The System Mecha is so unscientific

The scent of ozone still clung to Da's clothes as he surveyed the remaining wreckage of the junkyard. He moved methodically through the twisted metal and shattered glass, driven by the memory of the map he'd glimpsed, the whispers of blueprints that had sparked a fire in his mind. The generator might have drawn unwanted attention, but it had also provided the initial spark for something bigger: Fireboy.

He knew exactly what he needed now, or at least, most of it. He had a vision of his own personal mech. Something tough, resilient, and powerful. The energy pistol was a good start, a deadly sidearm, but he needed a force multiplier. He needed Fireboy.@@novelbin@@

Now, rummaging through the rubble of the now-dormant generator, he found what he needed. Partially melted but still intact, he salvaged the advanced cooling system from the generator's core. Another find was the massive, reinforced alloy plates ripped from a crashed transport freighter. They were marked with scorch marks, a testament to the battles that had raged here, but they were perfect for the chassis. He also secured a cache of high-capacity energy cells, salvaged from the wreckage.

He'd scavenged the perfect materials for the core of Fireboy. Now he only needed a workshop and time.

With the loot stowed, he took one final look at the junkyard. It had given him refuge, and resources. It had almost claimed his life. It was time to leave.

He slung his rucksack over his shoulder, heavier now with his new acquisitions. He passed the rusted perimeter fence, the broken opening already starting to warp and rust in the breeze. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The junkyard was in his past.

He traveled for several days, using back roads and forgotten pathways, always wary of the dangers of the wasteland. Finally, he reached the sprawling metropolis known as Veridia. It was a city built on the bones of the old world, a hub of trade, black market dealings, and simmering tensions.

He needed to sell the non-essential salvage he'd gathered. More importantly, he needed resources, and the kind of workshop that could bring Fireboy to life. He'd heard whispers of a back alley market, a place where anything could be bought or sold, no questions asked.

He navigated the crowded, chaotic streets, the neon signs and flickering holo-ads vying for attention. He followed the system's map, which had managed to navigate the city's underground network. The stench of burning oil and cheap food mingled with the metallic tang of the city's air.

The alley black market was a warren of makeshift stalls and shadowy corners. Vendors hawked everything from pre-war artifacts to modified weaponry. The atmosphere was thick with suspicion and the promise of illicit transactions.

Da approached a vendor, a grizzled man with a cybernetic eye, and spread out his wares. "Got a working fusion cell, some high-grade alloy, and a few other things that might interest you."

The vendor examined the goods with a practiced eye. "Hmm... Not bad. What are you looking for?"

"Creds. And information. I need a workshop. Somewhere I can work without prying eyes," Da replied.

The vendor stroked his chin, his cybernetic eye whirring. "Workshops aren't cheap, friend. Especially the kind that stays quiet. And your wares... not top tier. But I know someone."

The vendor jerked his head toward a figure leaning against a far wall. He was young, probably not much older than Da, but his posture radiated authority. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his dark hair slicked back. Two contrasting tattoos were etched on his wrists: one, a swirling pattern of shadows; the other, a stylized flame. He was flanked by two hulking bodyguards who exuded an aura of silent menace.

"That's Paul Grimheart. Young Master of the Grimheart family. Word is, they control a good chunk of this city's underworld. He's got resources, connections, and a taste for... unique acquisitions." The vendor lowered his voice. "Be careful. He's not someone you want to cross."

Da, despite the warning, wasn't intimidated. His gut told him this was the right place. He approached Paul Grimheart, his hand instinctively resting on the energy pistol hidden beneath his coat.

"Mr. Grimheart?" Da asked, his voice steady.

Paul Grimheart straightened, his gaze intense, his eyes assessing. "And you are...?"

"Da. I have items to trade, and a proposition." Da gestured to his rucksack. "And the need for a workshop."

Paul Grimheart smirked, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "A workshop? A common desire. Tell me, Da, what makes your proposition worth my time?"

Before Da could answer, one of the bodyguards, a mountain of muscle, stepped forward. "Young Master, are you sure about this? We have more important matters to attend to."

Paul waved him off. "Patience, Kai. Intrigue is always welcome. What do you have to offer, Da?"

Da laid out his vision. He described Fireboy, the mech he was building, the potential it held. He detailed his skills, his resourcefulness, his commitment. He was trading knowledge, and future power, for the now.

Paul listened intently, his expression unreadable. The shadows in his tattoos seemed to deepen with interest. The young master's interest was piqued, he could tell.

"Interesting," Paul said, finally. "A mech. A bold ambition. I am intrigued, Da. What are your terms?"

"Funding, resources, and a secure workshop," Da said, laying out his demands, hoping to appeal to Paul's business sense and lust for control. "In return, you get a percentage of the proceeds from any future sales, or perhaps even the mech itself."

Paul Grimheart considered this, stroking his chin. His shadow tattoo seemed to writhe, as if responding to his thoughts.

"An interesting proposal," Paul repeated. "You may have a deal, Da." Paul smirked. "But I will be your partner. And I have conditions."

The meeting of Da and Paul, and their exchange of offers and counteroffers, was a dance of power and opportunity. But neither knew that this meeting was only the beginning. The beginning of the path towards a shared ambition.