A teal HUD grazed the overwrought greenery of Los Angeles—at least, the West half. Orbital Bombardment had divided the city into two sectors. East half dwarfed the West—evident to the naked eye—like staring up to Olympus. East was still naturally landlocked, while West was doomed to sink into the ocean someday. Surely, lions were hiding in a place like this somewhere; with all this rain and mist, that was more a question of when they would emerge from the many subterraneous asphalt caves. The pod hound scanned the area, jutting a gridline mockup in their dossier. The pod concluded this was, indeed Paradiso de la Guerilla.

This pod hound huffed, trekked their mechanical legs to a prowl ahead of their master when it found a suitable match within data files: a dive bar spared the worst damage and cursed with little to no competition.

Their HUD read simply, POTENTIAL CHAMPIONS.

The pod hound sat at Illian’s command. Curious, he surveyed from this mulched ridgeline while the pod swiveled its turret head to secure a perimeter. Judging by its own understanding, this place was brimming with Champion candidates: not too sour an arrest record, applicable strength and must also be sanctionable by the now five council seats of the Rayvine. Three just wasn’t proving efficient, so it was brought up for vote last cycle to fold two more delegates into their system. Illian would joke that: “Somebody’s bound to say ‘no’ to Madame Quella, eventually.”

Illian appeared close in frame, from the left in a shawl draped over his Messenger coat. The pod could tell Illian still required assistance to grasp its Kale interface. So, it obliged, self-actuating his recording function.

“December 5th, 3185,” confirmed Illian. “Today marks casting call for a suitable Champion candidate. This person is said to hold unfathomable potential. They also have a direct line to Gaia’s pool of power and—hey,” diluting his protocol, causing the hound to run diagnostics—questioning beeps. “I mean, how many people are flinging vines around, really?” Illian smiled. “With luck, this will be my one and only investigation log. Earth’s counting on us.”

Illian entered the nameless bar first, the pod tailing him for the best framing to scan patrons, dismounting his guns to cull into their digital holsters. The crowd was swarming the counter front which tapered to either side in a half bowl, so Illian curved near the restrooms until he found an opening. His pod garnered the eye of the owner immediately. Though it recognized the match, this homo sapien appeared scrubbed clean from their background check. As far as the pod was aware, it were looking at a ghost. The man now went to meet Illian halfway. “Is that thing armed?” the man asked, pointing at the pod.

Illian perked, dotted the age lines on the owners face, to the lip. It was hard to catch his pigment in the bar’s gloomy glow, but he was definitely human. Yet, something gleamed from his left eye, something definitely inhuman. The man continued, “Seen those in action before. That’s Kale tech.” Their age lines derailed, mushed unnaturally as though he were wearing a prosthetic eye. It appeared as though something had seared his face with plasma rounds-

The pod concluded, just as Illian did. The boy’s face yelled, Crap, he’s a veteran. Of what conflict or army, none of which were certain.

“A soldier, huh.” Illian extended his hand, “It’s a pleasure.” It most certainly was for one of them. The pod hound self-aligned its algorithm to run quad-turret contingent.

When the man reached to shake, he was sure to flash the pod his no-frills bowie knife underneath his black apron. He tickled his full moustache. “Titan. And you are?”

“Illian Jones.”

“I don’t remember hirin’ a detective,” his prosthetic eye now alit with a neon orange. The pod was sure to run a silent scan, only to notice his systems were being watched as well. That sort of handshake with the reaper mutual systems partake in when running countermeasures on one another. But, Titan was no cyborg. He faced back to Illian.

“Didn’t have to.” Illian turned to his pod and nodded. Slowly, it disengaged walker mode and reverted back to hovering. “We’re looking for somebody.”

“Bounty hunters?”

Illian observed the man’s gaze fall to his collar commendations: thin, shimmering blue and green laces. Titan smirked. “Not exactly,” said Illian.

The owner shrugged. “Whatever’s got you sniffin’ around here, I only hope they remember why.” He stepped away and muttered “Praise Gaia” like checking off a box.

The boy couldn’t help but puff his chest; he parted his scraggily mop of hair and turned to poach the crowd. Of course, he didn’t wave around his golden credential magically to part through to the counter. Flaunting status meant bruises out here. Illian’s hunt for the Champion had begun.