The air was thick, vaporised oil clinging to lower altitudes like smoke from a dying star. A thousand hover-cars jostled in the congestion of daily traffic, not so neon underlights painting the edges of buildings in restless flickers. The city groaned above and below, stacked in impossible layers - areal lanes slashing between towers, digital billboards screaming silent ads in fifty languages.

Jason didn't flinch. He guided his beat up hover-cab with the precision of muscle memory, weaving through the tight corridors in the air, as though born between high-rises. Training reflexes never dulled - only repurposed. His jaw set, eyes scanning through a cracked HUD. The cab bucked with the current, engine growling through a low-oxygen patch. The ex-soldier had one hand on the wheel, the other tapping through a half-fried interface.

His dashboard glitched every third blink, reminding him he had five credits left; it reminded him every time he got into the flying piece of shit. The dash flashed in protest, though the cab's autopilot had long since been overridden, replaced by something far more reliable: him.

That was, until the sky was ripped open.

The roof gave out with a sound of violence. One instant, he was part of the drone tide. The next - shards of synthglass and twisted metal burst inward like they were chasing gravity. "Shit-!" Jason yanked the car into a hard swerve, skimming inches off another hovercar.

"Outta the way- outta the way!" Horns blared, and a drone clipped his tail fin, sparks showering the musty trail of gas. He cursed, stabilising the thrusters and levelling out beside a building in the first empty space he spotted. He gripped the wheel like it might disappear, knuckles bone-white. He blinked at the dash, sparks crackling, circuitry fried from impact, warnings scrolled in code that he didn't bother deciphering.

He released the wheel slowly, flexing his fingers like he was waking from a nightmare. Every joint hurt, his spine buzzing from the hard cut across traffic. He'd pulled maneuvers like that in warzones, not civilian lanes.

He flicked his eyes toward the rearview, just one quick glance, to be able to see nothing from that angle. He unclipped his harness, the seatbelt hissing back into place, as he then shifted around. "Anyone alive back there?" The words landed like debris out of default reflex. Something to make sense of the madness.

WHACK.

A palm slapped the glass. Five fingers splayed, pressure tight, not pleading, rather asserting. Jason flinched instinctively, hand already halfway to his sidearm, though not out of fear: out of training.

A face powdered in soot popped up not shortly after, an array of heating bands wrapped around portions of their body, rather than usual attire. Jason blinked once, before murmuring,"Uh...hi."