Neon Remnant

The underground lab was shaking apart, but he barely noticed anymore. Smoke curled through the cracks in the walls, the flickering emergency lights casting jagged shadows over the wreckage of his life's work. The scent of scorched metal and burning circuitry clung to the air, acrid and suffocating. But he ignored it all. His hands, though aged and calloused, moved with steady precision, lifting Sol's unconscious form onto the operating table.

The underground lab was shaking apart, but he barely noticed anymore. Smoke curled through the cracks in the walls, the flickering emergency lights casting jagged shadows over the wreckage of his life's work. The scent of scorched metal and burning circuitry clung to the air, acrid and suffocating. But he ignored it all. His hands, though aged and calloused, moved with steady precision, lifting Sol's unconscious form onto the operating table.
For a moment, he hesitated. His gaze lingered on the boy's face—no, not a boy anymore. Sol had grown. The sharp angles of his face, the stubborn set of his jaw… He had changed so much over the years. And yet, to him, Sol was still the same reckless, brilliant, infuriatingly stubborn child he had taken under his wing.
His chest tightened as memories surged forth, unbidden.
The first time they met—Sol, barely more than a starving rat with too-bright eyes, watching him dismantle an old cybernetic implant with undisguised fascination. The way he had demanded to know how it worked, his hunger for knowledge eclipsing even his need for food. He had been wary at first, reluctant to get attached, but Sol's persistence had worn him down. What started as reluctant answers turned into lessons, what were once brief encounters turned into late nights spent hunched over schematics, arguing over theoretical blueprints and possible augmentations.
He had never meant to care. But he did. More than he ever admitted. More than he ever dared to.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he worked, fingers moving on muscle memory alone. He injected a stabilizing agent into Sol's bloodstream, ensuring his body wouldn't reject the implant. The ACE System's core chip gleamed under the dim lights, small and unassuming, yet brimming with untapped potential. He had spent his life searching for the missing key—only for Sol to stumble upon it in his reckless way. It was poetic, in a way. It was unfair.
Damn you, kid. You were supposed to have more time."
The lab trembled again. The sound of boots. Getting closer. Too close.
His movements grew faster, more precise. Wires connected. Seals locked into place. The chip slid into the neural interface with a soft, final click.
He exhaled. It was done.
He allowed himself a single moment to rest, brushing damp curls from Sol's forehead, his fingers trembling just slightly.
Then, the moment was gone.
"Unit-3, Unit-5," he called, his voice steady. "Move him."
The AI-driven constructs whirred to life, lifting Sol's unconscious body with mechanical care, carrying him toward the concealed hatch in the floor. It wasn't much—an old bomb bunker, hidden beneath layers of junk and discarded machinery. It wouldn't hold forever, but it would give Sol a chance.
A chance was all he had left to give.
As Sol was lowered into the bunker, he turned to the cluttered shelves, pulling together everything he could. A small, encrypted data drive—filled with technical blueprints, research logs, and survival information. A letter—handwritten, a relic from a time before everything became cold and digital. An introduction to an old acquaintance within the black-market smugglers, someone who might help Sol get off-world. Another letter—this one addressed to an even older ghost from his past, a master from the days when he still had a name that meant something.
And finally, the last piece. A data slate. One that bore the insignia of Sage Academy. His old home. His old failure. He hesitated before placing it inside the bunker beside Sol. Would they take him in? He didn't know. But if there was even a sliver of a chance that Sol could find something beyond this hell, he had to take it.
The explosions were closer now. Voices. Commands shouted through the din.
He closed the hatch. Concealed it beneath rusted metal scraps and half-broken parts. And then, for a moment, he simply stood there.
He looked at Sol—really looked at him—memorizing every detail. The way his face, usually so full of expression, was still and peaceful for once. The rise and fall of his breath. The slight furrow of his brow, as if even unconscious he refused to rest.
A chuckle escaped him, soft, barely audible. Stubborn to the end.
His lips parted, and though the words were quiet, they carried more weight than he could ever say aloud.
"You'll shine even brighter than the stars, son."
He turned, stepping away from the hidden bunker, his heart heavy yet strangely light. As he walked toward the lab's ruined entrance, toward the shadows of those who came to take everything from him, he felt it.
Not fear. Not regret.
Freedom.