The air in the Rust Belt doesn't just taste like iron; it tastes like old blood and ozone. Spike was laughing—one of those real laughs, the kind you only hear when someone's accepted they're already dead and decided to make the most of it anyway.

We'd been running scrap for three hours. The Trawler had cleared out most of Sector 7, but there were still pockets of resistance. Good loot, if you were fast. Spike was always fast.

"Mojo, you getting this?" he'd asked, holding up a medical crate. The camera light reflected in his visor. "This is going to save lives. Real lives. Not just numbers on a screen."

That's when the Leaper appeared.

One moment, the horizon was clear. The next, something that shouldn't exist was tearing through the sky. It moved like liquid death—all angles and impossible physics. The ARC had warned us about these things, but warnings don't prepare you for the reality.

Spike didn't hesitate. He threw the medical crate to me—"Get it to the extract, Mojo!"—and turned to face the thing. His weapon was already up. He was already firing.

The Leaper didn't care. It moved through the bullets like they were suggestions. But Spike... Spike held the line. He gave me time. He gave the medical supplies time. He gave three Raiders in the clinic time to keep breathing.

The last thing I saw through the lens was Spike's silhouette against the orange sky, weapon raised, still firing as the Leaper closed the distance. The last thing I heard was his laugh—that same laugh, right until the end.

The extract point was clear. I made it. The medical supplies made it. Spike didn't.

This is why I keep recording. This is why the Sentinel exists. Too many stories get lost in the static. Too many names become just numbers. Spike was a person. He made a choice. He saved lives.

That's worth remembering. That's worth documenting.

That's why we keep fighting.

— NoMojo, Field Correspondent
The Speranza Sentinel