The linkup enhanced speed, strength, and reflexes. What it didn’t enhance was longevity. Crew shooters burned bright and burned out — nervous systems fried, bodies worn down by years of artificial stimulation. The system produced legends. It rarely produced survivors.

Benson thought the knife made him important. The Judge’s emblem gleamed on the crosspiece, demanding reverence. Atriya had seen real plasma blades before — weapons built for war, not theater. This one was just a symbol. So Atriya kicked it into the gutter and watched the emblem disappear into the dark.

Every other shooter kept their linkup active. Atriya kept his locked in a cabinet. Sometimes he would open the door and stare at it — the promise of easier strength waiting inside. All he had to do was put it on. But something inside him refused.

Verus tried to teach Atriya patience. Rhythm. Timing. Control. Fighting without rage. Atriya understood the lessons. He even respected them. But when violence arrived, something older woke up inside him — a storm of strikes waiting for someone foolish enough to light the fuse.

Every Crew shooter knew the command. Boost me. The linkup flooded the body with adrenaline and chemical triggers, sharpening reaction speed beyond human limits. For a few moments, a Crusader became something engineered. Most operators loved the feeling. Atriya feared it.