A shadow stood at the boundary where dim sanctuary light met wasteland darkness.
Broad.
Immovable.
Thick forearms crisscrossed with old mechanical burn scars and grease-stained wraps. Shoulders like reinforced plating. A chest built from years of lifting engines, tearing apart scrap hulls, and rebuilding war machines by hand.
His stance was grounded, feet planted as if rooted to the earth itself.
He did not flinch from the pressure still lingering in the air.
Slowly,
He stepped forward into the light.
Heavy boots. Oil-streaked trousers. Utility harness lined with tools and reinforced brackets. A sleeveless upper frame exposing powerful arms marked by faded welding scars.
His jaw was square. Expression calm. Eyes sharp and unreadable.
He had the posture of someone used to standing in exploding workshops and unstable reactors without panic.
A man who shaped machines and survived their failures.
Marco.
The Mechanic.
There was a touch of suprise and incredibility on his face.
As if he had never expected such an outcome.
The atmosphere between suddenly became heavy.
The moment held.
And the wasteland watched.
Hours earlier,
After parting from the group, Marco did not return to the workshop.
He wandered aimlessly and deliberately slow.
He walked through the sanctuary like a man memorizing exits.
His heavy boots echoed against reinforced steel walkways. Dim industrial lights flickered overhead. People moved around him carefully, not fearful, but instinctively aware of his presence.
He observed everything with boredom.
Some children playing near barricaded corridors, parents speaking in hushed tones, weak ones pretending to be strong, Strong ones pretending to be weak.
Years in the wasteland had sharpened his instincts beyond guesswork. He could tell, almost immediately, who was worth remembering and who was not.
That was when he saw her.
Far across the central plaza.
A woman standing alone near a fractured fountain reclaimed by creeping metal vines.
She wore a black blindfold, not decorative, but precise. It sat cleanly across her eyes, tied with deliberate symmetry. Her clothes were simple but intentional, dark layered fabric fitted close to the body for movement, reinforced at the elbows and knees.
Time had left its fingerprints on the fabric. The clothes were neither pristine enough to belong to the sheltered nor ragged enough to betray desperation.
Her boots were scarred by repeated damage, not neglect.
Her posture was relaxed, a little too relaxed.
The kind of stillness that comes from knowing exactly what was a threat and what wasn't.
Even from a distance, Marco felt it. The pressure of her strength. Calm, measured and controlled.
Not quite at his level, but maybe at least Steven's.
Maybe even higher.
The air around her didn't shift violently like warriors often did, instead, it sharpened like a blade resting inside its sheath.
She wasn't a decoration, but a lethal weapon. She was one of the Higher-up here, most likely.
He studied her a few seconds longer.
Then looked away.
As long as she didn't interfere with him, he had no interest in bothering with her presence.
Politics bored him.
Hierarchy irritated him.
He preferred engines structures.
Their study and uncoverabe mysteries fascinated him.
People did not.
After making his rounds, he headed toward the sanctuary gates.
He really never liked prolonged interaction, not that he ever had one though. The thought to himself while moving at a steady pace.
Steven handled diplomacy, Brant dealth with troublesome people, while he handled problems that couldn't be taken care of by the both of them.
When forced into conversation he considered "bothersome," irritation surfaced quickly, and irritation, to him, often escalated into violence.
Out there in the wasteland, life was way simpler. Things either tried to kill you or you try to kill things.
He preferred that life more.
Outside the sanctuary walls, the polluted wind brushed against his skin. The horizon shimmered under toxic haze.
He walked for a while.
Then sighed.
Too slow.
With a slight twitch of thought, the mechanisms inside his boots responded. Panels beneath the soles unfolded and extended downward, assembling into tightly coiled, spring-like constructs made of reinforced alloy.
He crouched slightly.
Energy accumulated.
Then,
He launched.
The ground shattered beneath him as compressed force released, propelling him forward in a long, arcing trajectory across broken terrain.
He landed kilometers away, then he repeated it again.
Each jump carrying him farther into the wasteland's skeletal ruins.
Movement without any conversations.
Such Peace.
He encountered a few weakened abominations along the way.
Malformed torsos dragging themselves across rubble, split-jawed crawlers hunting for scraps.
He eliminated them without slowing down.
No wasted motion nor energy.
Metal crushed bone.
A short burst of kinetic discharge here, a clean decapitation there.
The routine.
Then,
A distant explosion tore through the horizon.
Marco paused mid-jump.
He turned his head slightly.
He wasn't curious, just bored.
So he changed direction.
When he arrived, the battle was already underway.
An armored figure clashed violently with a laser-wielding abomination.
He watched from a distant elevated ruin.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
That armor,
He had built it.
Two… maybe three years ago.
The memory was vague, but he remembered the reason.
The boy, his student. He became a little embarrassed while looking at the worn out mecha. He should have been more concentrated and put in more effort back then. He just built it for fun.
"I'll have to create a more bigger and refined one for him after this" he thought.
Marco crossed his arms and observed quietly.
The fight was messy.
But improving.
Then—
He felt it.
A second presence. More sharper and well hidden.
He shifted his gaze subtly.
There.
Perched between fractured structures.
A stealth-type abomination.
Slim, coiled and watching.
Its movements weren't animalistic.
They were calculating.
There was intelligence behind its stillness.
Marco tried to recall if he'd seen one similar before.
Halfway through the thought, he stopped trying.
Polluted creatures evolved constantly.
Yesterday's apex predator may become today's prey. So, you could scour the wasteland for months and never see the same variant twice.
Worst case scenario, he would intervene if it later proved difficult for One to handle.
He leaned back slightly and continued watching.
He saw the kill and the exhaustion. He became even more embarrassed as the armour got badly damaged after just two or three hits. It reinforced his decision to make a better one for his student.
He saw the stealth creature close in, but he did not move.
He could have ended it instantly.
But he didn't.
Growth did not come from constant training alone.
It came from surviving dangerous moments like this.
Even if he acted indifferent and avoided conversation,
He had raised that boy himself.
Fed, taught and provided emotional support for him silently.
So, even though he acts indifferent… it would be a lie to say he doesn't care.
He would not always be there.
Tomorrow was never guaranteed in the wasteland, so, One needed to learn.
The stealth creature lunged for the kill.
Marco shifted his weight,
Ready to move.
Then,
He paused.
Something changed.
The air.
The pressure.
He felt it before he saw it.
And he watched.
The transformation.
The stillness. Then the brutal fight.
For the first time in a long while,
Marco felt something close to surprise.
Not fear nor apprehension. Just deep curiousity at the nature of the boy's mutant powers.
Until the boy fell unconscious.
Marco's jaw tightened slightly. He worried something may have happened to him due to such close contact with pollution energy via contaminated blood.
What would happen if he mutated into an abomination later.
The terrifying use of such vast inkforce drew attention far beyond the battlefield. Even Marco could feel distant presences stirring in response.
And that bothered him.
There were things in the deeper wastelands he had no interest in encountering.
Not today though.
He moved, approaching One.
The inkforce still coiled violently around him, refusing to disperse.
Marco stepped forward in apprehension, worry and curiosity. A perfect mix of such intense emotions.