We rode into it blindly. The headlights of the Interceptor and the Sovereign cut through the smog like dull knives. My Geiger counter was clicking frantically, a rhythmic staccato that synced with the headache pounding behind my eyes. But it wasn't just radiation poisoning; it was data-sickness. The fog was full of "Ghost-Packets" fragmented whispers of deleted emails, corrupted voicemails, and static from dead channels, all forcing their way into our skulls.
"Dax," I choked out over the short-range comms, the signal full of hiss. "The bikes are overheating. The air intake is clogging with static."
"Keep moving, Mia," Dax’s voice came back, sounding ragged. "If we stop, the tires melt. We ride until we hit clear air or we hit the Citadel."
He was riding aggressively, leaning the heavy I
