Raven sat at a counter in some nameless bar, a shot glass in hand. The noise of the bar was on the edge of overstimulating him, and it was essentially agony, but he didn't care much. The most recent mission he'd gone on had brought up old demons.

The augmentation surgery was still being practiced. All five Cores he'd encountered were piloted by people like him. Well, not anymore, anyway.

Now, nobody was like him. Absolutely nobody.

Shrieker had been almost totaled. Walter had given him an earful when he got back to base.

'I could kill him.'

It's a distant thought, abstract and dispassionate. 'One step in my Core, and I could squash Walter like a bug.'

But what would be the point? Why waste even a thought on something so inconsequential when there’s a whole world out there waiting to be fought?

Raven scowled, glaring down at his shot glass.