Fitting the Pieces

The workshop buzzed with quiet energy, the kind that came from hours of concentration and collaboration. Wires, tools, and bits of metal were scattered across the workbench, evidence of Mark and Neon’s ongoing project. Mark sat on a stool, his fingers deftly working with the communicator’s delicate circuits, while Neon leaned against the table, watching him with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“You’re so focused,” she said, breaking the silence. “It’s like you’re painting, not fixing a machine.”

Mark smiled faintly, not looking up. “It’s not that different, really. Art and machines both are about putting the right pieces together to create something that works. Something that means something.”

She tilted her head, considering his words. “So, you’re saying this communicator is your masterpiece?”

He chuckled. “Hardly. But there’s something satisfying about trying to bring it back to life. It’s like giving it another chance to tell its story.”

Neon leaned closer, picking up one of the communicator’s detached components. “You really think it has a story to tell?”

“Everything does,” Mark replied, his tone thoughtful. “Even if it’s just a story about how it was used, who held it, what they said. It’s all part of something bigger.”

Meanwhile, across the city, Ash and Layla were at Ash’s house, sharing a quiet moment. The two of them worked on a small gardening project in the backyard, creating digital herbs and flowers together. It was a simple activity, but they both found it oddly therapeutic and rewarding. “This looks good,” Layla said. Ash smiled, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

“Yeah, and it can smell nice too. Thanks for helping out.”

At the same time, Luke was at the training grounds, as usual. Sweat poured down his face as he pushed through another intense session. For him, every swing of the practice blade, every burst of energy, was a step closer to becoming the person he wanted to be a leader, someone strong enough to make a difference.

Back in the workshop, Mark and Neon continued their discussion and work on the communicator. As the hours passed, their conversation drifted. Neon shared snippets of her childhood, growing up under the shield’s quiet hum, while Mark offered glimpses of his struggles as an artist in a city that often prioritized function over form.

“You’ve always been into art, huh?” Neon asked, watching him work.

Mark nodded. “Yeah. It’s how I make sense of things. When I paint or draw, it’s like the world finally makes a little more sense. It’s freedom, you know? The ability to create something that’s entirely your own.”

“Freedom,” Neon echoed. “That’s a loaded word.”

He paused, setting down his tools. “It is. But to me, freedom isn’t just doing whatever you want. It’s about responsibility. Making your own decisions and owning them, no matter the outcome. It’s having the courage to stand by your choices.”

Neon studied him, her expression softening. “That’s… different from how most people see it.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I think freedom is an art in itself. It’s about expression, about being honest with yourself and the world. It’s not always easy, but it’s worth it.”

Neon sat down beside him, holding the communicator’s casing in her hands. “Do you think other people are freer than us?”

Mark shrugged. “I don’t know. You can feel trapped in the middle of a wide-open field if you’re not true to yourself. And you can feel free inside four walls if you’re doing what you love.”

She smiled, her fingers tracing the grooves of the old device. “That’s a nice way of looking at it. You know, in this day and age, the shields are what keep all the cities safe. They give us the freedom to live without constant fear, to dream bigger.”

“Safe, yeah,” Mark said, his tone neutral. “But safety isn’t the same as freedom. They’re not opposites, though. You can have both, as long as you don’t let safety become a cage.”

Neon nodded slowly, her gaze distant. “I guess I’ve never thought about it like that.”

They returned to their work, the quiet hum of the workshop filling the spaces between their words. Mark found himself lost in thought, his hands moving instinctively as he connected wires and adjusted circuits.

Freedom is art, he mused silently. It’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes it doesn’t turn out the way you hoped. But it’s yours. That’s what makes it beautiful.

The communicator let out a faint beep, snapping him back to the present. Neon leaned in, her eyes widening. “Did it just?”

Mark nodded, a smile spreading across his face. “Yeah. I think it’s working.”

He pressed a button, and the small screen flickered to life. Static filled the air, followed by a faint, distorted voice. “This is… anyone out there?”

Neon’s breath caught. “It’s picking something up.”

Mark adjusted the dials, trying to clear the signal. The voice grew stronger. “If anyone can hear this… we need help. Please.”

They exchanged a glance, the weight of the moment settling over them. Neon spoke first. “What do we do?”

Mark stared at the communicator, his mind racing. “We figure out where this is coming from. And then… we decide.”

Neon frowned. “Decide what?”

“What kind of people we want to be,” Mark said simply. “Freedom means making choices. This might be one of the biggest ones we’ll ever make.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Neon nodded, her expression resolute. “Alright. Let’s do it. Together.”

Mark smiled, the kind of smile that came from deep within. “Together.”

But as they turned back to the communicator, the reality began to dawn on them. The message wasn’t a live transmission. It was a recording, a fragment saved on the device from a time long past. Neon frowned, her fingers hovering over the buttons. “It’s not current… but it’s still a cry for help. Do you think it’s something we can still act on? Or… is it beyond us now?”

Mark stared at the flickering screen, his thoughts racing. “Even if it’s just a message from the past, it’s a reminder. A reminder of what people once faced, what they fought for. Maybe we can’t help in the way they needed, but we can still choose to act choose to carry forward what this represents.”