The night hung heavily over Spine, the rain pattering softly against its plates, in a metallic rhythm.

  Karauro rested on a cot in the med-bay, his hands clasped gently between his knees. The only thing that reminded him of the orphanage was a mirror bolted into the wall—slab of scuffed glass, cracked through the middle.

  His reflection broke along the fracture: Tan skin grayed out by grime, uneven black hair from the fall, a fresh cut scabbed across his right eyebrow.

  The boy he remembered from the slum sector’s bathroom mirror— looked younger. Less sanded down…

  Brown eyes restless beneath ashy lashes. The attire he wore seemed hastily pieced together, from what had survived the grinders—a shredded gray hoodie over a tattered shirt, jeans torn at the knees, and boots cracked and oil-stained.

  The kinetic glove on his right hand gleamed faintly under the med-light, dented and mismatched—an accident of survival rather than theft.

  Taron had ordered him to “Go get checked out, before you fall apart on my watch,” so he waited, listening to the quiet hum of vents, and a thump of machinery deep in the Spine.

  Stainless steel tables lined along the walls, each holding glass containers. Some were filled with cloudy solutions with labels. Others weren’t.

  One jar held something like a spine, a segment threaded with curling black tendrils, floating in green liquid. Every few seconds, it twitched against the glass, as if remembering how to move.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not alive, not really.” A woman's voice slid in with the hiss of the opening door, and Karauro flinched.

  She wore a clean white lab coat, marred by stains full of their own histories. Exhaustion shadowed her eyelids, like armor—sharp, steady, too practiced to still believe in chance.

  Her dark hair, streaked with gray, was tied back with a faded red cloth.

  The dull red of her glasses caught the light each time she moved, glinting across the small surgical scar on her cheek.

  “So,” she said, voice roughened by years of smoke and sleepless shifts, "You're the rat Nera dragged in.”

  Karauro winced at the word.

  “Rat.”

  Maybe it was because he wasn't tall, nor did he have a frame that intimidated even the smallest insect. At least that’s how he viewed himself.

  She leaned in, squinting. “You look worse up close. How old are you, rat?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Figures.” She sighed. “Ruins mark even the youngest as targets before they reach adulthood. About a year younger than Nera when she signed her first contract. But not the same breed at all.”

  The scanner blinked yellow. She brushed his hair aside, exposing the thin cut at his scalp—pulsing faintly silver under the light.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  “From the tunnels?”

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Fell through a hole… a Griever… crawled past me, while I was down there.”

  He hesitated. “How’d you know it was from the tunnels?”

  Whrens hands paused mid-scan. “Because that glow only comes from the miasma dust below the lower shafts.”

  She paused, “And because some of us used to live there, until a sector collapsed.”

  He watched her reflection in the monitor glass. “How did you survive?”

  She didn’t look up, “Doesn’t matter now. Whether it was luck or some miracle, we are where we are.”

  She dabbed antiseptic on the wound. It burned like acid.

  “Don’t flinch,” she said. “Pain means you’re still human.”

  Karauro grimaced. “Yeah? You test that theory often?”

  “Every time someone talks back,” she said flatly, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

  The door hissed open.

  Nera Caldwell. Karauro discovered her last name by catching a glimpse of an opened file on Whren's computer monitor.

  She stepped in. Violet hair pulled into a short ponytail, still damp from rain. A fitted muddy green jacket over black field gear; her right arm plated in steel that flexed with a faint servo-whine.

  One eye matched her hair—violet and sharp—while the other, nearly identical, glimmered with a muted circuitry flicker beneath the iris.

  “How’s our stray?” she asked.

  Whren didn’t look up. “Still breathing. That’s progress at least.”

  Karauro straightened automatically. Nera’s gaze pinned him, cold as the air seeping through the vents.

  “You give her trouble?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.”

  “Sixteen,” Whren muttered. “He’s a kid, Nera, not a unit.”

  “Sixteen’s enough to pull a trigger,” Nera said flatly.

  “If he’s alive, he’s useful.”

  Before Whren could reply, the door slid open again.

  a tall man with broad shoulders and arms of brushed steel that hummed with each motion. His skin was dark, his hair buzzed short, and even in the dim med-bay light he wore black-tinted glasses. Twin glows flickered faintly behind the lenses—both eyes cybernetic, tracking the room as if scanning for excuses. He was the driver of the hauler hours ago.

  “Someone call for the miracle worker?” he said, voice smooth and unhurried.

  Whren pointed toward Karauro. “Aaron check his head wound. it's glowing, doesn't seem to be viral.”

  Aaron crouched beside the cot and glanced at the disfigured head in the jar before returning his attention to the boy. He removed a pair of sunglasses that hung loosely over his blue cybernetic eyes. The lenses slid like overlapping blinds, as if scanning the boy’s temple. “Residual miasma charge,” he murmured. “No spread. You’ll live, kid.”

  Karauro muttered, “That seems to surprise everyone.”

  Aaron smiled faintly. “Keeps life interesting.”

  He rose, turning to Nera. “That arm still stuttering?”

  Nera flexed her cybernetic hand once. “Servo lag on rotation. Manageable.”

  “Manageable turns into mangled,” Aaron said, already pulling out a small multitool. “Hold still.”

  She gave him the arm without complaint. He worked quick and quiet; sparks flickered once, the hum shifting to a steadier tone.

  “Better,” he said, stepping back. “Try not to break it before next week. I’m running out of screws that match your temperament.”

  Nera rotated the wrist, the faintest ghost of a smile breaking the steel in her voice. “Appreciate your optimism.”

  “Wasn’t optimism,” Aaron said. “That was sarcasm with better posture.”

  Whren snorted, turning to Karauro. “See? Even the cyber-doctor’s funnier than you.”

  “Hey,” Karauro said, “I’m new at not dying. Humor isn't my strong suit.”

  Aaron chuckled. “That’s fair. Around here, second place is still breathing.”

  Nera holstered her tone back to command. “We'll find out what Argos has in mind for him at dawn, make sure he's functional.”

  “Always the gentle one,” Whren muttered, half-smiling.

  Nera left without answering.

  Aaron exhaled. “Still cold as vacuum, that one.”

  “Colder the longer she lives,” Wren said, adjusting her glasses. “Keeps the circuits from frying.”

  Karauro looked between them. “You two always this cheerful?”

  “Only after midnight,” Aaron said. “We’re like ghosts—funnier when no one’s watching.”

  Wren pointed to the door. “Go find a bunk, rat. Sleep while the world still lets you.”

  Karauro stood, rubbing the back of his neck.

  She added, quieter, “If that wound starts humming again, come back before it sings.”

  He nodded. “Got it.”

  Aaron tipped his head. “Don’t wander too far, kid. The Spine’s got corners even I don’t trust.”

  Karauro left, the rain whispering above, the low hum of the Spine thrumming underfoot—half machine, half heartbeat.

  I guess I'm lucky enough to never become one of those Grievers," he muttered, his eyes momentarily dimmed, then turned back toward his dog pen.

  Thanks for reading! Are you a fan of GrimBorne? Hit follow and send a virtual high-five! It boosts my creativity!

  Theme: Survival vs. humanity—the Spine keeps score.

  Next: Will they think he's worthy to keep around?