The Mechanic Part I

Axel's Gulls whir softly as he extends his cybernetic arms toward the CryoCore pod's control panel. The metallic limbs catch the harsh fluorescent light, their surface a testament to countless maintenance sessions and modifications. He flexes his fingers, the sophisticated prosthetics responding with mechanical precision as he punches in the access code.

"Time to rise and shine, boss." He taps commands into the pod's control panel. The crystalline cover lifts with a soft whoosh.

Empty. The padded interior shows no sign of its usual occupant.

He checks the pod's status display- no malfunction warnings, no emergency protocols triggered. The maintenance fee will hit his account regardless; empty pod or not, it’s all the same to him. In the end, these checks are what keep food on his table and the RespirX pumping through his artificial lung.

"Job's a job," he mutters, pulling out his diagnostic tools. The pod needs its monthly calibration whether Gilmore's sleeping inside it or not. Axel's gotten used to not asking questions-it tends to keep both his conscience clear and his bank account healthy.

He sets to work, one of his Gulls transforming smoothly into a specialized hammer configuration. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can move on to the next pod, the next paycheck. Gilmore's disappearance? Someone else’s problem.

Just as he’s tightening the last panel, a soft blue glow catches his attention. The notification panel on Axel’s left Gull lights up, and with a flick of his wrist, he projects the message into the air above his cybernetic forearm.

URGENT: CRYOCORE MAINTENANCE REQUIRED IN OLROG

PERSONAL REQUEST FOR TECHNICIAN: AXEL

COMMISSION RATE: 300% STANDARD

IMMEDIATE RESPONSE NEEDED

He closes the empty pod, his Gulls retracting back to their default configuration. The timing couldn't be better-he'd made sure of that. Three weeks of carefully planned "maintenance issues" in Olrog's pods had finally paid off.

"Right on schedule." He pockets his tools. The commission would set him up for months, maybe even enough to upgrade his RespirX to the latest model.

Time to earn my nickname. He smirks, remembering how the other techs call him 'Gilmore's Lap Dog' behind his back. Let them talk. None of them are pulling in triple commission.

***

The journey to Olrog meant navigating the deadly waterways that now ruled the world. Axel had grown up hearing grim tales of the Great Catastrophe-a meteor strike that melted the polar icecaps and drowned entire cities in days.

But the water wasn’t the worst of it. The stories spoke of how decades of human waste, factory runoff, nuclear sludge, and technological debris dissolved into a toxic brew. The seas now burned flesh on contact, and the air above carried an invisible poison.

With half the world submerged and the seas transformed into a deadly expanse, the only viable means of transportation between the scattered remnants of civilization is by ferry.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across Caspia's crumbling streets as Axel makes his way toward the docks. His Gulls glint in the fading light, drawing attention from the masses trudging home from their shifts at the factories.

A woman in a tattered gas mask stumbles, her filter wheezing with each labored breath. Her eyes lock onto the smooth rise and fall of Axel's chest-the telltale sign of his RespirX lung working its magic. She clutches her mask tighter, the cracked plastic digging into her skin.

Axel weaves through the crowd, his tool pack slung over his shoulder. The acrid stench of toxic sea air barely registers through his bionic lung. Around him, masked faces turn to track his movement, their hollow eye pieces reflecting equal parts wonder and hatred at his augmented body.

A group of dock workers huddle against a wall, sharing a dwindling oxygen tank between them. Their masks fog up with each precious breath. One worker's gaze follows the fluid motion of Axel's cybernetic arms-top-of-the-line Gulls that cost more than these men would see in a lifetime.

"Nice hardware," a dock worker spits through his mask as Axel passes. "Must be nice breathing easy while the rest of us choke."

Axel keeps walking, used to the bitter comments. His boots click against the metal dock plates, echoing across the water. The ferry to Olrog waits ahead, belching black smoke into the toxic sky.

Axel approaches a weathered booth at the end of the dock. Paint peels from its metal walls, revealing patches of rust underneath. Behind the scratched plexiglass window, a ferryman hunches over a logbook, his gas mask's filters whistling with each breath.

"Need passage to Olrog." Axel taps against the counter, creating a metallic rhythm.

The ferryman glances up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Axel's cybernetic arms. "Ain't no one sailing today, mate. Hurricane's got the whole sea locked down tight as a drum."

"When's the next departure?"

"Could be days." The ferryman scratches the straps of his mask. "Storm's a nasty one. Already swallowed three boats trying to outrun it. Smart captains are staying put elsewhere."

Through the booth's grimy window, Axel sees the churning waters beyond the harbor. Dark clouds mass on the horizon, their edges tinged with an unnatural green from the toxic sea below.

"Triple rate for anyone willing to chance it."

"Triple rate won't matter if you're dead." The ferryman shakes his head. "Look, I've seen storms tear metal ships apart like they were made of paper. Even if you found someone crazy enough to take you, you wouldn't make it halfway to Olrog."

Axel reaches into his pack. The metallic fingers emerge clutching a small oxygen canister - pure, unfiltered air worth its weight in gold these days.

"Maybe this'll change your mind?" He sets the canister on the counter with a soft clink.

The ferryman's eyes widen behind his mask. His gaze darts between the canister and Axel before he snatches it, tucking it beneath the counter.

"Well..." The ferryman leans forward, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "There might be one option, if you're desperate enough. Down past the cliff face, last berth. Black hull, no markings."

Axel’s interest piques.

"Wouldn’t recommend it though. Word is, that vessel’s into more than passengers-contraband, weapons, things things that'd get you locked up just for knowing about 'em.. And some who board? They don’t always make it back."

Axel doesn’t flinch. "Don’t care if they breathe fire, as long as they get me to Olrog."

"Your funeral," the ferryman mutters with a shrug. "But remember-if anyone asks, I never saw you. We didn’t have this conversation. As far as I’m concerned, you weren’t even at my dock."

"Wouldn’t dream of dragging you into it." Axel taps his fingers against the counter twice. "Appreciate the tip."

"Hey." The ferryman’s voice stops him as he turns to leave. "Whatever business you’ve got in Olrog-it better be worth dying for."

Axel offers a slight nod but doesn’t look back. The dock’s metal plates groan under his boots as he makes his way toward the cliff face, where the black hull waits, shadowed in the growing darkness.