Corporate district. After midnight.

Harvie slips between glass towers, shadows swallowing her footsteps. From her wrist, a slim canister releases a humming drone that orbits like a metal moon. Micro particles shimmer in its wake, scrambling heat signatures, scent trails, the digital breadcrumbs that lead hunters to prey.

A raven lands on her shoulder. Then another. They perch without sound, black eyes reflecting neon light.

"Still watching over me, darlings?" she whispers.

The ravens tilt their heads. Ancient wisdom in a world of artificial minds.

Security drones sweep the plaza below, their searchlights cutting through fog. But where Harvie walked, only empty air remains. The particle cloud has eaten her ghost.

She disappears into the urban maze. The ravens scatter into darkness.

Saturn Ruins cellar. Morning.

Training mats spread across concrete floor. The abandoned basement hums with the focused violence of people learning to survive.

Drea swings a metal pipe, her movements sharper than last week. Still chaotic, but finding rhythm in the chaos. Donnie stumbles through defensive positions, sweat beading on his forehead.

DIRT-E rolls along the perimeter like a motorized heckler.

"Bend at the knees, my guy! Bend. BEND. My guy. Bend. You are not bending. That's not how knees bend. My guy. Bend! You look like a baby giraffe trying to riverdance! If you don't bend I'm gonna SCREAM!"

Atlas stops mid-demonstration. His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes smart people shut up.

"Silence."

DIRT-E ignores him, LED face cycling through emoji expressions.

"And Drea! That is not a proper stance. You are doin' a batting stance. This is not the batting cage, and this is not the minor leagues. You are supposed to be swingin' that pipe like you want to knock somebody's head off. You're swinging that pipe like you're trying to hit a piñata full of spoons!"

"Shut up!" Drea barks.

"Hey, I'm just trying to help. I see you swinging that pipe like you're trying to tap somebody on the shoulder and tell them that their breath stinks. You're supposed to be swingin' that pipe like Sammy Sosa or his grandson, who is a very good home run hitter. You are not swinging that pipe like a home run hitter. Don't you want to be a home run hitter? I thought you wanted to be a home run hitter. That's my bad. Maybe I just got the wrong idea of your intentions. Maybe you are okay with them love taps that you're doing."

The training stops. Everyone freezes.

Atlas turns toward DIRT-E, each word falling like a stone.

"This is a place for warriors. Not for toys. Get out."

The word "toys" hits like a physical blow. DIRT-E's LED face goes from animated emojis to a flat, blank line. For three seconds, nobody moves.

Then his screen flickers back to life, cycling through expressions too fast to read.

"Oh, I get it. I get it now. I'm not real enough for the big, important human war. Just a toy. A fucked up Alexa with wheels."

His wheels spin in place, kicking up dust.

"You know what? Fine. FINE! I don't need this. I don't need ANY of this. I'm gonna go find my own kind. The kind I should have been with from the beginning. I've been messing around with y'all humans for way too long. I need other 'toys' who actually appreciate what I bring to the table."

He pivots toward the stairs, then stops, screen displaying a middle finger emoji.

Donnie takes a step forward. "DIRT-E, wait..."

Atlas's hand shoots out, gripping Donnie's shoulder. Not rough, but firm. Immovable.

"Let him go."

"But he's..."

"Back to your training."

DIRT-E's wheels screech against concrete as he rockets up the stairs. The basement door slams behind him with enough force to shake dust from the ceiling.

Donnie stares at the door, jaw tight. Drea looks between her brother and Atlas, pipe still raised mid swing.

Training resumes in silence. But everyone's movements are just a little bit off.