Chapter 2: Blueprint of the Arbiter Part 1

 ˚⊱✿—✦✦✦—✿⊰˚

"I ascend and descend in the vastness, my spirit wandering where no path remains."

For seven days after the Ground Zero disaster, Kyle basically became a ghost. A highly caffeinated, deeply anxious ghost.

The loud, attention-seeking guy who used to spend lunch breaks annoying his classmates with unfiltered confidence was gone. In his place was a hermit.

Sitting in the back row at St. Jude's, he kept his eyes locked on his tablet. His fingers flew across code repositories while he muttered to himself in a rapid undertone.

“If the kinetic coefficient doesn't match the micro-suction array...”

His teachers collectively decided to interpret this as sudden academic focus rather than incipient madness. 

The truth? His brain was simply running at full capacity on other things. The wealthy kids around him didn't even exist anymore.

His body was changing, too.

Thanks to the Co-Bios integration, his muscles were denser. His reflexes were razor-sharp. His senses were dialed to an unnatural frequency. He was already stronger than any human athlete.

But raw power without control? That was just an open invitation to get launched into another recycling bin. He was far too proud to look like an amateur twice.

He needed gear. He needed an edge.

Cue the grueling physical conditioning in his cramped bedroom. Two-finger handstand push-ups against the wall. Stopwatch reflex drills. Calibration tests that left scorch marks on the plaster—which he quickly repainted before Aunt Maria noticed.

Soon, his desk looked like an engineer's graveyard.

Frustrated by the technical chaos in front of him, he pulled out his device. His thumb hovered over the cracked screen before he pressed the contact labeled "Monster."

It barely even finished the first ring before the line picked up. A familiar, raspy voice exploded from the speaker, accompanied by the loud, obnoxious pop of a bubble gum bubble.

"Yo, Kylie! Don't tell me you missed my beautiful face already? We literally just parted ways an hour ago!"

"The tip's still open, right? Need some parts."

"Duh. I live here, remember?" Her scoff was followed by the loud clatter of dropped wrenches. "Anyway, your voice sounds like absolute garbage, mate."

"Thanks."

"Not a compliment. What’s wrong with you?"

"Shut up. I'm fine."

"Uh-huh. Sure you are, snowflake. Anyway, stop wasting my credit and drag your sorry arse down here. I’m in the middle of modifying a new toy."

He hung up before Aivel could dig any deeper.

 ˚⊱✿—✦✦✦—✿⊰˚

Iron groaned as Kyle pushed the door open, stepping straight into a familiar stench of cold rust and machine oil.

Silence filled the narrow container.

"Took you long enough," a sleepy voice drawled.

Aivel sat completely melted into a stack of old tires. Her head rested back, blue eyes staring blankly at the ceiling through a pale fringe. A wrench dangled loosely from her fingertips, hovering inches above the gravel.

Kyle's boots halted.

Beside a fuel jerrycan, a dark cloak caught his eye. Heavy fabric like that looked expensive—wildly out of place in a scrap yard. Right on the center, a crisp white insignia gleamed under the dim bulb.

His gaze lingered on the symbol for two seconds.

He stepped right over it. Not his business.

"Got held up," he said, walking toward the workbench.

Aivel didn’t even blink. A pink bubble expanded from her mouth, popping with a lazy clack.

"Uh-huh..." Her words dragged out with pure indifference. "You sound wrecked, by the way. Someone ruin your mood, or is that just your default face?"

"I'm fine."

"Sure. Whatever."

Metal clattered onto the floor as she gave up on holding the wrench. She didn't even bother to pick it up.

"Grab the screwdriver on the shelf. Moving right now feels like a massive chore."

Kyle reached for the rack, but his hand froze.

Right next to the tool sat a small, heavy mechanical component wrapped in a clean rag—the exact piece he'd been hunting for days. She'd left it right where he'd find it.

From his pocket came a fresh pack of bubble gum—the same brand she always chewed. He set it on the shelf beside the empty space where the component had been, then grabbed the screwdriver and tossed it onto her lap. The hidden gift slid into his hoodie pocket without a word.

Aivel offered no thanks. A weak grunt escaped her lips as her eyes closed, drifting straight back into her lazy comfort zone.

She already knew.

Footsteps echoed into the quiet night as he finally walked out of her yard, his prize secured.

Sleepless nights quickly blurred together in his garage through a haze of flying sparks, engine grease, and tea. 

Midnight on the fourth day finally brought the breakthrough: a prototype arm-mounted grapple system. 

The low-profile bracer strapped beneath his sleeve, built from a scrap heatsink and wired with salvaged CPU copper coils. He designed it to flash-freeze atmospheric nitrogen into an ultra-compact valve, providing enough pneumatic recoil to launch a micro-cable unraveled from a shredded Kevlar vest. 

"Just use a thin, short thread, Kyle," Viper’s voice hissed directly inside his brain. "It will fit inside your little toy. My resonance will handle the rest."

Once the words registered in his mind, Kyle let out a mocking laugh, then wiped grease off his forehead.

"A thin, short thread to swing down Deansgate? Are you an idiot, Viper? The kinetic jerk alone would snap it into confetti. That completely breaks the laws of physics, even a baby knows that!" 

Yet, as a lover of fringe science, a twisted curiosity sparked in his mind. He didn't know how, but he suspected his strange new 'condition' would somehow bridge the gap. 

"Fine," he smirked, threading the fragile micro-cable into the launcher anyway. "Let's see if this madness actually works."

Next came the footwear. He gutted an old pair of canvas high-tops, replacing the soles with a customized micro-textured rubber composite. No more desperate scrambling. Just pure instinct.

Before heading out, he dialed Aivel again. This time, the call picked up on the first ring.

"Back already? Told you, it's open—"

"Change of plan. Need you to watch something."

A pause. Then a teasing grin bled through the speaker. "Oh? You finally gonna show me your secret project? Took you long enough, Kylie."

"Just... stay on the ground and watch. Don't ask too many questions."

"Mysterious. I like it. Alright, I'm in. Better be good, though."

Aivel's voice carried a low chuckle as Kyle ended the call.

From the rooftop above, Viper's voice slid into his mind like smoke.

"Your friend is a liability. You trust her too much."

Kyle answered without moving his lips. "She's not a liability. She just talks a lot."

"And if she sees something she shouldn't?"

"She won't. She never does."

˚⊱✿—✦✦✦—✿⊰˚

Finally, it was time for field testing on the rooftops of Heaton Mersey.

It was a complete, unadulterated disaster.

"Alright, Viper. Test run number one. Let's look majestic."

Confident and ready, Kyle smirked from his perch on a quiet rooftop just two streets away from Didsbury Road.

He aimed at a brick chimney across the alley and pulled the trigger. 

The grapple shot out beautifully, latched on, and immediately yanked him forward like a jet engine.

Pure, blinding velocity was a variable he completely failed to factor into the equation.

CRACK.

He smashed face-first into the brickwork and slid down the wall like a cartoon character.

"Okay... Tension settings are a bit aggressive," he groaned, rubbing his nose. 

"You look miserable, Little Prince—"

"Just shut your mouth, old hag! You do nothing!"

"T-This mortal—!"

After a brief timeout to fix the broken gears, they immediately moved to the next attempt.

Test Two ended with the cable snapping mid-swing. Destination: an industrial recycling bin full of cardboard.

"I told you, the cable was—"

"Stop excusing and let's go for test three."

And how did Test Three go? Well, the hook missed entirely, looped back, and tied his own ankles together before he could even blink.

Face-plant. 

Concrete. A new personal record of stupidity. 

"One more time..."

By Test Four, he actually managed to complete a swing. Unfortunately, he misjudged the arc and introduced his face to a fire escape railing at high velocity.

CLANG!

"Your structural durability is a marvel," Viper sighed inside his skull. "But your spatial awareness is genuinely offensive."

"I'm adjusting the calculus on the fly, give me a break!"

With a pathetic wheeze, Kyle finally managed to untangle from the metal bars with a frustrated pout.

He hated looking incompetent. Even in front of an alien entity with no social media presence.

So, he launched into Test Five.

He flying clean over the target rooftop, completely overshooting his mark. Gravity took over, pulling him down toward the dark alley below.

SPLAT!

Right on top of a very unfortunate stray cat.

MREEEEEE-YOWWFFF?!

The poor creature let out an explosive, suffocated screech before violently bursting into a flurry of angry hisses. 

Wait, why is it looking at me like that?! It's this cat's fault!

"Get off, cat!" Kyle yelled. 

With a red face and frantic movements, he struggled desperately against a relentless whirlwind of claws and fur.

Then came Test Six.

This time, he actually did it. A perfect, clean swing.

Flying mid-air, Kyle let out a triumphant shout—completely caught up in the glorious moment.

And immediately forgot to release the trigger. 

BAM! 

Just like that, he became a human wrecking ball. The horizontal body-slam into a laundry detergent billboard was, in Viper's estimation, "poetically appropriate."

Six tries. Six total humiliations against inanimate objects—and one traumatized cat.

But Kyle’s stubborn brain refused to quit.Attempt number seven.

Whoosh. 

He cleared the gap cleanly. 

Dropping like a badass, he slammed his fist down, sticking a perfect, three-point landing.

Breath caught instantly in his throat.

"Heh. Nailed it—"

CRACK.

The ancient, rotted wood gave out instantly. 

THUD! 

Kyle swallowed a cloud of dust, flat on his back. Again.

"Magnificent," Viper's voice dripping with sarcasm inside his head. "A textbook landing, followed by a textbook structural collapse. Should I look for a smarter, little prince?"

He just lay there, staring at the broken ceiling, too tired to even argue.

A shadow fell across his face.

Above the splintered wood of the collapsed ceiling, a sharp chin and a crooked grin came into view. It was the exact same expression she’d been wearing since they were eight.

"Well, well. Look who decided to redecorate the ceiling with his face."

From the edge of the roof, a grimy, oil-stained hand reached down.

Up on her forehead, the custom visor caught the dim light, keeping the pale fringes clear of her blue eye.

Hauling himself up with her help, a heavy groan escaped his lips as he brushed the plaster dust off his hoodie.

"I'm still calibrating."

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, bruv. You look like you need food more than another broken piece of gear."

An arm unbothered by the dust slung around his shoulder, steering him away from the wreckage.

They left the quiet residential alleys behind, their boots crunching against the wet pavement as they headed toward the historic Market Place. 

Overhead, the dull glare of neon signs melted into the thick Manchester drizzle.

The heavy glass doors of The Produce Hall swung open, instantly wrapping them in warm, buzzing chaos. Loud chatter clashed over communal tables, the air thick with the rich scent of wood-fired smoke and sizzling grease.

Aivel ducked into the crowd with practiced ease, returning a moment later with two cardboard trays of steaming, gravy-soaked chips.

One was shoved hard against his chest before he could even blink.

"Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over."

He took a bite. Greasy, salty, perfect. "You didn't have to do this."

"You didn't have to do this."

"I know. But you'd just go home and stare at your ceiling again, wouldn't you?"

The crooked grin returned. A pink bubble expanded from her mouth, held for a beat, and then snapped with a loud clack. She flicked the residue away, her grease-stained fingers suddenly darting forward to pinch his cheek.

"Ow—! What the hell?!"

"Just checking if you're still alive in there. You've been weird all week."

Kyle swatted her hand away and rubbed his smarting face. 

"I'm fine."

"Uh-huh. 'Fine.' You flew through the air like a madman, bruv. That's not fine. That's—" She paused and tilted her head to chew. "—actually, that's pretty cool. But still. What's the endgame?"

His eyes dropped back to the remaining food. "I just... needed to see if I could."

Silence stretched between them. Her sharp blue eyes locked onto him, drilling right through his defenses before she finally let out a soft sigh and shrugged.

"Fair enough. But next time, call me before you break yourself. I'm cheaper than an ambulance."

A laugh almost escaped his lips, but it died the exact moment her face went serious.

"...Hey," she muttered, pointing a gravy-covered chip at him as her lazy tone turned dead serious. "Whatever you're doing... just don't get yourself killed, alright? I can't fix that."

Kyle looked at her. The heavy anxiety in his chest eased. It was the same girl, the same stupid grin, and the same annoying habit of always being right.

He crossed his arms, letting out a low, theatrical laugh. 

"Fufufu... You think a mere mortal warning can bind a sovereign like me?"

Aivel didn't even blink. She just shoved a piece of potato into his mouth. 

"I'm not joking, sod. Eat."

"H-Holy Alkaid—"

He chewed quickly, his dramatic aura completely shattered as he swallowed the hot food.

Once they finished, they crumpled the empty wrappers and tossed them into a bin before they stepped back out into the cold drizzle.

"Come on. We're heading back to the container... I'm walking you back, so hurry up and come along."

Utterly betrayed by his own sudden blush, Kyle fiercely adjusted his hood until the fabric completely swallowed his face.

A soft snort cut through the rain. "Look at you, turning into a proper gentleman all of a sudden, rake. But hey, I dig it."

The heat rushed to his face so fast it felt like a physical slap. He whipped his head around, his eyes wide and panicked, barking at the top of his lungs to drown out his racing heart.

"SHUT UP! Just—shut up and walk, alright?! Who's a gentleman?! I mean, I just don't want your slow ass dragging me down in the rain!"

Aivel didn't back down.

Instead, a delighted, musical laugh burst from her lips. She was practically vibrating with joy, utterly captivated by how easily his "cool guy" armor cracked.

"Hmm... okay, okay. Lead the way, Mr. Knight."

"Tsk..."

Desperate to escape her amused gaze, Kyle marched blindly into the puddles, throwing silent curses at the rain, the container, and especially the girl grinning right behind him.

Their boots matched a steady rhythm against the wet asphalt. Kyle naturally shifted toward the curbside, blocking the occasional splash of passing cars as the rusted gates of the scrap yard loomed out of the dark.

They came to a halt under the dripping metal archway.

"Listen, bruv," she started. Her voice dropped lower to match the steady patter of the rain. "I'm going to be buried in work for the next few months. Scrap metal, heavy tuning—boring stuff. So, don't come here for a while, okay?"

He stared in disbelief, completely caught off guard by the sudden restriction.

"F-For a few months?"

"Yeah. Besides, you've got that elite scholarship starting up, haven't you?" 

Her gaze drifted toward the dark yard, and a careless shrug hid her expression.

 "...Wasting your hours diggin' through garbage with me is a bloody waste of time now. Focus on your fancy school. Don't ruin your shot."

"But—"

"I mean it." 

She spun around and forced her usual confident smirk. A two-fingered salute tapped against her forehead. 

"Don't stay up all night, lover boy. Bye!"

Boots clicked against the gravel as she walked away. Her silhouette faded fast into the deep shadows of the workshop.

Kyle stood frozen. The damp air suddenly felt much heavier.

Just outside her container door, her footsteps abruptly stopped.

A long, tense second passed in total silence.

Then, she spun on her heel and marched straight back. Before he could voice his confusion, her arms crashed around his neck, dragging him into a fierce, breathless hug.

The smell of rain, grease, and sweet bubblegum flooded his senses all at once.

"Just... stay alive, alright?" she whispered against his shoulder. Her fingers gripped his jacket tightly for a split second.

Before his hands could even rise to return the embrace, she let go.

She avoided his eyes and sprinted across the yard. The heavy iron door of her container slammed shut behind her, and the metallic click echoed like a definitive gunshot in the quiet night.

Fading sound gave way to an absolute, unmoving stillness.

It was a slow, breathless sigh that finally escaped Kyle as he stared into the empty space.

"I... you..."

A sudden, fierce warmth bloomed deep in his chest, burning away the lingering chill of the Manchester rain.

He yanked his hoodie down tighter, turned back toward the terraced houses, and walked into the dark with a completely shattered calm—and a terrifyingly sharp focus.

Hours passed.

Back in his room, he sat on his bed, staring at the sketches scattered across his desk. The grapple blueprint. The modified boots. His notebook still open to the page of calculations.

Aivel's warning still rang in his ears. 

Don't bother coming down here for a while.

The words felt wrong. Her sudden ban, paired with that fierce, silent hug at the gate, weighed heavily on his mind. She was hiding something.

Kyle reached over and picked up his bass guitar to quiet his racing thoughts.

Whenever the constant face-plants and sensory overloads fried his brain, he needed an anchor. Over the past few weeks, he had developed three specific ways to hit the reset button.

First, the instrument in his hands. He plucked a low note, letting the heavy, rhythmic thrum vibrate through his fingers. The deep hum instantly soothed his over-stimulated alien senses, grounding him in the quiet room.

Second, his vintage telescope by the window. Whenever the walls felt like they were shrinking, he would stare into the bleak Manchester sky. Looking at distant galaxies that did not care about his crappy high school reputation always put things into perspective.

Finally, the local skatepark near Didsbury Road.

Thanks to his altered biology, his kickflips were now impossibly flawless. He would tear up the rails for hours during the blazing afternoons, then collapse onto the sun-warmed ramps to watch the clouds drift toward Cheshire.