The reek of ozone and rot clung to Ethan like a second skin, a pungent reminder of the meager victory they'd eked out of Rift designated LV-47B, affectionately nicknamed "The Rat's Nest" by those unfortunate enough to be assigned to it. He coughed, the metallic tang of blood coating his tongue. Another scrape, another dent in his already tattered reputation.

Ethan, or rather, 'Echo,' as the Ascendant registry so unceremoniously labeled him, leaned heavily against the crumbling brick wall of the abandoned textile factory that served as the Rift's anchor point in this forgotten corner of Manchester. His limbs ached, his vision swam, and his threadbare Ascendant-grade fatigues were ripped in several places, exposing angry red weals where a Grine – the Rat's Nest's most common, and thoroughly unpleasant, denizen – had managed to claw him.

“Need a hand, Echo?”

The voice, laced with a saccharine pity that grated on Ethan’s nerves, belonged to Valeria, the Crimson Guard’s resident pyrokinetic and possessor of an ego as fiery as her abilities. She stood a few feet away, radiating a comfortable warmth that did little to soothe Ethan’s internal chill. Her auburn hair, immaculately styled even after the skirmish, seemed to mock his own greasy, unkempt mess.

“I’m fine,” Ethan mumbled, pushing himself upright. Fine was a relative term, of course. He was alive, wasn't he? That was already a win, considering his track record.

Valeria’s lips twisted in a knowing smirk. “Sure you are. Just try not to trip over your own feet on the way back. Wouldn’t want you breaking something…again.”

The "again" hung in the air, a reference to the unfortunate incident last month involving a dislocated shoulder and a very expensive transport vehicle. Ethan clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to retort. Arguing with Valeria was like arguing with a blowtorch; you'd inevitably get burned.

He glanced around at the rest of the Crimson Guard. Captain Thorne, a stoic, granite-faced man with the ability to manipulate earth, was already barking orders to the cleanup crew. Marcus, a cocky telekinetic with a penchant for flashy displays, was busy levitating debris into a nearby dumpster, pausing occasionally to flex for the benefit of a gaggle of giggling civilian onlookers. Even Maya, the team’s archer, usually sympathetic, avoided his gaze, fiddling with her bowstring with an air of uncomfortable detachment.

They were a team, in theory. But in practice, Ethan was little more than a liability, a walking, talking embarrassment to the Crimson Guard’s otherwise impressive reputation. His assigned codename, “Echo,” was a cruel joke, a testament to his weak, almost vestigial ability to mimic other Ascendants' powers. He could, in theory, replicate Thorne's earth manipulation, Valeria's pyrokinesis, or Marcus’s telekinesis. The problem was, he could only do it at a fraction of their power, and for a painfully short duration. It was like trying to light a bonfire with a sparkler.

His true ability resided in the fact that he was resistant to many types of damage, he was like a sponge for it. His resistance was much higher to physical damage than other elements.

He was, as Captain Thorne often put it, "a glorified distraction."

The Guild paid him a pittance for his services, barely enough to cover the rent on his cramped, damp-ridden apartment in the less-than-savory district of Strangeways. Food was a constant struggle, often consisting of day-old bread and watery soup from the local soup kitchen. He’d long since given up on luxuries like new clothes or decent equipment. His weapon of choice was a battered, second-hand energy pistol that frequently jammed at the worst possible moments.

Ethan pushed off the wall and trudged towards the waiting transport vehicle, his steps heavy with exhaustion and a gnawing sense of inadequacy. He couldn’t help but wonder why he even bothered. Why subject himself to the constant humiliation, the endless ridicule, the bone-jarring grind?

The answer, as always, was a bitter pill to swallow: he had no other choice.

He was an Ascendant. It was in his blood, his bones, his very being. It was the only thing he was even remotely good at, even if he was demonstrably worse than everyone else. The Guild provided a roof, albeit a leaky one, and a purpose, however meaningless. Without it, he'd be just another statistic, another forgotten face lost in the urban sprawl.

The transport vehicle, a dented, rust-streaked van, rattled and groaned as it sped through the grimy streets of Manchester. Ethan sat in the back, staring out the window, his mind a swirling vortex of self-doubt and resentment. The city lights blurred into streaks of orange and yellow, reflecting the burning ember of frustration that smoldered within him.

He thought of his parents, both lauded Ascendants who had died heroically battling a particularly nasty Rift invasion years ago. Their legacy was a heavy burden, one he could never hope to shoulder. They had been powerful, respected, legends in their own time. He was…Echo. A faded imitation, a pale shadow of what an Ascendant should be.

Back at his apartment, the silence was deafening. Four walls, a rickety bed, a stained mattress, and a single flickering bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling – this was his kingdom. He threw himself onto the bed, the springs groaning in protest. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, to escape the harsh reality of his existence.

But sleep was elusive. Memories of the Rift, of the Grine's razor-sharp claws, of Valeria's condescending gaze, kept flashing through his mind. He tossed and turned, a prisoner of his own inadequacy.

Finally, he gave up. He sat up, reached under the bed, and pulled out a dusty, worn-out training manual. It was an old Ascendant combat guide, filled with diagrams and techniques that were far beyond his current capabilities. But he read it anyway, clinging to the faint hope that somehow, someday, he could bridge the gap between who he was and who he wanted to be.

He started with the basic stance, mimicking the diagrams in the book. His movements were clumsy, awkward, lacking the grace and power of the Ascendants he’d seen in action. He practiced for hours, until his muscles burned and his head swam.

As he moved, he tried to replicate what he had felt when Valeria used her flames. He mimicked the hand gestures, visualizing the flame as best as he could. He was able to make a small flame appear for a brief moment. However he passed out from using this small amount of pyrokinesis.

He woke up a few hours later, finding himself on the ground. He slowly stood up and looked at the time, it was 2AM. He sighed and sat down, and took a break. He opened the manual once more, and decided to try something else.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the street below. He rushed to the window and peered out. A group of heavily armed thugs were attempting to break into the pawn shop across the street. It wasn't an uncommon sight in Strangeways, but tonight, it felt different. Tonight, it felt personal.

He looked at the manual in his hands, then back at the thugs. A surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. He wasn't a hero, not by a long shot. But he couldn't just stand by and watch.

He grabbed his battered energy pistol, checked the power cell, and took a deep breath. He was Echo, the Scavenger, the Underdog. And tonight, he was going to try to make a difference, however small.

He rushed out of his apartment, descending the rickety stairs two at a time. The air was cold and crisp, carrying the scent of diesel and desperation. He emerged onto the street, his heart pounding in his chest.

The thugs were still struggling with the pawn shop's reinforced door, their faces contorted with frustration and greed. Ethan raised his pistol, his hand shaking slightly.

"Hey!" he shouted, his voice trembling. "Stop right there!"

The thugs turned, their eyes widening in surprise. They sized him up in an instant: a scrawny, poorly dressed nobody with a cheap weapon. They burst out laughing.

"Get lost, kid," one of them sneered, brandishing a rusty pipe. "This ain't your business."

Ethan swallowed hard, trying to project an air of confidence he didn't feel. "I said, stop! I'm an Ascendant, and I'm not afraid to use this."

The thugs laughed harder, their bravado fueled by disdain. "An Ascendant? You? Don't make me laugh. You look like you couldn't hurt a fly."

Ethan knew they were right. He was weak, pathetic, a joke. But he had to try. He had to prove them wrong. He had to prove himself wrong.

He aimed his pistol, his finger hovering over the trigger. He knew the odds were stacked against him. He knew he could get hurt, maybe even killed. But he couldn't back down. Not this time.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger. The pistol coughed, emitting a weak pulse of energy that barely grazed the nearest thug.

The laughter died down. The thugs exchanged glances, their expressions hardening. They realized he wasn't bluffing.

"Alright, kid," the leader growled. "You asked for it."

They charged, their weapons raised. Ethan braced himself, ready for the fight of his life. He was Echo, the Scavenger, the Underdog. And he was about to find out if he was strong enough to survive. He might be the weakest ascendant, but he had the will to become stronger. He will protect those that cannot defend themselves. He knew he had a lot of room to grow.