang FaCai's reply but held back. A job offer like that needed time to simmer.
His thoughts scattered—a rare slip for him. He'd never asked the family for much; a private designer was small fry, they'd sign off. FaCai's age was a guess—likely young, like him—so he'd need to work harder to seal it. With his resources, she'd never lack parts or labs. If her aptitude was high—and it had to be—he could pull strings, plant her as his ally at Saint-Cyr Academy. No one refused that.
His pen stopped. He glanced up, nerves he couldn't name flickering, and saw her flood of messages.
[Zhang FaCai]: Think money buys me?
[Zhang FaCai]: We're done, man. Snooping my signal breaks forum rules. Paths cross later, we're strangers—though we already are.]
His eyes widened. Her name was gone from his contacts—she'd bolted.
He'd scared her off.
Baisha caught the trace on her signal and logged out cold. Zhang FaCai was burned, but she had alts aplenty for forum lurking. Still, losing her main stung—years of posts, points, connections, all dust. New accounts started at zero, crawling for access. Frustrating, but forums were jungles: Shadow could be a clean-cut heir or a star-pirate thug. Online banter was fine; real-world meets were off-limits, especially with creeps who stalked addresses.
Capital Star? Pfft.
Regret gnawed—she'd known Shadow was a fussbudget but stuck around anyway. For what? He'd never seen her as a friend.
She swore off Zhang FaCai's login, missing every message he sent after.
Days later, break hit, and Huoman rolled up to ferry them. He clocked Baisha's slump right off, her usual spark dim. "What's with her?" he asked Yaning and Jingyi, tossing bags into his flyer's trunk. "Someone steal her top spot?"
"Nah, she's still first," Yaning said, waving it off. "Maybe the cafeteria's cutting corners—food's been grim since veggie prices spiked."
Huoman and Jingyi stared, blank.
"It's nothing," Baisha muttered, rubbing her nose. "Just haven't hit the mech forum in days. Withdrawal."
Yaning perked up. "Forum crash or something?"
"Sort of," she hedged. "Down for a bit."
Her new alt was locked behind low-rank limits, replies throttled. It itched like a bad weld.
Huoman, at the wheel, spoke up, casual as if reading a weather report. "By the way, I'm taking Baisha out next week—half a month, give or take. Cleared it with the head instructor. You two cover her notes so she doesn't drown when she's back."
Yaning blinked. "Where to? That's a haul."
Baisha, zoned out by the window, snapped to after a beat. She mumbled about Liao snagging her a slot at a mechanics conference, some contest thing.
Yaning bought it, eyes lighting. "Prizes?"
"Plenty," Huoman laughed, loud and warm.
Baisha braced for more questions—where, when—but Jingyi cut in, frowning. "If you're set on mech design, quit circling mechanic gigs."
"Skills don't weigh you down," Baisha shot back, forcing a grin.
Talk veered to designers versus mechanics, and the ride rolled on.
At the orphanage, they ate dinner—starchy stew, warm bread—before Huoman and Baisha grabbed their bags. No flyer this time; Huoman made her ditch her optic-link, a move that prickled her nerves. They took a public hoverbus to an unfamiliar district, the sky black as ink. Streets pulsed with strangers—vendors, drifters, neon flickering over their faces. Huoman wove through, Baisha trailing, until they hit a dim alley, its walls tagged with fading holo-graffiti.
He rummaged in a dumpster, pulling out a black satchel, and tossed it to her. Inside: boy's clothes, a junked optic-link, and an ear clip. Baisha snapped the clip on, a needle-like jolt racing through. Light danced across her skin, a thin veil settling. She caught her reflection in a glass storefront—not her face, but a plain boy's, unremarkable.
"Change," Huoman said. "Check the jacket pocket."
She slipped into the clothes, fishing out a starship ticket. Departure: tonight, 11 p.m. Destination: Hanbo Star.