No Class Found

Doc settled into a chair at the corner table in the inn.

Elara emerged from the kitchen carrying a wooden board laden with fresh bread, butter, and dried meat. The loaf steamed faintly in the cool air, filling the room with warmth.

"Here," she said, setting it before them. "And Bran—thank you for the help this morning. Made things easier."

Bran nodded, his weathered hands already reaching for a slice. "Just keeping the rhythm steady."

Doc took a piece, the bread warm against his fingers.

Mazoga waited until everyone had settled before leaning forward, her amber eyes locking onto Doc's. "We need to talk about the bounty."

Doc paused mid-bite. "Bounty?"

"The one on Rellan Vex," Mazoga said evenly. " Do you remember the bandit leader you killed when you freed us."

Doc set the bread down slowly, his mind turning back to that night eight months ago. The fight replayed in fragments—void energy tearing through his suit, the crushing force slamming him into the wall, his plasma blade skittering out of reach.

He'd been seconds from death.

Then Fish had appeared.

A violet streak phasing into existence beside Rellan, jaws clamping down on his arm, shattering his focus. The void energy dissipating. The opening Doc needed to fire the killing shot.

"Hard to forget," Doc said quietly.

Mazoga nodded. "Rellan Vex was wanted across three continents. A high level Voidcaster. Guild hunters tried for years to bring him down. None were able to." She paused, her gaze steady. "You did."

Doc exhaled slowly. "I got lucky. If Fish hadn't—"

"You survived," Mazoga interrupted. "That's all that matters. And as the one who killed him, the bounty's yours."

Doc blinked. "Mine?"

"Standard protocol," Bran added, breaking off a piece of bread. "Confirmed kills carry rewards. Especially for someone as notorious as Rellan."

Doc leaned back in his chair, processing. "How do they verify it? Someone could just claim the kill."

Mazoga's mouth curved into a faint smile. "Truth Stone."

Doc's brow furrowed. "Truth Stone?"

"Magical artifact," Mazoga explained. "Reads intent. If you lie deliberately, it glows red. If you believe what you're saying, it stays blue." She tapped the table with one thick finger. "Guild uses them for bounty claims, contract disputes, anything where trust matters."

Doc considered that. A lie detector tied directly to the world's metaphysical framework. Just belief versus deception.

"And you used one at the guild?" Doc asked.

Mazoga nodded. "Gar Ironwood—the guild leader—asked me to confirm Rellan's death. I put my hand on the stone, said you killed him, and the stone stayed blue."

Doc felt a subtle unease. If the system could read intent that cleanly, what else could it detect? Could it sense his foreign nature? His lack of integration with the class framework?

"Unknown," Lux replied to his unspoken question. "Insufficient data on Truth Stone operational parameters. Recommend caution if direct exposure becomes necessary."

Rurrak, who'd been quiet until now, leaned forward. "Bounty's worth claiming. Glasshold's Adventurer's Guild handles the payout. Just need your confirmation on the stone."

Doc glanced at Mazoga. "You already confirmed it."

"I confirmed the kill," Mazoga said. "But the bounty goes to the one who struck the final blow. That's you. You'll need to verify your own account."

Doc exhaled slowly. One more exposure point.

But refusing would raise more questions than accepting.

"Alright," Doc said. "How much are we talking?"

Mazoga's smile widened slightly. "Fifty thousand gold marks."

Calen choked on his bread. Bran's hand froze mid-reach.

Doc stared. "Fifty thousand?"

"Rellan was a priority target," Mazoga said. "High-level, dangerous, responsible for multiple deaths. The Empire wanted him gone."

Doc processed the number. He had no baseline for this world's economy, but the reactions around the table told him enough.

That was life-changing money.

"It should go to the settlement," Doc said immediately.

Mazoga shook her head. "It's your kill."

"I don't need that much, and honestly," Doc countered. "None of us would be here without everyone else. The bounty goes to the settlement."

Mazoga studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Your choice."

Bran reached for another slice of bread, his tone thoughtful. "Fifty thousand marks could buy a lot of things."

Mazoga's expression sobered. "Before we go spending fifty thousand gold marks, we need to talk to Edda."

Doc nodded. Made sense. Edda coordinated settlement logistics better than anyone else.

"Once Marron's done with Kess, we schedule a radio meeting. Full council. Edda, Ironha, Carl, Dulric. Everyone who needs to weigh in."

Doc nodded. "I'll set it up when he gets back."

Mazoga leaned back. "The guild leader brought up a good point today. They asked what our settlement's called."

Doc blinked. "We... haven't named it yet."

"No," Mazoga said flatly. "We haven't. And now that we've got a binding trade agreement with Threeburrow and we're negotiating with Glasshold's Merchant's Guild, we need an official name. Can't keep calling ourselves 'the settlement'."

Rurrak grunted in agreement. "Threeburrow's council assumed you already had one."

Bran set down his bread, expression thoughtful. "He's right. People need something to call us. Something that says we're here to stay."

They'd been so focused on survival, then expansion, then trade—they'd never stopped to think about identity. About what their community actually was beyond the physical locations.

"We'll figure it out," he said.

Mazoga nodded. "We'll have a name before we finalize anything with Kess."

The table went quiet. Bread was torn. Ale was sipped. The inn hummed around them.

Doc's eyes drifted toward the stairs. "Something happened while you were gone."

He summarized quickly—Fish and Snow Tusk catching three street kids attempting to raid the wagon, bringing them inside, learning they were orphans living rough in Glasshold's outer district. He skipped the details about their obvious malnutrition and the careful way they'd approached the food. Just the core facts.

"I took them in," Doc finished. "They're up in the attic now."

Silence stretched across the table.

Calen's expression shifted—surprise giving way to something softer. "You took them in?"

"They're kids," Doc said simply. "I wasn't going to let them stay on the street."

Calen smiled—a slow, genuine thing that reached his eyes. "What are their names?"

"Kipp, Ren, and Maris."

Calen stood, pushing back from the table. "I'd like to meet them."

Doc glanced up at him. "You sure?"

"Yeah." Calen's tone carried quiet conviction. "You took me in too, remember? When I was just another bandit kid who didn't know if you'd slit my throat the moment I stopped being useful." He paused. "Maybe seeing someone closer to their age will help. Make them more comfortable."

Doc considered that. Calen had a point. The three orphans had barely spoken beyond answering direct questions. Another teenager—someone who'd walked a similar path—might ease that tension better than Doc's armored presence.

"Alright," Doc said. "I'll introduce you."

He rose, gesturing for Calen to follow.

As they headed toward the stairs, Doc heard Mazoga's voice behind them.

"We'll draft that meeting schedule. Be ready to talk in two hours."

"Understood," Doc called back.

The attic waited above.

And with it, three kids who needed something more than soup and a roof.

---

---

Kipp pressed closer to the narrow window, watching the merchant and two strangers inspect the wagon below. His fingers gripped the frame tight enough to ache. The lady innkeeper had said the attic was theirs for the night, but Kipp didn't trust promises that came easy.

He was thinking of running. The window was accessible. The roof sloped gently. They could make it to the street if they moved fast.

Except he hadn't seen the wolf.

That black creature with violet markings had pinned Maris and Ren against the stable wall without effort. Kipp remembered how it phase close to him with a simple look from Doc.

He glanced back at Maris and Ren, who sat cross-legged near a stack of crates. "You two holding up?"

Maris looked up, her dark eyes surprisingly calm. "I'm doing great, actually." She folded her hands in her lap. "It's been a while since we got hot food. And now we have a place to sleep."

Kipp blinked. That wasn't the answer he expected.

Ren shifted, his pale features tense. "What's the boss gonna do if we don't come back tonight?"

Kipp didn't know. The boss could be mean when he got angry—real mean—but right now, Kipp was more afraid of Doc and that wolf than anything the boss could throw at him. At least with the boss, Kipp knew the rules. This? This he couldn't read at all.

Footsteps echoed from the stairwell.

Kipp straightened, his pulse quickening. Maris stood slowly. Ren's hand drifted toward his pocket, then stopped.

The hatch dropped open with a creak.

Doc came up first, his armored frame clearing the hatch. Behind him came a younger boy—maybe fourteen or fifteen—with wiry shoulders and uneven hair that looked like someone had cut it in the dark. He wore a patched jacket over a worn shirt, and his boots were scuffed. Dark eyes swept the attic, sharp and assessing, before settling on Kipp with unexpected calm.

The boy's arms bore faint silvery lines, like burn scars that caught the light wrong. They traced upward from his wrists like frost-cracked stone, branching under the fabric.

Kipp noticed the boy didn't flinch when he looked at them.

Doc stepped aside, gesturing toward the boy. "This is Calen. He's part of our group."

Calen nodded once, his expression neutral. "Heard you three had a rough go of it."

Kipp's jaw tightened. He didn't need sympathy from strangers.

Maris spoke first. "Thank you for the food."

Ren stayed quiet, watching Calen the way he watched everything—careful, measured, looking for the angle.

Kipp forced himself to meet Doc's gaze. "Why'd you bring him up here?"

Doc's tone stayed even. "Thought you might prefer talking to someone closer to your age."

Calen crossed his arms, leaning against a support beam. "Doc said you tried to raid the wagon. Smart play, honestly. Especially since Maz was gone."

Kipp's eyes narrowed. "We're not looking for friends."

"Good," Calen said. "Neither am I."

The silence stretched.

Maris tilted her head slightly. "You're not from Glasshold."

"No," Calen replied. "I'm from the settlement. Same as Doc."

---

---

Calen looked at the three kids—Kipp with his sharp eyes and defensive posture, Ren pale and tense like a coiled spring, Maris watching everything with that careful attention that came from needing to survive. They couldn't be older than twelve, maybe thirteen at most. Same age as Tavi, Fenn, Lina, and Jem.

It reminded him of something. Or rather, someone.

He saw himself in them. Not now—not the version of himself that had circuit-scarred arms and a class that let him sense energy flowing through objects. But the version from three years ago, when his parents died and the raiders came through his village. When he'd grabbed his siblings and run, hiding them in the root cellar while smoke filled the air and screams cut through the night.

He remembered the hunger that followed. The desperation that drove him to steal bread from the baker's stall in Riverton. The constable's grip bruising his arm when he got caught. His sister's cough getting worse each day because they couldn't afford medicine.

He'd taken the thief class out of necessity, not choice. Joined a crew of cutpurses who worked the market district. Made enough coin to get Talia and Ren placed with the chandler's family, learning a real trade, staying safe. Then got caught again and had to choose between the noose or running to join Rellan's crew.

Not much of a choice, really.

He'd been the runt there too. The water boy nobody would miss if something with too many teeth dragged him screaming into the underbrush. Fourteen water runs into the Hollow Vale, three close calls, and every single day wondering if that would be the one where he didn't come back.

Then Doc found him. Saved him from the panther. Gave him a place at the settlement where people like Carl taught him about energy and resonance, where folks depended on him. Where he wasn't just the runt anymore.

Where he had a home.

No wonder Doc took them in.

Calen would've done the same.

"The settlement," Kipp said, his tone flat. "What is it? Some kind of frontier outpost?"

Calen crossed his arms, leaning his weight against the doorframe. "Something like that. Started as a group of people who had nowhere else to go. Prisoners, mostly. Escaped from bandits in the Hollow Vale."

Maris's eyes widened slightly. "The Hollow Vale? Nobody survives there."

"We did," Calen said. He glanced at Doc, who remained silent, letting Calen talk. "Doc killed the bandit leader who was holding us. Freed everyone. We made it out together."

Ren spoke up, his pale features skeptical. "And now you're traders?"

"Now we're building something," Calen corrected. He looked down at his circuit-scarred arms, the silvery lines catching the attic's dim light. "A place where people can actually live instead of just surviving."

Kipp's jaw tightened. "Sounds nice. For you."

Calen met his gaze evenly. "It wasn't always nice. I was a bandit too. Water boy for Rellan's crew. Got caught stealing when I was younger and had to choose between hanging or running. Picked running."

The defensiveness in Kipp's posture faltered slightly.

"I know what it's like," Calen continued. "Doing whatever it takes to eat. To stay alive. To keep people you care about safe." He straightened, pushing off the doorframe. "Doc sees that too. That's why you're here instead of in front of the city watch."

Maris folded her hands in her lap, her expression thoughtful. "You trust him? Doc?"

Calen didn't hesitate. "With my life. He's proven it more than once."

Doc shifted slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Calen's being generous."

"No, I'm not," Calen said firmly. He looked back at the three orphans. "You don't have to trust us yet. But you've got food, shelter, and nobody's asking you to steal or fight or do anything except rest tonight."

Kipp's expression remained guarded, but Ren's tension eased fractionally. Maris watched them both with quiet intelligence.

"What happens tomorrow?" Kipp asked.

Doc stepped forward. "Tomorrow, we talk. Figure out what you want. What you need. No pressure."

Calen nodded in agreement. "And if you decide to leave, nobody stops you. But if you want to stay..." He paused, thinking of Tavi learning animal handling, Fenn working with Bran, Lina studying healing with Ironha. "There's room at the settlement. For people who need one."

Kipp looked at Ren, then Maris. Some unspoken conversation passed between them.

Finally, Maris spoke. "Can we think about it?"

"Of course," Doc said.

Calen moved toward the hatch, gesturing for Doc to follow. "We'll be downstairs if you need anything. Food, water, whatever."

As they climbed back down, Calen glanced back one more time. The three kids sat together, still wary but no longer quite as afraid.

He hoped they'd choose to stay. The settlement could use more people. And from the look in their eyes, they could use a home.

---

---

About two hours later, Marron had secured a private room at the back of the inn. Doc settled into the a comfortable room chair as Marron adjusted the portable radio on the table. Fish lay at his feet, her amber eyes tracking the movements of everyone present. Mazoga leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Bran sat quietly beside Tanna, while Calen positioned himself near the door of the private room. Marron activated the radio. "Edda, this is Marron. Requesting council channel."

Static crackled before Edda's voice came through, clear and measured. "Council channel open. Edda, Carl and Dulric here."

"Ironha?" Doc asked.

"Still working on potions," Edda replied. "Tor and Brenn are supervising housing construction. We're managing with who we have."

"Good enough," Mazoga said. "Marron, you're up."

Marron leaned forward. "I met with Factor Kess Wyndmar at the Merchant's Guild today. She's offering premium rates for our crops—hearthgrain, ashroot, deeproot, all of it. She wants monthly shipments to start, with room to expand."

Silence stretched from the other end. Then Edda's voice returned, cautious. "Premium rates. Define that."

"Double what we'd get at standard frontier markets," Marron said. "She knows quality when she sees it."

"That's... significant," Edda said slowly. "Carl, you're recording this?"

"Already logged," Carl's voice chimed in, tinny but enthusiastic. "If we scale production—"

"One step at a time," Edda interrupted. "What else?"

"Turns out there was a bounty on Rellan," Mazoga said. "Hadn't even crossed my mind until the guild brought it up today. Truth Stone verified the kill — fifty thousand gold marks."

The radio went silent.

Then Edda's voice came back, sharp with surprise. "Say that again."

"Fifty thousand," Mazoga repeated. "Confirmed and waiting."

"That's..." Edda paused. "That's a huge win. I need time to think on this. That kind of windfall could change our plans entirely."

Mazoga spoke up. "There's something else. The guild also asked what our settlement's called."

A brief silence on the other end. "We haven't named it," Edda said.

"Kess asked also," Marron added. "Told I needed to ask you first."

"Ironforge?" Carl suggested over the radio.

"Already taken," Dulric muttered.

"Frostpoint?" Tanna offered quietly.

Mazoga shook her head. "Too cold."

"Hearthstone," Bran said.

"Sounds like a tavern," Calen muttered.

"Valewood," Marron tried.

"We're not in the Vale anymore," Mazoga pointed out.

The suggestions kept coming—Highcrest, Northwatch, Winterhold—but none of them landed. Each name fell flat, met with shrugs or immediate dismissals.

Doc leaned back, listening to the back-and-forth with growing amusement.

They're treating this like a branding exercise," Lux observed. "Fascinating. In our context, they would simply assign a registry designation."

Doc suppressed a smile. And what would that be?

"Based on current data integrity? Settlement Not Found."

Doc laughed—sharp and sudden.

Everyone stopped talking. Mazoga turned her head slowly. "Something funny?"

Doc cleared his throat. "Sorry. Lux made a joke." He paused. "Said our designation would be... not found." Another pause. "Four. Oh. Four."

Silence.

"Foroughfore," Bran said quietly, like he was weighing it.

"I like it," Tanna said.

Doc opened his mouth. Closed it.

Mazoga looked at him for a moment, then turned back toward the radio. "Edda. Thoughts?"

Edda's voice returned, thoughtful. "Foroughfor. Grounded. Honest. Not trying too hard."

"Seconded," Dulric said.

"Logged," Carl added. "Official settlement designation. Foroughfor."

Doc looked around the room. Fish's tail thumped once against the floor. Mazoga's expression softened—barely.

"Then it's settled," Edda said. "Foroughfor."

Doc sighed and rubbed his forehead with his prosthetic hand. First the rubber duck on the flag—Carl's enthusiastic misinterpretation of Federation iconography—and now this.

"You named the settlement after an error code," Lux observed. "I find this statistically improbable."

Not intentionally.

"Yet accurate."

"You good?" Mazoga asked, watching him.

"Fine," Doc said. "Just... processing."

Marron made a note in his ledger. "I'll register it with the Merchant's Guild tomorrow. Foroughfor." He tested the word again. "Sounds northern enough. No one will question it."

"Good enough for me," Mazoga said.

Tanna smiled faintly. "It suits us."

Bran nodded once. Calen just grinned.

Doc looked down at Fish, who yawned and rested her head on her paws. He'd crossed the galaxy, survived a dragon, built bionic arms in ancient forges, and somehow ended up naming a settlement after a hypertext protocol error.

"For the record," Lux said, "this will be difficult to explain in the final mission report."

Doc closed his eyes. If we ever write one.

Marron signed off with Edda. The radio clicked silent.

"Alright," Mazoga said. "Let's eat."