“Why are you asking me questions?” Otwin said.

  His voice sounded rough, scraped raw by dirt and pain and disbelief. He did not raise it. He did not need to. The forest was still too quiet for shouting to feel safe.

  A moment passed. Not silence exactly. More like waiting.

  Identification is required for baseline configuration, the presence in his vision replied. Your cooperation is recommended.

  Otwin swallowed. His throat hurt. Everything hurt, but the sharp edge of pain had dulled into something heavier, deeper, like his body had been worked over with clubs instead of knives. He shifted his shoulders against the tree and felt the ache run down his spine, settling there with uncomfortable familiarity.

  “I don’t remember agreeing to anything,” he said.

  Agreement is not required.

  That made his jaw tighten.

  Otwin stared out into the dark between the trees, half expecting movement, half expecting golden armor to step into view. Nothing did. The forest remained empty and indifferent, leaves rustling faintly somewhere above him.

  “Fine,” he said at last. “You want answers. Ask.”

  Full legal designation.

  “Otwin Hagermann.”

  Age.

  “Fifty-six.”

  There was a brief pause, shorter this time.

  Physical parameters required. Height and weight.

  Otwin huffed a quiet laugh. “You serious?”

  Affirmative.

  “Six foot one,” he said. “About two twenty. Depends on the season.”

  Data recorded.

  The words floated in his vision, pale and steady. Otwin rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, then stopped when the overlay did not blur or smear the way it should have. It stayed locked in place, crisp and precise, as if it belonged there.

  Occupation.

  “I salvage,” Otwin said. “Scavenge, if you want the ugly word.”

  Clarify.

  “I pull scrap from wrecks,” he said. “Steam forts. Old machines. Anything people leave behind or don’t live long enough to come back for.”

  A longer pause this time.

  Occupation classified as non-combatant resource acquisition.

  Otwin grimaced. “That’s a fancy way to say I dig through trash and try not to die doing it.”

  Statement acknowledged.

  He breathed out slowly, forcing himself to stay calm. Panicking would not help. He had learned that a long time ago. Panic got you sloppy. Sloppy got you crushed under falling steel or shot by someone who decided you were in the way.

  “I’m not violent,” he added. He was not sure why he felt the need to say it, but once the words were loose, he could not pull them back. “I don’t attack people. I don’t go looking for fights.”

  Acknowledged.

  “No,” Otwin said, more sharply than he intended. “You hear me. I’m not that kind of man. I don’t hurt people.”

  The presence did not respond right away. When it did, the words were unchanged in tone.

  Behavioral profile updated.

  Otwin clenched his fists, then forced them open again. Dirt fell from his palms. His hands were still shaking, though not as badly as before.

  “Now,” he said, “it’s my turn.”

  Proceed.

  “What are you?”

  The answer came without hesitation.

  I am a Diamond+ Armor Power Core.

  Otwin stared at the words.

  “That doesn’t help,” he said.

  Clarification will be provided.

  The text shifted, reorganizing itself smoothly.

  DAC is an abbreviated designation. Diamond Armor Core. The appended identifier P denotes Plus classification. Full designation: DAC-P. The shortened form is provided for human usability.

  Otwin let out a slow breath through his nose. “So you picked your own nickname.”

  Negative. Naming conventions were established prior to your integration.

  That word again.

  “Integration,” Otwin said. “You keep saying that.”

  Affirmative.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “You’re inside me?”

  Incorrect, I am attached to your central nervous system via full spinal tapping.

  His stomach twisted. He pressed a hand against his chest, half expecting to feel something wrong beneath his ribs, something foreign pushing back. There was nothing. Just skin, bone, muscle, the familiar shape of his own body.

  “You didn’t ask,” he said quietly.

  Consent protocols are not applicable at this classification level.

  Otwin laughed, the sound brittle. “Figures.”

  He leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again when the text did not go away. The forest remained unchanged. So did the presence.

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  I allow the operation of Steam Armor Technology Units.

  His eyes snapped open.

  “Steam armor,” he repeated.

  Correct.

  “The Knights,” Otwin said. “The fancy ones.”

  Affirmative.

  His mouth felt dry. He licked his lips and tasted dirt.

  “That’s not possible,” he said. “Those things are steam-powered. Everyone knows that.”

  That is a common misconception.

  Otwin frowned.

  “Then what are they powered by?”

  Power Core Units. Steam provides locomotion for Mobile Fortress Units. Energy generation in Armor is handled by internal cores.

  “That makes no sense,” Otwin said. “Steam forts burn coal. Boilers. Pressure. That’s how it works.”

  Steam forts utilize coal-fired boilers. Steam Knights do not. Their boilers are powered by large Power Core Units. Steam is a delivery system, not the source.

  Otwin stared into the dark, trying to picture it. Smaller. Cleaner. No coal dust. No stokers shoveling fuel until their backs broke.

  “That’s why they don't spew smoke,” he murmured.

  Affirmative. Power Core Units are significantly more efficient than coal-based systems.

  The words settled uncomfortably in his chest.

  “So,” Otwin said slowly, “you’re one of those.”

  Negative. I am not a standard unit.

  He let out a humorless chuckle. “Of course you’re not.”

  Silence stretched between them. The forest creaked softly as branches shifted in the night breeze. Somewhere far off, an insect chirred, unaware that anything in the world had changed.

  Otwin rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the ground.

  “I don’t belong in armor like that,” he said after a moment. “I’m not a Knight. I’m not a soldier. I don’t even carry a proper weapon.”

  Compatibility is not determined by profession.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Clarify.

  Otwin rubbed his face, feeling the grit against his skin.

  “I’m not built for killing,” he said. “Whatever you think I am, you’re wrong.”

  The response came, measured as ever.

  Assessment pending.

  That made his skin crawl more than any threat could have.

  Otwin sat there in the dark, breathing slowly, the weight of the night pressing in around him. Somewhere out there, golden-armored men were probably still standing over the wreck, stripping it clean, unaware that something they had lost was now embedded in the spine of an aging scavenger who wanted nothing to do with them.

  He did not know what that meant yet.

  But he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that nothing about his life was simple anymore.

  ***

  Otwin sat with his back against the tree, breathing through the dull ache that seemed to live in his bones now. The night was still, but it was not peaceful. Every sound felt like a warning. A twig settling somewhere. A distant rustle. The whisper of leaves overhead. His body kept trying to tense, as if it could brace against whatever was coming.

  He stared into the darkness for a long moment, then lowered his gaze to his hands. They were steadier than before, but not steady enough. The memory of the pain was too fresh. The certainty of the presence in his vision was worse.

  He shifted his shoulders, testing the stiffness in his neck. A strange pressure sat at the base of his skull, not exactly pain, more like the lingering awareness of something that did not belong there. He raised a hand and reached behind his neck, fingers feeling along the ridge of bone until they brushed something cold.

  Metal.

  His breath caught. He pressed again, slower this time, making sure he was not imagining it. There was a hard edge tucked beneath skin and hairline, a shape that did not match the natural curve of his body. Otwin swallowed and slid his fingers downward, tracing it.

  The metal continued.

  It ran beneath the skin along the back of his neck, down between his shoulder blades. He reached farther, awkwardly twisting, fingers dragging along his spine as far as they would go. The sensation made his stomach churn. Smooth. Unyielding. Unmistakably real. It did not feel like a wound. It felt installed.

  He let his arm drop and sat there for a moment, staring at nothing.

  “You are completely attached to my spine,” he said.

  Affirmative.

  The word landed with finality. No hesitation. No qualifier.

  Otwin closed his eyes and rubbed his face with both hands. His palms came away damp with sweat and dirt. “Can you be removed?”

  Removal will result in total loss of nervous system functionality.

  He opened his eyes slowly, staring at the forest floor. “So I’d be paralyzed.”

  Briefly.

  Otwin frowned. He turned that over in his head, the way a man turns over a piece of scrap, checking angles and stress points. Briefly mattered. Briefly meant survivable.

  “Oh,” he said. “So it’s temporary.”

  Removal will result in loss of nervous system functionality, which will lead to cessation of biological functions.

  The words hovered there, precise and merciless.

  “Cessation,” Otwin said quietly. “You mean death.”

  Affirmative.

  He leaned his head back against the tree, bark pressing into his skull. The night felt suddenly colder. He laughed once under his breath, the sound thin and humorless.

  “So I’m stuck with you.”

  Affirmative. Though it would be more accurate to say I am stuck on you.

  The laugh that tore out of him this time was harsher. Darker. “Was that a joke?”

  Humor is a learned behavior I do not possess proficiency in.

  Otwin shook his head slowly. “So you can learn.”

  Affirmative. I am a sapient magical construct. I possess the capacity to learn, adapt, reason, and apply logic.

  That gave him pause. Sapient. Magical. Construct. None of those words belonged anywhere near his life. He was a scavenger. A man who picked through the dead remains of machines and hoped he went home breathing.

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair and exhaled.

  “So what were you doing on that Steam Fort?” he asked.

  I was stolen.

  Otwin stiffened. The image rose unbidden in his mind. The Peel Tower bearing down on the scrap-built fort. The precision fire. The way the Knights moved with certainty, not desperation.

  “That means the one chasing them,” he said slowly, “was trying to retrieve you. You were stolen from them.”

  Affirmative.

  He let out a long breath and stared at the ground. “Then why didn’t you go back with the Knights?”

  There was a pause. Longer than any before.

  I assessed available hosts.

  Otwin’s jaw tightened. “And you picked me.”

  Affirmative.

  “Why?”

  The words did not come immediately. When they did, they were unchanged in tone, but something about the delay set his nerves on edge.

  I do not want to return.

  Otwin looked up sharply, eyes scanning the dark as if the answer might be written there instead of in his vision.

  “You don’t want to,” he repeated.

  Correct.

  “That implies you can choose.”

  Yes.

  “And you chose me because?”

  Compatibility. Availability. Opportunity.

  That sounded like the truth, stripped bare of comfort. He snorted softly. “Lucky me.”

  The forest creaked around him. Somewhere far off, metal shifted as it cooled, the distant wreck still settling into the earth.

  “If they come looking,” Otwin said, “they’ll kill me.”

  That outcome is probable.

  He swallowed. “You don’t seem bothered by that.”

  My continued function is contingent on your survival.

  “So you care.”

  I calculate. I have not learned emotional processes.

  Otwin closed his eyes again and breathed slowly, counting the rise and fall of his chest until the pounding in his ears eased.

  “Next time,” he said, opening them, “lead with the important parts.”

  Statement noted.

  He sat there in the dark, an aging scavenger with a stolen core welded to his spine, listening to the forest and trying to understand how a life spent avoiding attention had just become impossible.

  Nothing about this was simple anymore.